by Jill Barnett
The entire night he’d slept in the middle of the hut, never moving. She’d wondered if he’d died. After that she’d spent the longest time watching his back to see if he was still breathing. Every so often she could detect the ever so slight rise and fall of his back. She’d torn off a huge hunk of her petticoat and tried to put it under his head. He’d been asleep and awakened throwing a sharp two-handed right cross that missed her face by only a scant inch. She’d kept her distance after that.
Sometime after dawn had cast its pink-gold light into the hut, he’d crawled back to his corner. She’d watched him struggle and started to help but he’d scowled at the wad of petticoat, cut her to the quick with his sharp, snide remarks about it being too late for charity work. He told her to get back up on her pedestal and leave him the hell alone. Then he’d given her a look so venomous she didn’t dare touch him. Once in his corner he hadn’t made another sound.
Meanwhile she’d almost gone out of her mind. Another beetle, a three-inch monster, had fallen from the roof. It had missed her by a couple of feet, but that hadn’t made her feel any better. She tried to talk herself out of her fear. She had no one to talk to but herself. He’d groused at her to “try something new and be quiet.”
She gave him a tentative glance. The bruises on his jaw were almost as dark as his eye patch, but more purple than black. His lower lip had swelled to the size of a pout, and a bloody gash dissected it. A matching gash scabbed over one of his devil’s cheekbones and across his forehead.
She’d never seen a beaten man before and could have lived the rest of her life without ever seeing one again. Colonel Luna had done this, and it scared her silly. She wanted to get as far away from that madman as she could, but there was another day of imprisonment left.
Sam swore, loud and raunchy.
It took every bit of her pride not to ask him why.
Shifting, he tried to pull at his boot. His hands slipped and he swore again. She turned away, until she could feel the heat of his stare, assessing her like he always did.
“I need some help.”
That was the last thing she had expected to hear, Sam Forester asking for help. But he had.
She moved over near him and waited expectantly.
He gestured to his left boot. This was the first time she’d gotten a good look at his hands. His fingers and hands were swollen and tinged blue. But the battered condition of his fingernails was what made her breath catch. The nails were black, as if they’d been slammed or hammered until they bled.
Chills hit her as she remembered the pain of having her fingers slammed in a door when she was ten years old. She could still feel them throb as if it were yesterday. Her nails had turned purple, too, but nothing like Sam’s. She felt so all-fired helpless. Her chest tightened, and she fought the urge to cry. She understood why he’d been so hateful.
It was pride. Sam had pride. He’d been beaten enough and didn’t need her to bruise that pride, too.
“Pull off my boot.” He stretched out his legs, lifting them off the ground so she could grip the heel of the left boot.
With her bound hands and his bound feet it was hard to get a good grip. Her hands slipped over and over.
“Jesus Christ!”
She ignored him and tugged on the heel again. The heavy rope around the boot made removing it difficult. It didn’t budge, no matter how hard she pulled.
“Looks like it’s going to take divine intervention for you to manage to take off that boot.” He scowled at her.
“Is that why you were yelling? Praying for help?”
“Hardly. Ouch! Can’t you do anything?”
“That’s unfair. I can surely take off a boot. It’s just—”
“I can tell. You’re doing such a good job of it.”
Tiring of his sarcasm and determined to prove she could do something as simple as removing his boot, she grabbed it, locking her bound hands around the heel and hugging it to her chest. Leaning forward just a smidgen, she glared at him, took one deep breath, and threw her whole body backward.
The boot came off with a pop. Lollie’s back hit the hard ground, and she saw stars.
He groaned a laugh.
She struggled to sit up and tried to give him a look that would fry an egg. He laughed harder, wincing in between. If he weren’t such a beaten, sorry sight, she’d have thrown the boot at him. Instead she stuck her nose up and ignored him.
“Reach inside and feel around. There should be a long ridge next to the seam.”
