by Jill Barnett
One of the soldiers said something to the other, and they both turned and smiled at her.
Sam groaned. The soldiers looked like Cheshire cats with a cornered mouse.
“Turn!” one of them ordered, grabbing her by both shoulders and spinning her sideways.
She raised her chin and gave Sam a smug smile. He just watched and waited.
“Hands out!” The soldier kept his hold on her shoulders. She stuck her hands out and turned to the soldier who held the bolo knife. She smiled. “Go right ahead.”
He raised the knife up in the air at arm’s length, then slowly he lowered it, letting the blade rest for a full minute on her wrists, like an executioner about to behead his victim.
Sam mentally counted, one . . . two . . . three . . .
“Oh, my Gawd!”
Four seconds, he thought. She was slowing down. He revised that thought when she jerked her hands back faster than he could pick a pocket. Hmmm. He hadn’t thought she could move that fast.
The soldiers laughed and pointed at her, having a great sadistic time at her expense.
Green. She was so green she made the jungle look pale.
She turned her horrified face toward him. “Did you see that? They were gonna cut off my hands!” She turned around as the soldiers stepped outside and said, “I don’t think that’s the least bit funny. I want to see Col—”
They slammed the door again, but their laughter carried back inside.
“Still think this is just a little waiting party, Miss LahRoo?”
She faced him, her face as naive as her next words. “You heard him. He as much as said he wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Only a fool would believe that.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “You told me the same thing.”
“Yeah. Well, I meant it.”
Her nose went up a bit. “It escapes me, sir, why I should believe you and not the colonel.”
“Because I’m telling you the truth.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“You don’t.”
“That’s the point I’m tryin’ to make here, Mr. . . . What is your name?”
“Sam Forester.”
“Mr. Forester—” She stopped speaking, staring at him as if he’d grown horns. “Do you know anything about some kind of guns?”
“No . . .” He gasped in mock horror. “Me?”
She tried to cross her arms but couldn’t. “You don’t have to be rude, you know.”
“Why the hell do you think we’re in this mess?”
“I don’t know. I’m askin’ you!”
“Well, don’t ask. Your ignorance could save that sweet white neck of yours.”
She frowned. “That’s what those soldiers wanted in the marketplace. They kept asking me something about a forest of guns.” She looked at him. “It was Forester’s guns, wasn’t it?”
One . . . two . . .
“They think I know about your guns!”
“Five seconds. Will wonders never cease?”
“Well, you don’t have to be so smart-mouthed about it!”
“One of us has to have something smart come out of his mouth.”
“You, Mr. Forester, have no manners, and I find you right rude!” With that pronouncement she proceeded to pound on the door and tell the soldiers that she wanted to see Colonel Luna “right here and now!”
Fifteen minutes later she was still at it. Her repeated pounding on the door matched the pounding ache inside his head. He wanted to pound her.
His only consolation was that her voice was getting more and more hoarse, and as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eye, he sincerely hoped her hands were just as sore as his ears.
Eulalie didn’t know her hands could ache so or that anyone could be so mean-spirited, ignoring her like those guards did. She could hear them talking through the door. They thought it was funny. To them she was a joke, and that sort of treatment was foreign to her—at least until she’d met the Yankee. Her gaze went to his corner. He hadn’t said a word, just ignored her, like the guards. Even with all the noise she’d been making he acted as if she wasn’t there. But she was here, in this dirty, silent hut, and she hated it. She sighed and gave up trying to get the guards to fetch the colonel. She walked into the center of the hut and sat down, staring at the grass walls and listening to . . . nothing. It was too quiet.
She took a deep breath and broke the frightening silence. “So your Christian name is Sam?”
He nodded slightly, shifting against the wall.
“Is that short for Samuel?”
“Yeah.” He pinned her with his bloodshot brown eye.
“I see.” She nodded, searching for something else to say to fill the void. “You’re from the North. Chicago, right?” He grunted something she was sure was an affirmative. It looked like she was gonna have to carry this conversation. “I already told you where I’m from.”
He mumbled something that sounded like “a hundred times.” She ignored him and went on, “My full name is Eulalie Grace LaRue. My grandmother, on my father’s side, was a Eulalie, and so was her grandmother and a great-great-aunt on the French side of our family. They were all Eulalies. Now, the name Grace was my mama’s idea. At least that’s what my brother Jeffrey told me. He’s the oldest? Well, he said, ‘Eulalie is an old family name, but Grace . . . well, that’s just a name our mama loved. So she named you Eulalie Grace.’ “ She paused for a breath and to give him time to soak in the whole story. “So I’m Eulalie Grace.”
He had a blank look on his face, and that bloodshot eye appeared a little glazed. She blamed that on the bad light in the hut.
“I suppose,” she went on, still trying to carry the conversation, “that given our circumstances and the fact that this is our second meeting, we can address each other by our Christian names.”
He still didn’t say anything, just picked up a tin cup that sat beside him and stared into it.
“So I’ll call you Samuel and—”
“No!”
His shout startled her.
