by Jill Barnett
She muttered again. Sam assumed she was still correcting him.
He smiled and added some coal to the fire. “Of South Carolina. Owners of Hick Home, Cowhand Industries, and Peachtree Farms.” He could hear her muffled outrage and bit back a smile.
Jim stared at him for an unsure moment.
“Daughter of Ambassador LaRue,” Sam added, watching recognition hit his friend’s black-smudged face.
“How the hell did you get tangled up with her?” Jim leaned on his rifle and eyed Lollie.
“Compliments of Colonel Luna.”
Jim stilled, his gaze going back and forth between them. “What are you going to do with her?”
Sam raised his left hand and robbed his thumb back and forth across his fingers in the time-honored sign of a money payoff.
Jim’s eyes lit up with the same look of larceny that had bonded the two of them almost from their first meeting, and he smiled. “How much?”
“Probably not enough for what I’ve put up with for the last few days.” Sam glanced at Lollie, who had suddenly stilled. He watched her closely. Her look changed from fear to betrayal. He’d have bet a year’s salary that she wasn’t smart enough to catch on. He was wrong, and turned away from those wounded blue eyes, which held such a look of betrayed innocence that he felt something he hadn’t felt in years—guilt.
He shrugged it off and looked at Jim. “I’ll have to talk to Andres.”
Jim nodded, now eyeing Lollie with new interest, an interest that wasn’t only larcenous. It was lascivious, too.
Sam had the sudden urge to draw Jim’s attention away from her. “What are you doing this far from camp?”
“The Spanish have been moving deeper and deeper into the interior. They garrisoned off Santa Christina last week.”
That news set Sam back. Santa Christina was less than fifteen miles away and a good-sized interior town. Many of Bonifacio’s men had come from that town and others nearby. If the Spanish had taken it over, that meant they’d infiltrated even deeper into guerrilla territory, which also meant it wouldn’t be long before they did something to get the guerrilla forces out into open combat. The Spanish worked that way, cordoning off a town, gathering its people, and torturing enough innocent villagers to get the word spread from town to town. It was a surefire way to draw out the hotheaded rebels and wipe out the resistance completely. “Have the guns arrived yet?”
Jim shook his head and adjusted the ever-present bow and quiver of arrows slung across his back. His friend would use the rifle for its speed, but Sam knew he preferred the deadly silence and accuracy of a bow and arrow.
Sam took in Jim’s black clothes, the hair slicked back with oil, and his ash-smudged face. “On a scavenger run?”
Jim grinned, his white teeth shiny against his dirty face. “Rumor has it the Spanish just got a brand-new supply of dynamite.” He nodded at his men. “We thought we might relieve them of that particular burden.”
Sam laughed. His friend was known as the camp scrounger, able to steal almost anything from deep within the enemy camp. Last November, when they’d arrived in the island camp, Jim had found the abundance of sweet potatoes inspiration for stealing the local alcalde’s turkeys just so they could have an old-fashioned American Thanksgiving dinner.
“I guess I’d better get back to camp and get rid of my own burden.” He looked pointedly at Lollie, whose eyes shot cool fire at him. Sam ignored her and nodded at the two Filipino rebels who had subdued her. “Mind if I take Garcia and Montez?”
“Go ahead. From the ringing in my ears and the teeth marks in my hand I’d say you need them more than I do.” Jim smiled. “There are only two hundred Spanish in the town. They’re the lesser evil.”
Lollie tried to kick one of the laughing soldiers and missed. She would have fallen if they hadn’t had a death grip on her.
Jim put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. The tree branches rustled, and leaves drifted down the high branches above. A black mynah bird with a red head swooped down from the tree, hovered over them for a moment, then landed on Jim’s shoulder. He pulled something out of his shirt pocket and gave it to the bird.
Sam groaned. “The black pigeon from hell.”
The bird squawked, bobbed its head a couple of times while it plodded slowly across Jim’s shoulder, then flapped twice and screamed, “Raaaaape! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-hah!”
