Authors: Jill Barnett
He ducked down, grabbed the oars, and slammed them into her hands. “Stick them in the water and row, dammit!” He fired again.
Soldiers ran along both banks, shouting and shooting. The boat drifted into the slow river current.
Bullets splattered all around them. One grazed Sam’s shoulder. He winced, but kept shooting. The boat lurched and he could hear Lollie banging the oars behind him. Soldiers waded toward them.
Sam hit two and kept yelling, “Row! Row!”
She did row—with one oar, in a perfect circle.
“Shit!” Sam dropped the rifle, dodging the shot, shoved her down, and sat over her, his legs pinning her squirming body to the floor of the boat. He grabbed the oars, hunched over, and ripped them through the water with every ounce of his strength.
The boat caught the current. Spanish shouts echoed from behind them, so did the gunfire. But the boat picked up speed, lurching downriver and out of range.
He stopped rowing, the current now speeding the boat through the water. His aching arms resting on the oars, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back. He waited for the energy to pass, for his blood to slow, for the rest of his muscles to relax. The female form beneath him moved, muttering under her breath—the very breath that he could easily have squeezed from her white throat, and enjoyed every second of it.
“Let me up!”
Sam counted, then prayed; neither worked. His fingers still itched to close around her neck. Even an idiot could row a goddamn boat.
At that exact moment her pink bottom bucked into his calves. He glared down at it. It took every ounce of his control to keep from ramming his bootheel into that wiggling pink butt. He shifted his legs and she popped up like a blond weasel between them, her spotty face a little too indignant for his current mood.
“There’s no air down there!” she said, swiping at the wet hair that hung in her face.
“Grab the oars.”
“Why?” She looked around at the wide section of the river where the current had slowed. “Aren’t we safe now?”
“You’re not.” He gave her a lethal smile that had nothing to do with humor. “Now, row.”
“Why do I have to row? You’re the man. Can’t you do it?”
He raised the rifle and pointed it right at her.
Her mouth dropped open.
“You can learn to row or I can shoot you. The choice is yours.”
He leaned toward her very slowly, making sure the cock on the rifle clicked. “I said
row.”
She looked at the oars, then at him, at the gun, then back at him. His look must have convinced her how close he was to losing his last bit of control because she grabbed one of them and dragged it through the water. Just like before, the boat spun in a circle.
“One oar in each hand,” he gritted.
She placed a hand on each oar handle.
“Pull them both back toward you.”
The left one cut through the water. The right one slipped up, sending a stream of water on Sam.
He sat there, counting. He reached thirty-two before he swiped the water from his good eye and stared at her, drops of water still dripping from his nose.
She shrugged. “It slipped.”
“There isn’t enough money in the world . . .” he mumbled.
“What money?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh, look! The boat’s moving on its own now.” She smiled as the boat picked up a faster current and cut downstream. “Now I won’t have to row.” She turned and gave him an innocent smile. “I must have an angel on my shoulder!”
Yeah, and I’ve got a boulder around my neck, named Lollie LaRue.
He watched the bank, then checked the position of the sun and the mountains beyond, trying to get his bearings. He figured that they’d go another few miles and then move to the shore. They would only be a few hours from Bonifacio’s camp.
An odd whimpering sound pierced his thoughts. He turned back to see what was wrong. She watched the river around her, her skin suddenly drained and pale. The small boat rocked against a crosscurrent, and she sank back against the side, a moan of grievous pain escaping her lips. Her head lolled there for a moment and she raised her hand to her blotchy forehead, which suddenly beaded with sweat.
She groaned, “I don’t feel right well . . . .”
It was almost nightfall
when they reached the rim of the hillside. Lollie stopped, trying to catch her wind. She’d been weak ever since she’d took sick in the boat. Sam hadn’t said much, had never again mentioned rowing, but the few words he had spoken were too blue for her to repeat.
“We’ll stop here,” he said, dropping the rifle to the black rocky ground that covered the hilltop trail. He fiddled with something so she gazed down at the valley below them. Deep green squares of land, like a multitude of giant steps, layered the hillsides that surrounded a lush tropical valley below them. The square fields were flooded with murky brown water from irrigation ditches that dissected them, and only a small amount of bright green foliage stuck out of the water around an occasional scattering of large brown rocks.
“What are those?” she asked Sam.
“Rice terraces.” He handed her the canteen.
They had rice fields back home, but they didn’t drop down hillsides like these and they weren’t so lush a green. She moved her gaze from the nearest rice fields just below her to the whole panorama. It was a breathtaking sight, the deep valley, the bright green hills surrounding it and the huge blue-black mountains rising so high in the distance that they touched the pink edges of the dark twilight clouds.
