Desert Rose

by Laura Taylor

  David moved to the corner of his cell, the briskness of his footsteps an obvious indication of his annoyance with her. "Your Italian is showing, babe."

  "So’s my Irish," she countered. "Most sane men wouldn’t willingly mess with such a volatile combination." All too aware of the deprivation he’d already endured, she gentled her tone. "Don’t fight me on this, David. You can’t possibly win once I’ve set my mind on something."

  "God save me from temperamental women."

  Emma grinned at the return of his good humor. Dividing the chocolate bar in half, she tucked her piece into the breast pocket of her blouse. She wedged herself into the now familiar corner of her cell, and then slipped her arm through the bars and along the wall. She encountered empty space. "David, get your hand over here."

  "You’re getting bossy in your old age, Hamilton."

  "So sue me."

  "I’d rather…"

  "You’d rather what?"

  Silence, save for the sound of his harsh breathing.

  "David?"

  "I’d rather have you than chocolate." His fingertips brushed across her skin in the next moment.

  Emma felt his touch to her core. "I feel the same way."

  David cupped the back of her hand, the sureness of his touch reaching deep into her soul. When she heard a heavy sigh escape him, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. How she longed for him.

  "I've missed touching you," he said. "Maybe we should revise our hand–holding schedule. An hour each morning added to our afternoon and evening sessions."

  She pressed the back of her hand against his palm, burrowing against him as best she could as she savored his touch. "Only if your shoulder can take it."

  "I can handle anything if it means I can touch you, babe."

  Emma opened her mouth, but her reply died the instant she heard the heavy metal door at the end of the cellblock hallway crash open. She sucked in a sharp breath, nearly losing her grip on David’s half of the candy.

  "Get back, Emma. Now!"

  The urgency in his voice made her jerk backward. Wincing as she scraped her shoulder against the wall’s rough surface, she dashed into the rear of her cell.

  Her heart raced. She knew the guards rarely bothered with prisoners this early in the morning. Counting at least four sets of footsteps, she pressed herself against the wall and held her breath.

  Four instead of one.

  She shuddered, fear knifing through her.

  Four guards instead of one.

  Why? she wondered, although she feared that she already knew the answer.

  The armed men bypassed her cell and came to a halt in front of David’s. She stood there, shaking as the guards dragged open his cell door. One of the men barked an order at him. Emma strained to hear David’s reply. She heard only silence—yet another measure of his stubbornness.

  A scuffle erupted in his cell.

  David mustn’t know she was frightened for him, she cautioned herself. When she heard his grunt of pain and the angry words he shouted at the guards, she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, certain that his resistance was partially rooted in his desire to distract them from her presence in the adjacent cell.

  "David?" she whispered.

  She needed to tell him not to try to protect her, but how? Stymied by her anxiety that she might cause him more harm than good, she kept silent.

  Another one of the guards growled a command. David exploded with a string of earthy, rage–filled curses.

  Emma surged forward and threw herself against the bars of her cell, heedless of the risk to herself. Clinging to the bars, she struggled to see beyond the uniformed men who blocked her view.

  One of the guards turned and pointed his weapon at her. Emma hurriedly backed away. She tripped over the edge of her pallet, lost her footing, and landed in a sprawl on the floor.

  She brought herself up to her knees just in time to catch a glimpse of David as he was hauled out of his cell. She registered the dark mahogany of his thick hair, the fury darkening his shadowed hazel eyes, and the fierce expression on his angular, beard–covered face. Defiance made his big body rigid with tension and fury. She screamed his name before she could stop herself.

  "Beat them at their own game, babe," he shouted.

  When she saw the blood that trailed from his split lip and down his chin, Emma jammed her fist against her lips to keep from calling out to him a second time. One of the guards silenced David with a hard punch to his midsection. He gasped and slumped forward, but the guards kept him from sliding to the floor.