She stuck her hands inside the warm boot and found the bump. Surprised, she looked up at him and slowly drew out a lethal-looking dagger.
“Cut the ropes.” He held up his hands. “They’re cutting off my circulation.”
She sliced through one knot of rope and he loosened it enough to pull his hands free. He sagged back against the corner, rubbing his hands over and over. She stared at the dagger, thinking, then looked up at him. His lips moved, as if he were counting.
“Do you mean to tell me you’ve had this knife all the time?”
“Amazing, only four seconds,” he muttered, then took the knife from her hands. His grip slackened and the dagger fell to the ground. “Damn.”
She couldn’t believe it. They’d been shuffling around this ungodly, primitive black hole of a hut for days, and all that time he could have cut their bonds. “We could have escaped with this knife.”
“I wasn’t ready,” he answered then gave her a look of arrogant disbelief. “We?”
“Of course we could have. You could have cut us loose and used the knife on the guards.”
“This knife on a hundred guerrilla soldiers? Hardly.” He gave her a long look then said, “My, my . . . bloodthirsty little lady, aren’t you?”
“Well, I didn’t mean kill them, exactly . . .”
“What did you mean?” He gave her a smirk that said he knew what she’d meant whether she did or not.
“Well . .” She paused to think, then commented, “Since when have you gotten a conscience, Mr. Forester? Besides, you used a knife on me, remember?”
“Hmm, three seconds. How could I forget? That’s the reason we’re in this mess.”
“Surely you’re not blaming me?” She pointed to her chest, stunned that he’d reason that this was her fault. All she’d done was make the foolish mistake of going to that marketplace alone. And why was he always talking about time, seconds in particular? She looked at his battered face and commented, “That beatin’ must have licked you senseless.”
He gave her a wry look and said, “Funny, I thought the same about you.”
He was making fun of her again, but she didn’t get it, which frustrated the blazes out of her. She started to scoot away.
“Wait!”
She turned and gave him her own “now what” look.
“I can’t get enough of a grip to cut the rope from my feet. You’ll have to do it.”
Her first thought was to refuse to help him, but his beaten face, obnoxious look and all, and his swollen hands stopped her from being ungracious. The memory of him standing so proudly inside the hut, beaten to a pulp and waiting until the guards had left, made her pick up the knife.
She gripped the handle in her hands and tried to saw on the rope that wound and twisted around his ankles. The rope was thick as a fist and knotted over and over so that even with his boot off it still bound him tightly.
“What’s taking so long? Just cut the damn thing.” He peered down over her while she worked to try to sever the twisted rope.
“It’s so thick,” she complained, trying over and over to cut through. Deciding her angle was wrong, she re-situated herself and tried to apply more pressure. Gritting her teeth, she shut her eyes and sawed really fast, finally giving the knife one big sawing push.
The rope snapped and the knife sank into something soft. He yelled that foul word again.
Her eyes flew open. His swollen hand held his leg above the ankle. Blood seeped through his finge
rs.
“Oh, my Gawd!” She fumbled to her knees. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Lifting the hem of her skirt, she tried to dab at the wound.
“Get . . . away,” he gritted.
“Please,” she pleaded, feeling so bad. It was an accident, but the fact remained that she’d cut his leg, and he was already hurt. She could feel tears of humiliation well up in her eyes, and she choked them back, only able to whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
The sound of approaching footsteps came from just outside the hut. She gaped at the door, waiting for it to open and for Sam to be caught unbound.
“Slide these ropes back on. Quickly!” he said quietly. She turned, seeing that he’d already rewrapped his ankles and stuck his foot half into his boot.
“Hurry, dammit!”
She fumbled with the pieces of rope, her nervous fingers abnormally awkward.
“Come on, Lollipop, get the lead the out.” He pushed his wrists at her.
“Hold still!” she whispered in agitation, finally getting a loose knot of ropes on his wrist.
The door opened and she spun around too fast. It took a moment for her to focus.