“No one calls me Samuel,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh. All right. I’ll call you Sam, and you can use the name my friends and family use.”
He raised the cup to his mouth and drank.
“They call me Lollie.” She smiled.
He spit a good three feet, then choked and coughed. She started to crawl toward him to give him a pat on the back, but he finally got his wind back. He looked at her strangely, and with his mouth twisted into a suppressed grin he asked, “Your name is Lollie LaRue?”
She nodded, frowning at his tone.
“I don’t think I’ve ever caught your act.”
“Pardon me?” She didn’t understand what he meant, but something in his grin said he was making fun of her.
He laughed and laughed. It wasn’t very nice or well mannered. She surely didn’t see anything odd about her name. It was a fine old southern French name. Back home, Eulalies were always called Lollie; everyone knew that. And no southerner would ever laugh at someone’s name. It was rude to make fun of something someone couldn’t change.
But this man didn’t care, because then he said something he really thought was funny. Something about her buying fans in the marketplace to use in an act. She didn’t understand, but it hurt that he was obviously laughing at her. A little angry, she turned her back, partly to keep from watching him laugh at her expense, but mostly to keep him from seeing she was hurt by it.
The hut was quiet. Too quiet. It drove her crazy. She didn’t like the silence, because it scared her. She looked over at the Yankee in the corner. He was asleep again. They hadn’t spoken since she’d turned her back on him, and the only sounds had been an occasional shout or noise from outside. Inside there was no sound, which made her situation all that much harder to deal with.
No one to talk to. Time passed in glacial increments. Out of nervousness she began to hum “Dixie,” unconscio
usly choosing to fill the chilling silence. She’d just hit the “land of cotton” verse when she thought she heard a deep, pain-filled moan coming from Sam’s corner.
She stopped humming and looked at him, wondering for the first time if maybe he had groaned because he was wounded. Craning her neck she watched him silently. His shoulders moved a bit, as if he’d gotten relief from whatever pained him. She didn’t see much in the way of wounds, except that brown, bloody area where the bandanna was tied around his calf. Maybe that injury was more serious than it looked.
He’d managed to tote her home without breaking stride, and never once had he limped or appeared the least bit pained. Maybe something else hurt him. Maybe he had a headache. She got headaches in the middle of summer whenever it was particularly hot and sticky. A nap always helped her, so she figured she ought to leave him alone, let him sleep, even though she had a thousand questions she wanted answered to put her mind at rest. And she needed to talk; the urge was just festering inside her.
Humming helped and it shouldn’t bother his sleep. Maybe a lullaby would be a good compromise. She slowly began to hum her personal favorite, not even realizing when instinctively she began to sing the lyrics:
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.
Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.
If that mockingbird don’t sing,
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.
If that diamond ring don’t—”
“Do me a favor. Pretend you’re that mockingbird and shut up.” One angry, bloodshot brown eye glared at her.
“I was just tryin’ to help.”
“Help what? Bring down the walls of the hut with your screeching?”
She inhaled a deep indignant breath. “I do not screech. I’ll have you know that I sang contralto in the choral group at Madame Devereaux’s.” Wanting to stand up for herself but uncomfortable with what she considered bragging, she looked down at her lap and smoothed some wrinkles from her skirt, then added, “According to the music instructor, my voice was very clear and resonant.”
He barked with laughter. “For a dying alley cat.”
“Obviously you know nothing about voice.” She tried to look down at him, but she couldn’t get her chin up that high. He was being rude on purpose, and even his awful upbringing was no excuse for purposely hurting someone. She sensed that this man wanted to hurt people, and any pity she’d felt for him was fast disappearing.
“I know about knives and bullets, torture and pain, and your voice, Miss Lah-Roo, is a pain in my ears.”
“Well, that’s just too bad, now, isn’t it. I’m gonna sing if I feel like it. This is for your ears.” She began to sing “Carolina” in full tremolo.
He stood and moved toward her as if to shut her up himself. She was just debating giving in for the sake of her welfare when the lock rasped again and the door flew open.
The soldiers came in, frowning.
She stopped singing. They stopped frowning, but their knives were still poised, just as before. Behind them came another man carrying two wooden bowls filled with steamy rice and some kind of fragrant sauce. Her stomach growled, very unladylike. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and that had been the mango and bread she’d had before her bath.
She hadn’t really thought about food, out of habit, for one of Madame Devereaux’s rules was that a lady never let hunger get the best of her. Never. She’d learned at a young age that a true lady, like her mother, ate lightly, delicately, and never, ever let her hunger be known. Yet sometimes, on rare occasions, her stomach would protest, doing all that embarrassing gurgling like it was cheering the food’s arrival. She pressed her hands to her stomach as if that gesture could quiet the growling.
The little man handed a bowl to her. Food of any kind would have smelled good. Her mouth began to water as she stared at the bowl. The rice was brown, covered in a clear sauce with chunks of meat, and although the whole thing looked a little pasty, the smell was tempting.
Walking over to the corner, the server gave the other dish to Sam, who sat back against the hut wall again. She looked up, properly waiting for him to be served, and for their utensils to arrive.