  She watched in horror as they dragged him away, flinching when the cellblock door finally slammed shut. Still huddled on the floor, she clutched David’s half of the chocolate bar to her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She lost track of time in the hours that followed, frozen in place by pure terror at what might happen to him.

  When she finally found the strength to move, she forced herself to her feet and paced. She tried to comfort herself by reliving every moment of their time together. She replayed their many conversations through her mind, but the haunting sounds of prison life, the cries of prisoners being tortured and the sound of rifle shots, served to terrorize her emotions even more.

  By mid–afternoon Emma feared she might never see David again. Bowing her head as she leaned against the cell wall, she summoned what remained of her strength and prayed that the man well on his way to capturing her heart would return to her. She also made a silent vow that she would employ her wits and all that David had taught her in order to assure her own survival. And if he never came back, she knew he would remain in her thoughts and in her heart for the rest of her life.

  Wrapped in her cape, Emma finally collapsed across her pallet shortly after dark. She slept poorly for almost five hours, the series of nightmares she experienced punctuation marks on the horrific events of that day.

  ** ** **

  "Can you hear me, David?"

  Seated cross–legged on his pallet, David retreated from the concern he heard in Emma’s voice. The guards had thrown him back into his cell after beating him black and blue with lengths of pipe for countless hours. And in the four days since, he’d refused to speak, refused to burden Emma with the truth of his most recent encounter with the prison’s interrogators.

  "David?"

  He focused inward, shutting out the sound of her voice. He pressed the back of his head against rough stone and mortar, kept his hands at his sides, and closed his eyes, but he could no more dismiss the mental images flashing through his mind of the hours during which he’d been tortured than he could control the trembling of his large body.

  "Just tell me you’re alright," Emma pleaded. "I don’t expect conversation, just a hint that you can hear me."

  He tried to ignore the desperation he heard in her voice. He took in a ragged breath, struggling for a calm that he doubted he’d ever feel again. Instead, his rage reawakened and roared through him.

  She whispered, "Let me help you. You’ve done so much for me. It’s my turn now."

  "No," he managed through gritted teeth.

  "I can feel you drifting away from me. David, please. I can’t let that happen. You’re a part of me. You always will be."

  He wrapped his arms around his aching ribs before lowering his forehead to his up–drawn knees. Self–pity assaulted him in waves, and he shuddered, not once but several times, and forced himself to nurse back to life the fragile speck of hope that was buried deep in his soul.

  "I know it’s hard for you to speak to me right now, but I want you to try. I just wish…"

  Giving into his need for contact with the one person he trusted and cared about, he asked, "Wish… what?"

  "I wish I could put my arms around you and hold you."

  "Me… too," he admitted haltingly, the tenderness of his jaw making speech an effort. But he forced himself to continue—for Emma and for the sake of his own sanity. He sensed that she was the
only thing that stood between him and madness. "Talk… to me… babe. Need you… help me… forget."

  Emma didn’t hesitate. "We need each other, David. We’re a team. No one can change that." Tears filled her eyes, but she hastily brushed them away. "While you were gone, I imagined all kinds of terrible things happening to you. Some of them probably did, but I know you won’t tell me. You still think I’m a total cream puff, don’t you?"

  "No! Don’t… think that… at all."

  "Well, even though you’ve tried to protect me from what’s really going on in this place, my ears work and I have too vivid an imagination not to comprehend the reality of our situation. And I know from personal experience that…" Her voice trailed off as she thought, don’t go there.

  She sighed, the sound audible in the uncharacteristic silence of the post midnight hour. "You’ve shared your strength and your courage, David, often at your own expense. You’ve also taught me valuable things about myself. I know you're probably reluctant to trust me or to let yourself lean on me right now, but I won’t fail you. I promise."

  "Know that… already." Lifting his head, he squinted at his makeshift calendar and wondered if he’d have the strength to make the sixty–eighth mark.