The little man came in with their rice and a bucket of fresh water. She sighed with relief, afraid that Luna would find Sam out. After setting the bucket in the nearest corner, the server handed her a bowl of rice. He grinned as he held out a spoon. She started to smile back, but Sam poked her in the back with the hard toe of his boot.
She jerked up and turned around frowning. Her angry gaze met his. He pointedly looked down. She followed his gaze. The ropes around his hands had come undone.
The server sidestepped, starting to hand Sam his dish. If Sam lifted his hands the ropes were so loose they’d fall to the ground.
“I’ll take it.” She scooted in front of Sam and reached for the other bowl. The man paused. She gave him a full smile.
He blinked, shook his head, then slowly held out the bowl.
Lollie took it, not breathing until the man had crossed the hut. He closed the door behind him and the sound of the bolt rasped through the door. She released a huge sigh then turned around, smiling proudly because she’d done something right. In her mind it made up a little for wounding him.
Still smiling, she held out the bowl, pride glowing on her face.
A huge black beetle landed in the bowl with a dull plop. She screamed and threw the bowl away, hugging her bound hands to her chest and rocking with horror. After a minute she looked up at Sam.
Her face twisted into a grimace of dread. She sat back on her heels, figuring a little distance between them was necessary for her safety.
The bowl sat atop his head like a papal cap. Globs of rice oozed from the bowl, sliding down his face and dangling from his clenched jaw. The only sound in the hut was the plop of rice hitting his chest and crossed arms.
He looked . . . upset. His neck was purple, like her brother Jed’s, only worse. In fact, she was certain his flared nostrils could have blown dragonlike smoke, except that the rice on his nose would have blocked it.
She opened her mouth to say something. Anything.
“Not . . . one . . . word.” He swiped the rice off his good eye with an obviously tensed hand. It occurred to her that he wanted to punch something.
Her mouth clamped shut. She scooted back again, still wary.
Without warning the black beetle scurried between them. She squealed, stiffening and squeezing her eyes shut.
One slow deep breath and she opened them.
Sam’s boot squished the beetle into the hard dirt. Revulsion on her face, she looked up. He glared at her and continued to grind the bug much harder than necessary. From his face she could tell he wished it was her under his boot.
Caution made her move away from him, which was difficult with her hands and feet still bound. She frowned at her hands, then glanced at the dagger next to his leg. After a thoughtful moment she said, “Would you—”
“No!” he roared.
She jumped.
His shoulders moved, his purple neck tensed. The panther was back, ready to pounce.
Fighting the urge to protect her throat, she scooted back across the room fast enough to give Madame Devereaux a goiter. Then she sat in the dark corner, feeling the way Eve must have felt after foolishly eating that apple.
Although the rice really was an accident, just like the slip of the knife, she wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t a forgiving man, so she chose to just keep quiet, a monumental effort when she wanted so badly to speak and be forgiven.
“So long, Lollipop.”
The exchange was on. Sam watched the guards cut the ropes that bound her feet. She looked up, her light eyes tentative and frightened.
“Good-bye, Mr. Forester,” she whispered, her eyes downcast.
They hadn’t spoken during the last day. Since she’d dumped the rice on him she’d stayed in her corner, he in his. All her snobbery was gone, replaced by a meek blond shell. He liked her better with a little spunk in her; as hard as it was to admit, her quietness seemed unnatural. He glanced at her again. An odd sense of guilt, something he hadn’t felt since he’d understood his uncle’s joke, swept through him.
With the exchange taking place today, he could afford to ease the girl’s fear. After all, he reasoned, she’d be out of his hair, and he’d be long gone by the time Luna returned. He had to be. Death at the colonel’s hands would be his only other option.
She stood so regally, yet her shoulders and demeanor screamed defeat. It touched the warrior within him.
“You’ll be back in Manila by tomorrow,” he assured her.
She gave him a weak smile, and her eyes misted. “Go home. Go back to Belleview.”