Lollie’s eyes almost popped right out of her head.
“Easy there, Medusa,” Jim soothed the mynah with a few strokes. “You keep goading her, Sam, and she’ll go after your good eye.”
He laughed. “That bird knows I’d roast her on a spit if she came within three feet of me. Maybe we should cook her this Thanksgiving.”
“Sam’s full of it! Watch where you step!” Medusa called, weaving her head melodically with each word.
He really hated that bird.
Jim grinned at him then gave the bird another treat. “You keep threatening to cook her. Puts her on the defensive. Remember,” he reached up to stroke the bird, which cooed and cocked its head, “females respond better to strokes and compliments.”
“Jim’s my hero,” Medusa said, rubbing her head against her master’s ear. She straightened, pulling a shiny black wing toward her chest, and squawked, “Sam’s not.”
“Well, on that note, we’re off.” Jim gave Sam a quick, mocking salute, then leered at Lollie and disappeared into the bushes with his men and that obnoxious bird.
Sam glanced at Lollie. She never took those eyes off him, even though she was held by two rebel soldiers. She struggled and mumbled against one soldier’s hand. Sam tried to ignore her and all the noise she was making.
It didn’t work. He could feel the accusation in those eyes, and he didn’t like it, or himself.
“Gag her,” he ordered, his tone so sharp it could have cut ice. He turned away and picked up his rifle. “Tayo na!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
And he didn’t look back again.
Lollie got in two more kicks and another bite before the soldier slammed the door. She ran to it and pounded on the splintered wood. It rattled but didn’t budge.
That damn Yankee. She wished it had been his shin she’d kicked and his hand she’d bitten, only she’d have done it harder. He’d planned to hold her for ransom the whole time, and just when she’d started to think—because of the way he kept rescuing her—that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Little had she known it was because he wanted to get his own ransom payoff.
He wasn’t bad. He was horrible.
She’d foolishly thought he would send for her father. All he’d wanted was money. He wanted to sell her. Her only worth seemed to be the sum of the ransom she’d bring, just because she was Ambassador LaRue’s daughter. To men like Colonel Luna and Sam Forester she had value only because of her name. She wondered of what value she was to her father, and prayed that he valued her in his heart. Still, it was hard to imagine being loved by a parent who hadn’t been around for most of her life.
As a dreamy-eyed young girl she’d thought her father a brave, courageous man who’d sacrificed a life with his daughter for a life devoted to his country. She’d dreamed of their reunion as one where he told her how he’d longed to see her grow up and how he had wanted to be there for all the important events in a little girl’s life, but he couldn’t. His duty was to so many more people than just one girl. He couldn’t, in good conscience, be that selfish.
Now, alone inside the dark little shed, she wondered if that dream would ever come true. She looked around the dank room, her eyes finally adjusting to the dark. Stacked ceiling high were crates and boxes and barrels. She stepped toward them and stumbled on something. She glanced down and saw it was some sort of long metal tool. She thought she heard her brother call it a birdstick. She nudged it out of the way with her foot, went over to a barrel, and dusted off the top before she sat down.
It was quiet, so quiet. She looked around the dark room, feeling a little
scared and very much alone. She wondered how long they’d keep her in here, and the horrifying thought crossed her mind that she might be in here for days. It was suddenly as if she were three years old again and stuck inside that dark well. The air tasted the same—dank and dead. The only light in the well had been through the small opening. The only light in this room was a little bit that cracked through a small opening between the door and its jamb. All she could see was the padlock.
The urge came over her to scream the roof down. She took a deep breath instead.
Something scurried in the corner behind the crate. She jerked her feet up, hugging her knees while she scanned the floor. Chills ran down her arms and she shivered, imagining all the things that could be in here with her . . . for days . . . alone . . . while once again, she waited.
