by Jill Barnett
He regretted that thought real fast.
She looked at him, then up at Luna, and she let loose with the noisiest bawling scream he’d ever heard. The hysterical high-pitched scream-crying was loud enough to bring down the wailing wall. And she didn’t stop.
The cool Colonel Luna’s mouth hung open. The two guards had their hands pressed over their ears and clear expressions of pain on their contorted faces. The colonel began to dig through his pockets.
Sam’s fingers itched. His ears rang. It had been a long time since he’d felt the need to choke the living daylights out of something. Her screams raked an irritating path down his spine. Every muscle in his body tensed. Her face was a vivid purple, her fists white, and her voice . . . God, her voice howled through the hut, almost echoing from the high rafters. The only sound he could compare it to was imaginary—thousands of sick, baying wolves on the floor of the Grand Canyon. Something sprinkled down on his head, shoulders, and arms. It was dry grass. Two cockroaches crackled to the ground next to him, and geckos scurried like rain down the grass walls.
Lollie LaRue was bringing down the rafters.
Luna rammed a gag into her mouth. Immediately Sam’s tense neck and shoulder muscles slackened. He took a long, relieved breath. She jerked the gag out and started again.
“Where’s the gag?” Luna and his guards searched the ground.
She was sitting on it. Sam had seen her ram it under her skirts, which meant she knew exactly what she was doing. God, she could scream. He could feel the racket ring in his teeth. If he hadn’t hated Luna so much, he would have gone over and gotten the damn gag himself, just to shut her up. He’d suffered through worse torture, but on a scale of one to ten, this was a good eight—ten being the loss of an eye, and one being the bite of a whip.
Luna gave up the search and moved toward her. Sam stiffened, instinct telling him what was coming. Her face was still purple, her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and her scream had dropped a gravelly octave. Luna stood at her side, his face a picture of anger and frustration. Then, as he raised his fist, his look changed to one of sick delight.
“If you damage the goods, you won’t get paid,” Sam said, his voice inflected with boredom he was far from feeling. Luna meant to batter her into silence. Sam could see it on the man’s face. He knew that look.
Luna stopped, obviously struggling to keep from following through with his swing. Slowly he lowered his hand, still knotted in a tight fist.
“Leave her,” Luna shouted to his guards before he spun on his bootheel and left, his guards following like shadows. The door slammed shut.
“You can stop now. They’ve gone.”
Her scream tapered off, and her damp icy blue eyes popped open.
“Quite effective,” he complimented her. “Use it often?”
She stared at him for the longest time. He didn’t break their stare, and finally she admitted in a hoarse voice, “Only when my wits fail me.”
“That often, huh?”
“You know, Samuel—”
“Sam, not Samuel.” He paused. “Nobody calls me Samuel.”
“Oh, all right, then. You know, Sam, you have to take fault for this.” Her voice rasped defensively.
“You’re probably right, but casting the blame won’t save us now.”
“Well, my daddy will pay the ransom. He’ll pay it, you’ll see. He’ll save me,” she said almost too quickly. Her voice was firm, contradicting the doubt that showed in her ice-colored eyes. She stared over her shoulder for the longest time, an unseeing look in those same light eyes.
If he’d ever met a woman who needed saving, it was this one.
“I never doubted it for a minute,” he said. Her eyes snapped back to lock her gaze with his. Curiosity piqued, he tried to read her expression. It was wistful, as if she’d lost something precious. She averted those eyes, her fingers nervously twisting that sparkly thing on her shoe again.
What was this? he thought. Her actions belied her words. They implied that she was unsure about her rescue, despite her tone. She’d tried to sound sure, but her eyes said she wasn’t. He wondered who this poor little rich girl needed to convince, him or herself. He didn’t comment, though, just warned her. “Don’t try a stunt like that again. Luna won’t let you get away with it. He’d have no problem sending you back dead, and he will if that ransom isn’t paid.”
Her face turned grayer than Lake Michigan in winter.
