Freedom To Ride The Wind

By JoEllen Conger

What happens when you vacation in Cabo San Lucas for your 10th Wedding Anniversary, and you've gotten separated from your spouse? Joanne Strong wonders the same thing when she goes to what she thinks is her hotel suite overlooking the historical arches at Cabo, only to find… not her husband, but a naked drunk in her room. Now what should she do? Then, the excitement begins when a handsome stranger comes to her rescue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597052108

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

Freedom To Ride The Wind

WOW! In Freedom to Ride the Wind, JoEllen Conger builds up tension from the moment her heroine discovers a ‘naked bear’ making overtures to her in her hotel room, through discovering a real live ‘handsome prince’ who tries sweeping her off her feet. Is he to succeed?

Royal adventures claim her life throughout an action-packed second honeymoon, from yachting excitement, to assassination gunfights in tropical hideaways.

JoEllen proves herself a master word-smith in this thriller.

—Kev Richardson

Historian, Novelist, Biographer

IF YOU HAVE EVER WONDERED what it is like to sail a boat yourself, smoothly skimming along the waves, the wind in your hair, filled with a sense of the freedom of possibilities, then you will want to read this book. The descriptions are so detailed that I almost felt like I could sail a boat...or strip a weapon to clean it wearing a blindfold...or go deep-sea snorkeling to find a king-sized lobster to have for my dinner. That sense of the freedom to do what you want when you want, being in charge of your own destiny, runs throughout this book, hooking the reader on wanting to do the same.

—Reviewed by Fiona McGier,

The Reyes Family Romances—10/18/09

WHEN I FINISHED JoEllen Conger’s the Freedom To Ride The Wind, I wanted more of the interesting places, hot romantic interludes, and sudden furious action alternating in perfectly timed sequence. The well-developed, living and breathing characters captivate the reader, wishing to have Tim and Joanne for neighbors. This book is five star entertainment, keeping the reader riveted to her/his seat to the last page.

— Gabriel timar

author of Novgorod Diary, Aura of War

Air Mogadishu, etc.

Freedom to Ride the Wind

Jo Ellen Conger

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Suspense Thriller

Edited by: Anita York

Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges

Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2009 by Joan C. Powell and Joyce A. Kennedy

ISBN 978-1-59705-210-8:

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all those people who have supported our adventures in writing since we began. Without them, our success wouldn’t feel so delightful and satisfying.

One

Ilooked up from my reading, yawned and glanced out the double-paned airline window. The yawn was genuine. We’d boarded the plane at five in the morning, and had been held up on the Oakland airstrip until after the fog had finally lifted.

The roar of the engines had made conversation impossible. My husband and I were seated on the shady side of the plane. Something we’d learned from past experience. The people across the aisle from us were fighting the blinding morning sunlight. We had already suffered through the nearly unpalatable breakfast...coffee, and a greasy croissant with what might have passed for scrambled eggs...and a little cup of the plainest applesauce I’d ever tasted. Well, it beat having peanuts that early in the day. For just a moment I contemplated ringing the steward for another cup of that awful coffee. Something that might keep my eyes opened for another hour. Then I weighed it against the possibility of suffering acid reflux. It didn’t seem like such a good idea once I had really given it another thought. Then I recognized where we were.

Look down there, Sugar! I cried, pointing out the window. Isn’t that the highway that switches from the Pacific Coast side of the Baja peninsula over to the Sea Of Cortez?

Tim looked up from the book he was reading. Hum?

When the plane changed course I could see the highway we drove on last winter.

My husband smirked as he leaned over me to gaze out the window. By golly, you’re right, that looks just like a road map, he teased. He nibbled the outer rim of my exposed ear, breathing heavily. Ducking, I giggled, pushing him away. He knew perfectly well what that did to me. I could feel my toes curling. He just gave me his wolfish grin.

A memory struck me. Do you remember that filling station that was out of power? And we had to use our own generator in the RV to pump fuel for all those other waiting cars, before we could fill our own tanks? That’s where the highway splits off for the Bay of Los Angeles. I wonder why they didn’t have their own generator?

You got me there, Babe. You’re right, I didn’t think about it at the time. I don’t know why they didn’t have their own generator, Tim mused. "But then, at that point I would have done almost anything to get refueled. Our tanks were nearly bone dry. We never would have made it to the next Pemex station."

