Viking Crown

by Vickie Britton and Loretta Jackson

Honduras, Central America, 1885 Carriage broken down in an isolated area of Central America, abandoned by her guide and surrounded by bandits, Marta Swan appeals to handsome Ramon Santiago for rescue. A swift ride on horseback takes them to a remote castle nestled in the mountains, where Marta is welcomed by Ramon's employer, an enigmatic, red-bearded man known throughout the region as "the Viking." Marta's fears rise as she leans the Viking is a madman who believes her to be the reincarnation of a lost princess. The Viking possesses great treasure, a golden crown and an ancient medallion, which men are seeking and will kill to own. Everything depends upon Marta's finding her archaeologist co-worker, Alan Avery, who has, because of their work, ventured into Honduras and then vanished into the jungle. But Ramon, who Marta now realizes is acting as her personal bodyguard, will not allow her to escape.

ISBN 1594313954 Romance / Suspense

Chapter One

The ship passage from New York to Central America had been a long and monotonous voyage. The freighter on which I had traveled carried more cargo than passengers. I had spent the better part of it in my cabin, going over my late father's notes, avoiding the companionship of the others aboard. At the dinner table, the missionary and his inquisitive wife subjected me to many prying questions befitting a young, unescorted woman traveling such a distance alone.

My father, Dr. James Swan, was an archaeologist who had spent his life studying the ancient Mayan Indians in the land I was about to visit for the first time. I felt a sense of excitement as the ship's small crew disembarked upon the Honduran shores of Puerto Lorenzo. The breezy heat of a tropical afternoon filled the air. All around me, I saw the activity of the small, busy port, men loading battered crates filled with hard, green bananas into rusty freighters bound for the States.

I stepped out upon the wharf, searching for the guide who was to meet me. A lone, shady-looking figure in a dilapidated cart watched me with idle curiosity. Something about the stubbled face beneath slouched Panama hat inspired immediate distrust. I looked away, making a silent prayer that he was not my guide.

The missionary and his wife, as well as the rest of the ship's small crew had scattered, leaving me alone upon the wharf. My eyes returned to the cart, which I now noted had been transformed into a carriage. A bench-like seat set in the front over which hung a battered top, protection from burning sun and sudden tropical rains. Two thin, bony horses waited patiently. My heart sank as the burly man in stained shirt and filthy trousers jumped down to claim me. "Swans?" he inquired in a thickly-accented voice, taking in with a look of veiled insolence my pinned hair, dark green travel dress, and lace-trimmed parasol.

"Marta Swan."

"I am Cayo," he introduced with a tip of his hat. The ocean breeze shifted hair, lank and greasy, across his round, sweaty forehead. "Your guide."

He glanced at my single trunk, which waited nearby. "Is this all of your luggage?"

"Yes," I replied, relieved that he spoke fairly good English.

Effortlessly, but with little grace, he tossed my trunk into the dirty carriage. I still clung to the small bag I carried, the one which contained the precious research for my father's book.

"You are a brave Senorita," he said, as he helped me up into the high carriage seat. I could see daylight through the makeshift canvas top. "Not many "Americanos" come to our country these days. Not with all the trouble."

"I thought the fighting had stopped."

"There's always war in Central America," he responded casually. "I was afraid you might not be here." He added with a cryptic look, "The last person I was sent to meet by the ships didn't turn up."

The thought made me uneasy. "Who were you sent for?"

"Don Orlando's son. Don Orlando is a good man, like our Morazon before him. A rich man who gives much money to the poor. The son, he was coming home from his studies in America, but he never arrived."

"What do you think happened to him?"

"He was probably kidnapped by some of Carranza's men as soon as he set foot upon shore." With a careless shrug, he added, "We'll never see him again." He grinned. "But Alan Avery will be happy to see you, yes? Maybe he will give me a big tip."

I did not know much about Central American politics. But I had heard that Justo Barrios, a strong Liberal leader in Guatemala, had been killed in battle last year. Now, in 1885, there was much political unrest in both Guatemala and neighboring Honduras. Carranza must be one of the many would-be dictators anxious to ascend to power. This Don Orlando must have opposed his dictatorship and for his efforts, lost his son.

Alan, so much like my father, would be oblivious to all the political turmoil. He would be too busy studying the Mayan ruins. "How far is the hacienda where Alan is staying?"

"Not far ... but there are mountains to cross. We'll be there by nightfall ... if we don't run into trouble."

"Trouble?"