It was a little easier to feel sorry for her when she wasn’t screaming. He didn’t need any more hysterics, so he figured he’d be better off if he lied to her. At least then they could get through whatever time was left. The more time they had, the more chance there was for escape.
“Look, I’m sure your father will come up with the money. In a few days you’ll be back home. You can go back to Belleview—”
“Belvedere,” she corrected distractedly, continuing to twist her shoe thing.
“Okay, Belvedere. Back to your Peachtree Farm—”
“Beechtree Farms.” She sniffed a bit and rubbed a white finger across her uppity little nose.
“Yeah, whatever. Then you’ll be back at that Hick House.”
She gave him a perturbed look and stated rather loudly, “Hickory House.”
“Hick or hickory, what’s the difference? They’re both in the South. Besides, you’ll be the hell home, all right?” What a pain. He wondered why he even tried. Who gave a rat’s ass about any of those homes of hers, especially since she’d play hell ever seeing any of them again.
She squirmed around for a minute or so and finally pulled the gag out from under her butt. She stared at it for a second, raised her head, and looked around the room. She scooted over to the water bucket.
Ah. The flower was going to get a drink. Maybe she was human after all. A gecko scurried out of a dark corner and up his leg. Sam flicked it off. Annoying little buggers. The sound of sloshing water captured his attention, and he looked up.
She was washing with their drinking water.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, shooting upright so he could hobble over there.
She dipped the rag into the water, wrung it out with a couple of dainty twists, and casually washed her face and neck.
He towered over her, glaring down, unable to believe she could be that stupid.
She rubbed the damp rag over her eyes, then opened them, wiping under her hair and around the back of her neck. The whole time she purred like a creamery kitten.
“I’m washing,” she answered with an innocent look, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do with the only water they had. She bent her head down, letting her bourbon-blond hair fall over her face while she ran the cloth over her neck. Through a curtain of hair she added, “I was feeling right sticky.”
He jerked the rag from her hands.
She whipped her head up, her hair falling down her back, and gasped, “What did you do that for?”
“Because, Miss Lollipop LaRue, you’re bathing with our drinking water.” He glared down at her.
“Surely not.” She frowned at the bucket.
He swore.
Now she leaned over the bucket, letting the murky water spill through her hands. She looked up at him, her face filled with disbelief. “But this water is . . . brown.”
“Brown or not, that’s all there is to drink.”
She sat there, shuddering. Her expression said she’d sooner die than drink that water.
He stumbled back to his corner and heard her knocking on the door. The guards didn’t open it. She banged louder. “Hey, y’all? Y’all! We need some more water!”
Still nothing. She glanced at him, then at the bucket. Her shoulders drooped. She sighed, stood there for a forlorn minute, and then slowly hobbled back over to the far corner. She slid to the floor, her head bent and her shoulders wilting like the conquered. She fidgeted with the rag, folding it this way and that. Every so often she’d sigh, not the lung-windy, dramatic
expulsion of air she’d blasted out earlier. These were sighs of defeat. One thing neither of them could afford to do was give up.
“Hey there, Miss Lah-Roo.”
Her head shot up.
“Sing for me will you? I sleep better to the sound of a good cat fight.”
Her blue eyes iced with anger. Good, he thought. She still had some fight in her. His respect for her went up a notch, which didn’t really mean much, since it was so low to begin with.
Her nose went up, and she rammed her shoulders back like a Prussian soldier. “I wouldn’t sing at your funeral.”
God, what it took for him not to laugh. He’d have to give her credit for one thing: she wasn’t boring. In fact her presence broke the monotony. It was like dangling a string before a cat; he could play with her, and that kept his mind sharp.
She still glared at him. He could see her striving to make him shrivel. Her look dared him to respond. So he didn’t. He feigned nonchalance with a shrug of his shoulders and concentrated on listening to the sounds around the hut, as he’d been doing since the first hour of his capture. High above this single corner was a window. Through it he could get a good idea of what was happening in the encampment—when the guards changed, the number of men, and the sounds of wagons. The angle of daylight, the depth of shadows, and the smell of meals all gave him clues to the time of day and the camp’s routine.