Sam stared at the guerrilla leader as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard, and he couldn’t. “What in the hell do you mean you don’t want her? She’s worth a bloody fortune in ransom, Andres!”
“I do not care how many silver pesos the girl is worth. One thing she is not worth is the trouble a ransom demand would bring upon our movement.” Andres Bonifacio, leader of the Katipunan insurrectionist rebels, stopped pacing in agitation behind his desk and looked Sam in the eye. “You have made a mistake, my friend. Your government will have my head if we hold her for ransom. Her father will see to that. We have got too much trouble with the Spanish right in our backyard, as you say. I need any U.S. support I can get. It is worth more than the ransom could ever be. Ambassador LaRue has too much influence. I cannot take the chance of losing U.S. backing. Too many Filipinos have fought hard and for too long to lose it for some quick thousands.”
Sam watched the rebel leader pace. Any hope of his bonus died faster than a candle in the wind. He had the sudden urge to punch something. He rammed his fists into his pockets. “What are we going to do with her?”
“Not we.” Bonifacio gave him a pointed look. “You.”
Sam stood there for a stunned moment, then started to back away, his hands out in front of him. “Oh, no. Not me. I’ve been stuck with her for days. Let some of the men take her back. I don’t want anything to do with her.”
“You brought her here. You will take her back.”
“And if I refuse?” Sam suddenly felt as if he were trapped by artillery fire.
Bonifacio’s face changed, his anger now showing clearly. “Then you will not get paid for anything.” He slammed his fist down on the table. “Madre Dios, Sam! What were you thinking? I need the American support. If I send her back with my men it will look as if I took her, not Aguinaldo.” He began to pace again as he spoke, “No, you might not want to, but you have to take her back. You are American and you will convince them that I had nothing to do with this.”
“Let Cassidy do it. He’s as much an American as I am.”
“No.” He held up a hand and looked at Sam as if he’d lost his head. “The girl would never make it there . . . untouched. You know that as well as I. Put a woman within a meter of him and she will be under him in ten minutes. No. You will take her back.” He paused a moment, then looked Sam in the eye. “She is unharmed?”
“Yeah. I’m not that stupid.” Sam clenched his hands inside his pockets and stared out the window, not seeing the night but instead remembering two accusing blue eyes.
He didn’t like that, or the idea that he was going to have to travel with her again. He’d miscalculated. Andres was right, but that didn’t make the whole thing any easier to swallow, nor did the desire to punch something fade.
There was no bonus—something that would have made his rare bout of guilt a bit easier to live with—and the fact that he’d put up with her for free didn’t please the mercenary in him at all. Also at stake here was his soldier’s pride, which was bruised from the bad judgment that had almost jeopardized his job. He’d never done that before.
The clincher was that he was stuck with Lollie LaRue, ordered to take her back to her daddy, a job that he didn’t relish and that would be more difficult because she knew, since he’d revealed, in his conversation with Cassidy, what his plan had been all along. That was the biggest screw up of all.
He turned around and leaned against the wall with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “We’ve got a little problem.”
“What?”
“She knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I’d planned to get paid for her.”
Bonifacio swore, then mumbled, “Estapido.”
“You’re right, it was stupid on my part, but I’ll tell you, one day with that woman could turn Machiavelli into a moron.”
The room was silent. Sam rubbed his forehead in thought. He needed to find a way to undo his mistake. He thought for a moment longer, recalling his conversation with Jim. She knew he was going to hold her for ransom.
No, he amended that. All she knew was that he would get paid. He pushed against the wall and walked to his commander’s desk, placing a hand on either end and leaning over to convince Andres of the idea. “She only knows I planned to get money when I brought her here. It’s possible that we could convince her that she misunderstood.”
“We?”
“I’ll need your help. We have to make her think that we planned all along to return her to her father safely, with no ransom. But I’ll need your help. We need to make her think the money I spoke of was my reward for saving her.” Sam paused, suddenly aware of something he might have forgotten. “You don’t suppose a reward has been offered already, do you? Or maybe you could persuade her father to pay one.”