I can’t help but wonder if that guy was the real owner of the station?

Tim frowned. You really think he wasn’t? I watched Tim’s eyes flicker with self-doubt.

Do you think we actually pirated the gas from the real owner? He pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger, his eyes pensive.

Well, I reassured him, it’s too late now to worry about it.

There was a long pause before he agreed. Yeah, way too late. I didn’t even think about it at the time. Why didn’t you say something?

It didn’t even occur to me till this very moment.

Tim laughed good-naturedly. Well, I guess we’ll never know.

I was puzzled. "The Federales were right there. Wouldn’t you think they would have known who really owned the station? They didn’t say a word."

Who is going to question the Army carrying machineguns? Tim glanced away before he opened his book again, ready to continue reading. Then he looked up. Maybe they got a kickback. The guy did make us pay in cash, remember?

I nodded. I brought my own paperback up, ready to resume reading, but my imagination was still considering the possibility of having cheated the real property owner. I shook my head. My husband was right. It was way too late to worry about it now. It was done. Long time done.

THE PLANE MADE A BIG circle around Cabo San Lucas, out over the choppy dark blue Pacific, and circled back to make a landing well out of the city. People started gathering their things together to jump up and run for the terminal. You’d think the plane was on fire. Ever notice that? Doesn’t make any difference what country you’re in. The moment the plane’s brakes jerk and grab the wheels to a landing, the people prepare to bolt off the plane—like there is no such thing as deplaning in a civilized saunter without pushing and shoving.

The only thing that saved us was the seat belt sign was still lit. But once the plane came to a complete standstill, people jumped up and started wrestling their carry-ons out of the upper cargo bins. I never carry a purse on vacation, but use a huge carryall carpet bag to hold all my reading material, sunscreen, wallet, passport, Visa papers, aspirin, or anything else I might think I’ll need close to hand.

I managed to stand, and jerked my huge bag and camcorder case out from the floor storage area. I tossed my book into the vast reaches of the bag. Tim elbowed the guy behind us into backing up, then pulled our own carry-on bags out of the upper rack. We had learned from traveling many years by plane that a rolling suitcase behind us kept people from trampling our heels.

Tim held back the tide of humanity as I inserted myself into the aisle, with my carry-on bag protecting me from the rear. He leaned over, kissed the back of my neck, and ran a warm hand down the length of my back...patting my behind. I leaned back over my shoulder to give him a quick kiss. I could hear him purring in his throat.

He took down his own bag, and as the aisle emptied we joined the lemming-like dash for the exit. The rush shoved me into the gentleman ahead of us. I begged his pardon. As he turned to speak to me, his twinkling luminous dark eyes caught my attention. They were enough to make me swoon. His black curly hair was a bit on the long side, his swarthy complexion hinted of maybe Turkey, or some mid-eastern country. You know, like ‘Johnnie 5 is Alive’. He impressed me as the kind of person you might suspect of carrying a bomb in his luggage. Cute, but maybe just a bit too dangerous.

We navigated the stairs down to the tarmac, and I felt the weight of the Mexican sun scorching my cheeks the nearer we got to the black pavement. I hadn’t remembered to slather myself with sun-block, and knew if I dared stop now, I’d get run over by the stampede. We continued our race for the air-conditioned building, our rolling suitcases keeping faster people than ourselves from running over the top of us.

Once inside the high-ceilinged building where the echoing sounds of the stampeding herd reverberated hollowly, Tim and I stepped aside. We’d learned a long time ago, that there were enough baggage inspectors and Immigration Officers to go around. There was no longer any need to rush. And taxi drivers would always make themselves available. Or, if we were the last one to board the transport bus to the hotel, the closer we might find ourselves to the driver’s seat. I’ve always suspected that the reason people don’t grab the front seats first, is because they don’t want to be pummeled by other people’s carry-on luggage ramming into them.

A uniformed man stepped alongside us. No pictures! insisted the Federal Officer, jabbing a stern finger toward my camcorder. He paced us several steps, making sure I understood his meaning. I hadn’t ever figured out how they thought such photos might identify them to drug traffickers bent on eliminating them, but I complied anyway.