She sniffed. “Belvedere.”
He grinned in spite of his sore jaw and split lip. “All right, Belvedere.”
She looked him in the eye, an apology searching for forgiveness.
“Forget it, Lollipop. It was an accident.” He gave her a quick nod of his head, a mock salute of sorts. Her face lit with a blinding smile just before they led her away.
Sam stared at the closed door. He kept his severed ropes in place and listened to the sounds of them walking away from the hut. After a few minutes of waiting, he glanced up, figuring by the sounds that it was midmorning. Not long afterward he heard the guards change—the sound he’d been waiting for. The camp would be disrupted for only about ten minutes. Then Luna and the escort would be gone and the guards would watch him even more closely, not wanting to risk the loss of their prisoner while their commander was gone. If that happened, heads would roll.
But that wasn’t Sam’s problem; escaping was. He shook off the ropes and pulled his dagger from inside the top of his boot. He sawed a U-shaped opening large enough to crawl through in the corner of the hut, and slowly pushed open the cut section. As it opened, he bent so he could see outside.
There were five other huts in view, which meant five huts could clearly see the back of this one. That was a problem and a hindrance to his escape. But it was also a challenge. Suddenly his bruised body didn’t ache so much. His fingers were able to move freely; his expression came to life. Sam needed this.
The area in back of the hut was clear. Ignoring his bruised ribs and sore hands, he crawled through the opening. Crouched, he quickly replaced the section of grass wall so the hole was undetectable. He crept along the back of the hut, pausing when he reached the corner.
An alert guard stood by the door. He’d play hell getting by that one. The man had that zealous-guard stance. To Sam’s right was a wide open space, then another hut. Laughter echoed from inside along with the smell of food. It was the mess hut. Damn. The busiest place in a camp. Quickly he moved back to the other corner. The coast was clear. He rounded it and moved along that side of the hut. A thick copse of banyan trees stood about fifty yards away to the south, protected by two rows of looped barbed wire. He heard footsteps. They came from in back of the hut.
Sam took off at
a full run, jumped the wire, once, then twice. His feet hit the ground, jarring his aching ribs so hard that he lost his wind. The second he felt the cool shadow of the trees he dove for the ground, gasping for air and rolling into the damp, yard-high guinea grass that grew beneath. He lay as still as stone, his ribs aching like the very devil and his breath coming in shallow pants, which he fought to keep silent.
The men stopped about ten yards away. The fetid scent of the oozing wet ground hit his nose. He waited. They moved on. Slowly he got to his knees, moving in a crouch toward the riverbank that bordered the encampment. Time was running out. His mental clock ticked. Soon they’d discover he was gone.
Reaching the bank, he belly-slid down into a blanket of deep green lotus pads that floated on the murky river water. He made his way along the mangroves lining the bank, moving beneath the thick acrid-smelling branches that hid him from view. The racket of a steam pump chugged and clattered in the air.
He stopped. A boat was close by. The river narrowed and turned; the mangroves stopped. Someone had cleared this section of the bank. Sam moved away from the bank, out to a thick stand of water bamboo—a new source of cover. His head was the only part of him above water, and it was obscured by the thick swamp reeds.
Here the width of the river almost doubled, forming an inlet where a long, gray-weathered wooden dock stood on bundled bamboo piers tinged green with river slime. A faded green and white river trawler sat on the north side of the pier, and fatigue-clad soldiers milled about the dock and decks, some on guard and others readying the boat to cast off. White steam spit a cloud into the already wet air, and the clunk, chug, and clatter of the steam engine drowned out any conversation Sam might have overheard.
Fully loaded, the boat had a conglomeration of splintered wooden crates and gray, rust-banded barrels along the port side. Once black, but now half red with the ever-prevalent rust of the tropics, the steam engine rose from the middle of the ancient river trawler. Next to the rusty boiler, a palm frond canopy served as a roof for the small pilot wheel.