One look into his commander’s eyes told Sam he wouldn’t get a red cent. The Chicago street kid in him had to give it a try. He shrugged. “Forget I asked that.”
“Always the mercenary, eh, my friend?” Bonifacio gave a quick laugh, then sat down at the desk. “Do whatever you have to do to convince her. I will send a message to her father, telling him we have found her and she is safe and that you, a trusted American will be bringing her back. I will leave the arrangements open in case the ambassador wants to meet you. I do not want him or anyone else to know where we are. The guns are due any day. We cannot miss that shipment.” He looked up at Sam. “I will tell her we were concerned only for her safety, and I will help convince her of the reward story, but until we hear from her father, she is your responsibility. I have too much to do with the Spanish so near.”
Damn, he had his orders. He was stuck with her. “Where is she?” Bonifacio asked.
“I had her locked in that shed by the supply hut,” Sam answered distractedly.
A loud knock pounded on the door of the bungalow. The door opened, and a soldier entered. His shoulders went ramrod straight, and he saluted Bonifacio, then Sam. “The woman has escaped.”
It took them only ten minutes to find her.
It took five men almost half an hour to cut her out of the barbed-wire barrier in one piece. With only torchlight to work by, the job was that much more difficult. Sam flipped his pocket watch closed and slipped it back into his shirt pocket. He bent, retrieved the torch he had stuck in the ground, and straightened, holding it up higher so the men could see in the dark. He rested a booted foot on the sandbags piled five high on the jungle side of the camp’s perimeter and moved the torch closer, watching the extraction of Lollie LaRue.
She must have tried to crawl through the spiraled loops that were used as protection against invading forces. When they’d found her she was trapped like a ragged pink worm in a cocoon of barbed wire. It looked to Sam as if almost every sharp barb was caught on or wrapped in her dress or her hair, and what wasn’t caught was tangled like fishing line about her feet and hands. In one of those hands was a crowbar.
One look at her and he knew, absolutely, there was no way on this earth he was going to travel through the jungle with her again, no way at all. If he had to take her back, he’d do it on the mountain road where he could stick her in a cart pulled by a carabao and ride
with her to Manila, or wherever that daddy of hers wanted to meet them. Sam didn’t care if they had to dress like peasants, natives, the Spanish, whatever, but he was not going into the jungle with her again. No way.
The men finished cutting her out, and one of them pried the crowbar out of her hand—something for which Sam was especially grateful. He had a hunch that she’d have swung it at him the first chance she got.
They pulled her to her wobbly feet, grinning and talking in their own native Tagalog. She shook her head and looked at them for a moment, her face confused and a little frightened. The soldiers still grinned at her, and Sam could see the relief ease her stiff shoulders. Of course she had no idea what they were laughing at. They’d called her lasing paru-paro, a drunken butterfly.
One look at her and anyone could see the name was appropriate. Pieces of wire jutted out from her messy blond hair like insect antennae. Her skirt was caught in long ropes of wire that poked out from her clothing, and the fabric draped outward like drooping pink wings. His first urge was to tell her how she looked, but he knew anything he said would be so soaked with sarcasm that she’d get mad. Then they’d never convince her that she was not going to be ransomed, but instead taken back to her daddy.
She tried to take a step and wobbled again. He moved toward her and reached out to steady her. She jerked her arm out of his grasp and gave him a scathing look. “Don’t you touch me!”
He and Andres exchanged looks. Covertly, Andres pointed to his chest, indicating he should give it a try. Sam watched.
Andres stepped forward, giving Eulalie a gallant little bow, one in which his hat actually swept the ground. “Miss LaRue, I am Andres Bonifacio.” He straightened and smiled at her. “I am so sorry you were . . . were inconvenienced by our primitive surroundings.” He waved a hand at the log fences, ditches, sandbags, and barbed wire that surrounded them for as far as one could see in only the torchlight.