I nodded that I understood the rule of not photographing members of the police force. I slipped the 8mm hand-held camcorder into my oversized bag. Out of sight, out of mind. Over the years we had learned to travel light. My 35mm still-camera bag was strapped tightly to the top of my carry-on. The heaviest part of my luggage was photo equipment.

We passed people swarming the luggage wheel, and headed for the Inspection tables. I started to lift my suitcase onto the bench. Don’t! warned Tim. Let me get that. You know what the doctor said. He gently pushed me away and lifted each of our bags onto the table and unzipped them. Soon an officer stepped up and sifted through our belongings. Then he pointed to the camera case. I pulled it open, knowing he was going to disturb the precisely neat packing job I had done at home. What did he care?

He examined each roll of film to determine whether or not it had the looks of holding anything other than film. Then he carelessly threw the whole tangled mess back into the carry case. Sighing, I repacked my precious photo gear, the lenses in their proper places, and the film tucked away in its compartment. I closed the Velcro tab and zipped it shut. By the time I had done that, Tim had his suitcase back together again.

I straightened my things and Tim helped me zip it closed. Nothing ever fit as neatly as I had packed it at home. He pressed down on the middle of the bag while I fought with the zipper.

Finally back together, with the camera strapped to the top of my roll-on, we headed through the exit door from Customs, which eventually led out to the waiting buses. This side of the building was shaded and not nearly as hot as the tarmac side. Yet the air was stifling. The voices reverberated in the open space, and echoed off the concrete walls. People milled about trying to find the right hotel transport. We each pulled our own wheeled bags. The remaining Custom’s Officers sized up the influx of passengers and simply waved us through. I guess they figured we didn’t look like we were smuggling anything into Baja. A number of trained drug dogs patrolled back and forth, not locating anything.

"Tell me again why we aren’t going back to the Martinero again?" I questioned.

I called them. They were booked, Tim informed me.

Booked? Are you sure?

Anyway, this new place has a double-decker swimming pool with concrete water slides. I thought you’d find it fun. And besides I couldn’t get the rooms I wanted.

Really? Oh well, you’re right. Seeing inside one of the newer hotels will be fun.

As we came out to the curb, several buses were lined up, each with a sign indicating the hotel where it would disembark its passengers. We scouted the location for the transport bus. We found ours and placed our rolling suitcases in the correct line. The bus driver took our papers and verified our names against his clipboard.

Yes, Tim said. Mr. and Mrs. Strong. He pointed to the two of us.

The driver glanced down at his bill of lading. "Hyme? Y Joannita"?

No, Timetao y Joanne...Strong. The driver nodded, and checked us off his list. I stepped back, and bumped into the dark-eyed man. He flashed me a smile of apology, as I had done at our earlier collision.

Forgive me, I muttered, as he caught me in his arms to steady me. His hands were gentle and warm against my bare arms. He stepped back.

"No, no. I be in your way. It is I who begs your pardon." His spoken language was English...but the accent was thick. Then he bowed graciously before me. I stammered. I didn’t know what else to say. After all, I had been the one to step on his toes, not the other way around. He gazed down at me with a flirting look, his eyebrows doing a little dance. I couldn’t help myself. I returned his lopsided grin.

The bus driver threw our luggage into the underbelly of the bus. The good-looking foreigner and I did a tap dance around each other as I maneuvered to mount the stairs up into the bus. Then he passed several pieces of luggage over to the driver, unblocking my access, and I caught a hint of his lyrical name as the bus driver massacred its pronunciation. Kaveh...something-or-other. I nodded my thank you, and Tim and I climbed up into the bus’ interior. We agreed on seats about mid-way down, me tucking my satchel between my knees as I slid in next to the window.

Tim leaned forward and poked his book into the depths of my bag. He kissed the end of my nose. We’ll rent a car just as soon as we get to the hotel. I want to take you to lunch at that cute little place overlooking the harbor. Remember the one?

How could I forget? Remember the horrible sherbet they served? Golly, it was so sweet!

You can always ask for the flan, Tim directed.

You’re right, of course. The flan is better here than anywhere else in the world.

Tim grinned. Want to start with tequila poppers?

I laughed. Only if you promise not to let me do something silly...like dancing on the tabletops.

Hey! I think you’re cute when you are a little bit ripped, he assured me.