He didn’t wait. Stunned, she watched him wolf down his food. He actually used his fingers to scoop up the rice. Her mouth fell open.
The door began to close and she realized the server was leaving. “Stop! Wait! Please.”
She grabbed the door and almost spilled her food. He turned back toward her. She smiled politely. “I would like some silverware, please.”
Sam choked, coughing as if he was about to die. She wasn’t that lucky, though. His manners were atrocious, so it didn’t surprise her one bit that he’d choked. It was probably from cramming a handful of food in his mouth before he’d had a chance to swallow. The man used his fingers like shovels. It was disgusting.
The server still stood there, blankly staring at her. “Silverware.” She raised her voice, hoping to make him better understand her.
He shrugged.
Sam coughed.
“A fork, knife—oh, I don’t suppose you’d give me that. Well, at least a spoon, please,” she repeated, louder, miming the action of eating with silverware. Odd noises came from Sam’s corner, but she ignored them and kept gesturing. The man frowned, still not understanding.
She pretended to stick a fork into the bowl, then made exaggerated sawing gestures as if she were cutting meat.
He watched her intently, then grinned. “Cuchillos!” And he pantomimed eating.
“Yes!” She returned his smile. “Yes, I’d like some coocheehoes, please.”
The man nodded, then went out and closed the door. The sound of a throat clearing echoed from Sam’s corner. She looked at him. “Are you gonna be all right?”
His face looked a little red, and moisture glistened in his crinkled eye. The man should really be more careful. Good manners might save him from choking to death. She decided he needed an etiquette lesson.
“Mr. Forester . . . Sam. Where I come from its considered rude to eat before everyone is ready, especially before a lady.”
He shoveled some more food inside and then talked around it. “Is that so?” He chewed some more and finally had the grace to swallow. “Where I come from, you eat what you can, as fast as you can, or someone else will eat it for you.”
His words instantly reminded her of his background—poor and hungry. Surely he didn’t think she would steal his food. Before she could suggest that he didn’t have to worry, the door opened again and the little man came in holding out a small spoon.
“Thank you kindly.” She smiled and accepted the spoon, waiting until the man left before eating. The sounds of Sam’s noisy eating smacked from the corner. With those eating habits, Madame Devereaux would have made him miss three meals to learn proper abstinence. She started to dip her spoon into the rice, but her mind flashed with the image of children playing with broken bricks instead of blocks, hungry children who had to steal bread to eat.
Sam had already learned about abstinence. She wondered what it was like to be really hungry, not because you had to be ladylike but because you had no food. Suddenly all the food she’d wasted over the years came to mind, along with a strong dose of guilt. She paused and glanced at him. He continued to eat as if it were his last meal.
She set the bowl down and struggled to get into a standing position. Concentrating on keeping her balance, she bent down and picked up her meal, straightening very carefully so she wouldn’t spill the rice. She balanced the bowl in both hands and shuffled across the room until she stood barely a foot away from him.
He looked up at her, suspicion on his hard-bitten face. She held out the bowl. He looked at it, but didn’t budge. “Here,” she offered with a smile, “you can have mine.” For one brief instant, confusion and something akin to embarrassment flashed across his face, but quickly melded into a hateful red look of male anger.
She backed up a step, wary of his reaction.
“Keep your damn food, Miss LaRue, and your misplaced pity. I don’t want either of them.” He looked as if he wanted to hit her.
She was afraid he might just do it, too, so she shuffled back over to her spot near the door, a little hurt by his reaction. She was only trying to be nice. After plopping back down on the hard floor, she stared at the bowl of food, not understanding his anger. Where she came from a person accepted a gift graciously. He didn’t. Her eyes burned, and she swallowed hard around the dry knot of wounded feelings that had lodged in her tight throat.
Hesitantly she scooped a small spoonful from the bowl and delicately placed it in her mouth. She put the spoon back in the bowl, intending to savor the flavor of the food.
It had none. She stared at the strange food. Her appetite was gone. He didn’t want her food, but now neither did she. She looked around the primitive dank hut, at the rusty old splintered water pail and the green moldy mats. Nothing was familiar.
There was nothing she knew here, nothing familiar, nothing to hold on to. And that scared her to death. More than anything, she just wanted to go home to Belvedere and her overprotective brothers. Right now, she’d have given anything for that protection, and for a shoulder to lean on.
Chapter 6
“Ransom? Oh, my Gawd!”
Two seconds . . . not too bad. Sam watched Lollie gape at the colonel, stunned into silence—a rarity—by the news that she was to be ransomed to her father for twenty thousand U.S. dollars—Aguinaldo’s own gun money.
“The details are being negotiated now. The exchange will take place in a few days, if your father cooperates.” Luna walked slowly around her, letting what he didn’t say hang like impending doom in the air.
Sam didn’t even have to count this time. He could tell by her expression that she knew exactly where she stood. Her light blue eyes flashed with doubt, then worry, then absolute despair. Even he felt sorry for her, his sympathy aided by the fact that she was being quiet, for a change.