He’d lean his head back against the wall, close his eye and concentrate, picturing the camp as the sounds came through the window. It was the only way he could determine the best time of day to make his escape.
“Oh, my Gawd! Get it off me! Get it off!” Eulalie sat up, grabbing at her hair and shaking her head like a lathered horse.
She could feel the giant beetle’s legs scurrying over her scalp.
“Hold still, dammit!” Sam bent over her and jerked her head close to his chest with two hard handfuls of hair.
“Ouch! Oh, get it, pleeeeease!” Her nose smashed against his shirt pocket, which felt like it was iron-backed. One of his fists tightened, pulling her hair tighter and burning her scalp. Smarting tears filled her eyes. “Oooooh!” She sucked in a panicked breath. She could still feel the bug moving as his fingers picked through her tangled hair.
He swore a couple of times. Then she felt him grab the bug and rip it and part of her hair out.
“Aaaaaaaak!” Her hands shot over her throbbing head.
“Oh, shut up! It’s out now.” Disgust filled his voice, and he heaved the squirming, hair-tangled bug across the room. It hit the floor with a loud crackle.
She just sat there shivering while chills raced up her arms. She still felt as if bugs were crawling all over her. “Noah should have squished those things.”
He sat back on his heels and gave her a one-eyed stare. “They’re harmless.”
“I don’t care. I hate bugs. The only things I hate more than bugs are spiders.”
He continued to watch her, only now he had an odd smile on his face. It was not reassuring.
“Are there spiders here, too?” She looked back and forth across the hut, waiting for the army of spiders to come running toward her. Suddenly she could feel all kinds of creepy things around her. Her heart wedged in her throat.
“If there are, we’ll all know it. I’m sure they heard you in Belleview.”
“Belvedere,” she corrected.
“That’s right,” he said, his tone amused. “Belvedere, that bastion of the Lah-Roos. Don’t they have bugs there? Oh, I forgot. Don’t answer that,” he said, holding up his rough hands. “They wouldn’t allow any, since the bugs didn’t sign the Declaration of Independence.”
“That’s unfair, not to mention rude. I—”
The sudden rasp of the lock stopped their bickering. They both turned toward the opening door. Light from a kerosene lantern flooded the room, momentarily blinding her. Then the colonel stood in the doorway. One guard held the lantern and the door while two others held a knife and a long rifle poised for use.
Lollie glanced at Sam. He was eyeing the rifle.
The heat of Luna’s weaselly stare drew her attention. He raked his gaze over her.
She held her breath.
“They’ve agreed to the ransom. The exchange will take place in two days. We’ll go by boat to Colorido Bay.”
She stopped in mid-sigh. He’d said they were going by boat. Her stomach lurched at the thought, remembering the voyage over here and how she’d spent the entire time in bed or on the floor of the marine water closet, sicker than she’d ever been in her entire life. Other than the steward who’d brought fresh water, towels, and oranges, the only person Lollie had seen on the whole voyage was Mamie Philpott, the Methodist, who’d stood outside the water closet singing evangelical hymns. “Rock of Ages” had been the worst. The woman had sung it every time the ship lurched.
But seasickness would be worth it to get out of here, worth it to finally see her daddy. He was gonna save her. She smiled and looked up. Colonel Luna had that look again, and her smile faded. He walked toward her, never breaking his stare. She could feel Sam tense. Luna stood in front of her and reached out, running his finger down her cheek and under her chin. He tilted her face up. She wanted to close her eyes, but forced them open. The tension in the hut almost crackled.
“Too bad.” Luna said, finally breaking eye contact. He turned on a bootheel, eyeing Sam, who suddenly looked as laggard as an old hound dog. “Care to change sides, amigo? Both Aguinaldo and your Bonifacio want the same thing—independence.”
Sam smiled at him, and she knew instantly that she never wanted to be the recipient of that smile. It was predatory; it was calculating; it was lethal.