T-i-mmmm! I scolded. I slapped the back of his nearest hand.

He kissed the end of my nose again. All right. No dancing on the tabletops...even if you do it looking so v-e-r-y sexy. I laughed at his wolfish grin.

The bus driver climbed into his seat, tossing his clipboard onto the dash. He started the engine and threw on the air-conditioning. At least that’s what I thought he was doing. Tim had once assured me that the generator that ran the air-conditioning was separate from the motor driving the vehicle. It was enough to put icicles on my fingertips as the refrigerated air gushed up between me and the window.

The hacker jumped into the bus and picked up his mike and began his spiel about the history behind Cabo San Lucas, the time shares available with sales reps at the hotel, and what we were likely to see out the windows on our route into the city. The bus departed the terminal, and Tim and I didn’t bother to listen. It was the same old stuff every time...and the time shares were a money-making scam to snag the unwary travelers. Some people, who really thought they were getting a deal, were really getting a deal all right. They were being given the business!

I turned to watch out the window. The new highway was only half finished. The last Chibosco, Mexico’s wild, coastal winter storms had really ripped through the countryside. Bridges still had desert scrub jammed underneath, and the bus pulled down through the dry riverbeds, and up the bank on the far side to navigate back onto the recently repaved strips heading toward downtown. The turn-off for San Jose del Cabo looked incongruously intact, while the rest of the highway seemed ravaged by the recent storm. The cow carcasses were ignored as though their little hooves pointing up at the sky were just another natural wonder to be seen along the way. And the buzzards, called zapalotes, feasting on them were just a part of everyday life. Well, actually it was.

Instead of turning toward town, we turned left down the coastline toward a line of fancy, newly constructed hotels. Many were new since we had been here last, yet still crammed side-by-side on the main beach. I could just picture the hawkers carrying woven blankets over their shoulders, children hand-tying brightly colored yarn bracelets, and venders carrying silver earrings mounted on black velvet-covered cardboard displays.

The sellers couldn’t approach your table sitting out on the sand, and yet they passed by close enough that a person couldn’t help but see what they carried as wares. Thank goodness there were laws now that protected the tourists from overzealous venders.

I pulled the sunscreen out of my carry bag to swab my face, and handed the tube of Bullfrog to Tim. There were no words spoken between us. As I held up my long hair he simply took the tube and gently patted the sun block on the back of my neck, and along my exposed shoulders. Then he gave me a gentle squeeze as he pushed aside the spaghetti straps of my sundress, to administer the sunscreen.

That doctor did a fine job, Babe. The scars hardly show. Once you get a good tan, no one will ever notice.

I tried glancing over my shoulder, but couldn’t see it. I circled my shoulder joint. I could still feel the scar tissue pulling.

Got to get you a good sun hat right away, Tim remarked as he finished the slather job and handed the tube back to me. I screwed the lid back on and dropped it back into the carryall.

One with a wide brim, I added, and maybe a fancy shawl. I forgot to pack one.

We can do that while we are down by the harbor. The open market should have something. Whatever you want, Babe. You know I love buying things for you. He kissed my bare shoulder, then straightened my straps. It seemed to me that Tim had been overly attentive since the accident. Just maybe he had realized how close it had been.

Soon the bus pulled off the highway, down a fairly narrow back street, and wound up a steep hill. The driver was down-shifting the gears as we ground through a circular cobblestoned entrance drive and meandered through a well-tended cacti garden, to brake in front of a huge hotel entrance. There were no steps directly in front of the main entrance, but the drive-through entryway was banked in such a way as to keep the occasional rain showers from flooding past the colonnades into the main lobby. I scanned the portico, admiring the ambiance of their container gardens as the bus drove through the covered entry and parked. Huge waist-high terracotta figures and bright red geraniums in painted planters lined the front portion of the covered entry.

Hey, you know, Babe, I could put potted plants like that on our patio. Would you like that? We could go down to that cute pottery place in Moss Landing and find some terracotta pots.

Sure, Hon, whatever you want, Tim responded, more interested in getting off the bus than planning our garden décor.

I caught sight of a massive parrot enclosure off to one end of the open air porch. The many colored Macaws chortled, fussed and bobbed their heads as hotel attendants rushed out to transport the luggage into the main lobby.

"Now I suppose you want parrots too. That’s going too