A rustling sound drew her attention to the thick, tall trees behind her. She didn’t see anything at first, and then a large bird flew to the branch of a neighboring tree. The bird had the most unusual colors she’d ever seen, so colorful and bright that Lollie’s breath caught at the sight of it. Its head was bright red, its body a pure deep turquoise blue, and the feathers had a sheen that caught the pale pink light of the setting sun.
“Sam,” she whispered.
He looked up from whatever he was doing, an annoyed expression on his face.
“What’s that?” She pointed at it.
“A tree.” He turned back to his work.
She stared at the top of his head. “I meant on that branch there.”
He gave it a cursory glance. “A bird.”
“I know it’s a bird! I meant what kind of bird?”
“How the hell should I know?” He nev7er even bothered to look at her, just continued to scoop up some fallen leaves and twigs.
She gave up and watched the bird. After a minute she took a drink and went to hand Sam back the canteen, trying really hard not to dump it on his hard head. She stared at that head while she contemplated just what the repercussions of such an action would be.
He was on bended knee, banging a rock against his knife. She decided she wasn’t quite that brave, so instead, she peered over his shoulder. “What’re you doing?”
He didn’t answer her, but lowered his head and blew at the ground. Suddenly smoke curled upward, and when he drew back, she could see a small fire burning near the knife blade. She wondered how he’d done that.
He stood and slid the knife into its sheath.
She looked at the small fire burning near his boots, and he bent and dipped a banyan-branch torch into the fire. Her thoughts flew right out her mouth. “What’d you do, swear at it and it caught fire?”
He stared down at her. “Hell, Miss Pain-in-the-ass LahRoo, maybe I goddamn did.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The man couldn’t even speak to her civilly. Her eyes flew open, glaring at him, as frustration boiled up so much inside of her that she opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind.
Unfortunately at the same time she stomped one agitated foot. The ground beneath her crumbled. Like Jill after Jack, Lollie went tumbling down the hillside. Water splattered in her face and mud gushed all around her. Prickly rice stems snagged on her arms and shoulders as she rolled like a ball right into the center of a muddy, flooded rice field. One of the rocks stopped her.
Stunned silly, she sat there a moment, then scooped the mud from her eyes and face. The first thing she heard was Sam’s laughter, drifting down from the hilltop above her. He howled with all the tenor of a jackass.
“Hey there, Lollipop! Did your shoe slip again?” He laughed and laughed, obviously completely certain he was wit itself.
She scowled up at him, standing on that hilltop silhouetted by the pink evening sky. Her scowl fell away. There was no wind, so his long black hair hung free to his shoulders, shoulders that spread as wide as wagon hitches and narrowed to where his fists rested on the thick leather of his belt. The stance was all male arrogance, like a king on his high throne, lording over his subjects. The last bit of sunlight broke through a few clouds, shining through the superior spread of his long legs, the same legs that were as hard as rocks when they pinned her to the floor of the boat. With his black eye patch he looked like a pirate . . . wenching.
Where did that thought come from?
Well, she thought, wherever it came from she didn’t like it, and she didn’t like him. Her hand closed over a big clod of mud and she slowly lifted it from the water. She stared at it for a long time. His snort of laughter spurred her on. She wound back and threw it at him as hard as she could, and missed by a good yard.
He laughed louder. “ ‘Bout three feet more to the left!” She was so mad she threw another handful, and missed again.
He cupped his hands around his obnoxious mouth and shouted, “You might try it with your eyes open!”
She clenched her fists, wanting to pelt him with the entire mud field but was not about to give him any more entertainment. She never threw anything with her eyes open because it made her dizzy. She sat a little straighter, deciding words were more potent than mud balls. “If Abraham’s son had been like you, Sam Forester, it wouldn’t have been a sacrifice!”
“If Christ’d had you along, he wouldn’t have needed a cross to become a martyr.”
“I really think you’re a vile man.”
He crossed his arms. “Did you know that leeches breed in rice fields?”
She scrambled up, turning and trying to pull herself up on the rock—the furry rock, which suddenly moved. “Oh, my Gawd!”
A huge, brown bovine head with two long curved horns emerged from the water. She didn’t know if she should run or scream.
She screamed.
The animal blinked its brown eyes, threw its huge head up, and bawled so loud even Lollie shut up. Suddenly three more “rocks” wallowed upright and moseyed toward her. It only took about three seconds for Lollie to hit the hillside and start clawing her way up the damp ground, only to slide back down, whimpering.
An arm like a tree trunk wrapped itself around her waist, hauled her back up the hill, and deposited her on the trail. She stood there shaking for a moment, trying to catch her breath.
“What are those things?”
“Carabao.”
She frowned.
“Water buffalo.” He wiped his muddy hands on his pants, then looked up, smirking. “They wouldn’t have hurt you”—he bent and picked up the rifle—”unless they rolled.”
She stood there looking at those huge beasts and remembering that Harrison had some prized bulls that weighed in at over a thousand pounds. Those water buffalo were almost twice the size of Harrison’s bulls. She grimaced.