“It’s not the goal I question, Luna. Aguinaldo or Bonifacio, it makes no difference to me.” His words just hung there.
Luna’s expression changed, and some of his threatening air disappeared. “Ah, a wise choice. A man like myself—”
“Hardly a wise choice.” Sam cut him off, suddenly looking like a spider with a fly. “It’s not Aguinaldo’s goal I question. It’s his choice of officers I find . . . lacking.”
Luna’s face flamed purple. His eyes narrowed. “Take him,” he ordered, then walked outside.
“No!” Lollie screamed, grabbing onto one of the guards. He shook her off. She fell back, her bound feet making her lose her balance. She scrambled upright. “Please. He’s an American citizen!”
The guards ignored her and yanked Sam through the door. Before it shut she caught one last glimpse of Sam’s face. It was perfectly blank.
Chapter 7
Sam stood just inside the hut, his gaze locked on the opposite wall. It took every ounce of will to keep his burning shoulders back. He didn’t breathe, just concentrated on that blurred wall and waited for the guards to slam the door. It took them an agonizing century.
A gasp sounded from somewhere on his left. “What have they all done to you?”
He didn’t answer her. He knew that if he opened his mouth to speak nothing would come out but the groans he tried so hard to suppress.
The door shut, the hut darkened, and Sam’s knees gave way.
He laid face down on the ground, his ribs bruised and aching from being kicked, his left leg numb with pain from the times Luna’s boot had missed his ribs. His hands and fingers were so swollen from torture that the binding around his wrists felt like a vise.
For the life of him he couldn’t move a bare inch. He was tired, so tired, and yet he fought the urge to sleep. He needed to know he still had control of his body. Complete control. It was an exercise of will. One he couldn’t afford to neglect. Too many times in the past his control had kept him alive.
Somewhere to the left he could hear her shuffling across the hut. She stood there for a long moment. Then he felt her tentative touch on his upper arm. He turned his head slightly and winced from a jab of pain.
He wanted to open his eye but it took too damn much effort. He had none left after the hours of beating.
But Luna still knew nothing. Sam hadn’t revealed his real source for purchasing the dynamite guns or the rifles. He’d given Luna a phony name of an arms supplier that would take at least three days to check out. By then Sam intended to be long gone. If, he thought, he could ever move again.
Christ, but his jaw hurt . . . felt like he’d done ten rounds with the Boston Strong Boy.
After a few long seconds, her fingers brushed the curtain of black hair out of his face, grazing his jaw in the process.
“Sweet Jesus.” A moan escaped his split lips, and she patted them gently with a damp rag.
“You poor man.”
It sounded as if she was crying. That was all he needed, a hysterical Lollie LaRue.
He swallowed, a monumental effort, then licked his lips. “I told you before. I don’t need your pity. Keep it.”
He heard her suck in a breath, and her hands jerked back as if singed. He waited for her to scurry back to her corner to lick her own wounds. He didn’t feel her move. She muttered something, and he listened closely, unable to make out the words. Then he felt that rag again, wiping his face even after he’d tried to spurn her help.
He was so tired, everything ached, so he stopped fighting the lure of pain-free oblivion offered by sleep. The rag patted the gash in his forehead, and he winced. Then her muted mumbling pierced his fog of pain. He couldn’t smile, but he wanted to. Sleep was coming, heavier and heavier, and yet his last conscious thought was of her words. They weren’t words of defeat or panic or sorrow. They were fighting words. Sweet little lady Lollie LaRue had just called him a damn Yankee.
“Will you stop that goddamn mumbling!”
Lollie looked up at Sam, who scowled at her from his bruised and swollen face. She smiled sweetly then began to hum “Dixie.”
He took a deep breath and immediately winced. Her humming tapered off. He was hurting, and he looked a mess, but she wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to do something for him when he was awake and moving. And she wasn’t about to let him know she felt sorry for him. He’d just throw her help back in her face, like he’d tried to do last night. She had more gumption than to let a battered man lie there bleeding. It wasn’t Christian.