  "I was afraid you wouldn’t come back to me," she admitted. "I can’t imagine being without you."

  He forced himself to respond, despite the pounding in his skull. "Bad pennies… always… turn up."

  "You are not a bad penny. In fact, I think you’re…"

  He frowned when she hesitated. "What?"

  "I think you’re very special."

  He savored her gentle voice. "Not special… just dented."

  "David, I’m so sorry."

  A harsh laugh escaped him. "Me… too. Talk about… something else." Gathering up what remained of his strength, he hugged his middle and slowly straightened. An agony–filled moan escaped him, but he ground his teeth together to quell the sound and resisted the pain lancing through his bruised ribs.

  "I was thinking about home today," Emma said. "I miss my cottage."

  "Nice… place?"

  "I think so. It was originally a freestanding four–bay garage at a beachfront estate. The owner’s heirs were from New England. They had no interest in maintaining or using the property, so they put it up for sale. It was in such terrible condition, I was able to acquire the garage and the lot at a reasonable price, which is pretty unusual in California. After making some rough sketches of a cottage, I took my ideas to an architect so that he could do the plans. Then, I hired my uncle, the contractor, to do the actual remodeling." She hesitated. "Do you really want to hear all this?"

  "Yes."

  "Alright then. We started from scratch, and the end result was a two–bedroom cottage in a very contemporary design. It’s spacious, wonderfully private, and it sits at the edge of a low bluff that overlooks the Pacific. I even have a rose garden along one side of the house."

  "Good… views?" he asked, determined to hold up his end of the conversation.

  "The most spectacular view of the beach and the ocean in the world," she said enthusiastically. "It’s the first thing I see each morning and the last thing I see each night before I go to bed. I really miss it when I’m away. I love starting my day with a walk on the beach just as the sun comes up. It’s serene, despite the fact that we get a lot of tourists. It’s as though there’s an unspoken understanding that we all respect one another’s need for privacy."

  David felt a sudden ache in his loins as he pondered sharing nights with Emma and then waking up beside her each morning in her cottage. He suspected that her cherished Pacific view would pale in comparison to her naked sensuality.

  "Braggart… Montana same… for me."

  "You’re darn right I’m a braggart. I can’t wait for you to see it, David. It’s really a slice of heaven." She paused for a moment before admitting, "I think about it whenever I’m frightened, especially if I wake up in the middle of the night and I can’t get back to sleep. You’ll understand why when you visit me."

  His heart lurched. "I’m… invited?"

  "Where else would we celebrate your birthday?"

  "I feel… old enough… right now… to celebrate… hundredth birthday."

  "You’re just a little… dented," she reminded him, using his word. "You’ll feel better once you’ve had some rest, which you should probably try to get now."

  "Hope so."

  "Is anything broken?"

  "Don’t… think so… just bruised… all over."

  "Rubber hoses or lengths of pipe? Or both?" she asked, her voice losing its buoyancy.

  "Mostly… pipe," he admitted. "How…" His voice trailed off, and he waited. Her answering silence unnerved him. "Emma?"

  "I had my turn with the hoses before they brought me to this cell," she said quietly, "but the bruises are almost faded now."

  Stunned, he said, "You… didn’t… tell…"

  "David, I don’t want to talk about me. Please."

  "Emma." He groaned her name, shattered that she’d hidden the truth from him.

  "I mean it, David. I’m going to be fine, and so are you. I know you’ll get better. You’re the strongest, most resilient man I’ve ever known," Emma insisted before a choked sound cut off her words.

  "Cream… puff." In the silence that followed, he heard the broken sounds coming from her cell. He recognized them for what they were. "Please… don’t… cry."

  "I’m not."

  "Yes… you are."

  "David," she began.

  "No more… withholding… truth. Promise?"

  She laughed, a faintly soggy sound thanks to her tears. "You must be feeling better. You almost sound like your old self. And for the record, Major Winslow, I do talk to you when I’m about to lose it. I’d go insane if I didn’t."

  "Not… alone, Emma. Not… worth much… right now… but… here… for you."

  "You’re worth everything, and then some. Now, get some rest."

  "Need… your voice… can’t sleep… yet."

  "You’re sure?"

  "Talk… please," he insisted.

  "Would you like to hold hands for a while?"

  He wanted nothing more than to touch her again, to stroke her satiny–smooth skin and caress her long, slender fingers. But he knew it was impossible, and he cursed his body’s weakness. "Can’t… babe… sorry."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Yes." He prayed he’d have the strength to move then.

  "Do you ever have nightmares?" she asked in a low voice.

  He weighed his answer. While he hated to admit that he couldn’t control his sub–conscious, he no longer felt compelled to preserve his macho Marine Corps image. He knew, too, that Emma never judged. She simply listened, so revealing the truth to her would be the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

  "Sometimes," he conceded.

  "Not fun, are they?"

  "No… questions. Talk… Hamilton."

  "Yes, sir!"

  He smiled into the darkness of his cell in spite of the lancing pain in his jaw. "I’ll… teach you… to salute."

  "Every woman’s secret fantasy, and you’re going to make mine come true. Be still, my heart."

  He laughed, and then he groaned when his body protested the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Don’t make… me laugh… talk, please."

  "I’m a great cook," she immediately confided.

  "More… comic relief… or truth?"

  "I’m serious. My girlfriends think I’m crazy to even admit it, but I love being in the kitchen. I cook to relax. Then I get to diet. It’s a vicious cycle."

  "Maybe you… should’ve… become… chef."

  "Dangerous idea, since I’d be tempting fate and ruining my waistline at the same time. Thank you very much, but no."

  David slowly shifted his legs forward and massaged the tops of his thighs. He listened to the sound of Emma’s voice, which dulled the pain throbbing in his body and soothed some of his rage. She sp
oke for nearly two hours, rambling from subject to subject when not regaling him with tales of her childhood and anecdotes that involved her siblings.

  She also confessed the details of her youthful endeavors as a competitive gymnast. She amazed him when she admitted that she’d terminated her nearly ten year commitment to gymnastics at the age of fifteen when she’d announced to her coach that she wanted a normal life. Instead of trying to change her mind, her parents had supported her decision one hundred percent. David concluded that Doctor and Mrs. Hamilton had to be as unique as their daughter.

  He listened closely to her every word, finding strength in her generous spirit. As he kneaded the muscles in his legs, arms, and shoulders, David silently vowed that his future—if he was even destined to have one—would include Emma Hamilton. He couldn’t imagine finding happiness without her.

  He nearly succumbed to light–headedness as he struggled to his feet. Trembling and breathing raggedly, he pressed his cheek to the cold wall, closed his eyes, and submerged himself in the sound of Emma’s voice.

  Driven by his desire to feel the comfort of her soothing touch, he brought himself under control. He moved awkwardly and slowly, each step an exercise in agony as the muscles of his body tremored in constant protest, but he finally managed to position himself in the corner of his cell.

  He caught his breath and then carefully maneuvered his arm through the narrow space between the bars and cell wall. Sweat beaded across his upper lip and soaked the back of his flight suit. He shuddered, but he refused to give in to his damaged body.

  Emma soon fell silent, her fatigue evident in the heavy sigh that escaped her.

  "At… wall… babe."

  She scrambled up from her pallet and made her way to the corner of her cell. "Are you strong enough to be on your feet?"

  "Shaky… but… standing," he assured her before he heard her choked sob. "Please… don’t… cry."

  "Sorry." She cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "I saved your half of the chocolate bar. Shall I pass it to you? It might give you the energy you need."

  Closing his eyes against the tears unexpectedly filling them, he tried to speak but found he couldn’t. Getting emotional over a candy bar was hardly his style, and he felt like a complete idiot.