She grabbed his wrist, spun around and peeled it off her waist in a move her father showed her after Ricardo had made his intentions known. She threw his hand back at him. "I'm not running and you do not get to touch me. Whether you believe it or not, I am not interested in you."
Ricardo laughed at her. "You are interested." He stepped closer to her.
Lyric shook her head. "No, I am not. Do not come here again, Ricardo. I do not desire you, and I do not want you to return to this property." Lyric shook with raw anger.
"You do want me. Look at the way your chest heaves. Don't play hard to get with me or you will regret it. Besides, you cannot tell me to stay away. I am an officer of the National Police. I go where I want, when I want." Ricardo's words emerged low and dangerous.
"I've done nothing to warrant your presence here. I don't fear you or the police.” She lifted the machete in her hand and put the blade between them. She didn't make the mistake of pointing it at Ricardo, but pulled the one and only trump card she had and metaphorically slapped it on the table. “If you insist on harassing me, I'll call Jesus Garcia, your district commander, and explain how you come out here in your uniform, with your official vehicle and harass us—how you press unwanted attentions on me." Her grandfather and the district commander were cousins. If she called and complained, Ricardo's career very well could be stalled.
Ricardo recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "You wouldn't dare." He sneered at the machete. "You don't want to start a war with me. You will not win."
She felt his anger grow as the implications of her comment manifested. She lifted a single eyebrow. "Oh, that is where you are wrong. I dare, and I am unlike any other woman you've ever met. Leave. Now."
Ricardo closed the space between them, and she held firm, refusing to flinch or back away from the rage she saw in his eyes. She trembled, but refused to lower the blade when he pushed closer.
He was so close his breath brushed across her cheek as he hissed, "You will regret threatening me, and I will enjoy teaching you manners."
Lyric kept her eyes pinned to his. "I will never regret defending myself against an animal like you. You have no idea where I came from or what I'm capable of doing. Do not push me, or you will lose what you hold so precious." Lyric would lob his balls off.
Ricardo snapped his attention to the sound of another vehicle bouncing down the access road to the farm. "Don't threaten me about losing things that are precious, woman. This, what's between us, it won't be over until I say it is."
"You're a fool. There is nothing between us and never will be. I will make sure of that."
Ricardo grabbed the forearm of the hand holding the machete. He squeezed hard and snapped her arm down, forcing her to drop the knife. "You have no say, you never did." He pulled her in and smashed his lips against hers. Lyric gasped and felt his tongue invading her mouth. She bit down as hard as she could. Ricardo screamed and pushed Lyric away. She spit at his feet in fury. "That's it! You will pay for forcing yourself on me. District Commander Garcia will hear about this. My grandfather has connections. You will pay for this!"
"Don't make a mistake you won't live to regret." Ricardo's threat was ominous even though he had to mumble because of his injured tongue. He spun and got into his car. Gravel spit from the treads of his tires as he punched the accelerator and turned around. He gunned the vehicle past her father's truck as it pulled into the parking area in front of the shed.
Lyric bent down and picked up the machete. The skin on her arm was already turning red and swollen from his grip and jerk maneuver. Jerk maneuver. As if the man had any other kind. She grabbed the knife with her other arm and slipped her bruised forearm behind her back, trying to look casual. If her father noticed the bruise before she was able to cover it up, he'd...well, he would probably hunt down Ricardo and kill him. She'd never allow that.
"Does that bastard not understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?" Her father pulled his purchases out of the old truck and glanced over his shoulder to watch the police car bounce down the washboards and potholes leading away from the farm. He'd always let her fight her own battles. She thanked him for that. It had made her strong and her own woman, but Ricardo's persistence, despite her numerous rebuffs, wore on both of their nerves.
His car hit a rut and bounced high, only to crash into another pothole in the road. A small smile tipped her lips. If he damaged his precious car, maybe he'd give showing up again a second thought. As if.
"He understands the word, but he doesn't want to believe it." She shook her head thinking back over their recent...conversation. If she didn't think he'd have used it against her, she would have put the point of the machete she carried into his groin and threatened him.
Her father walked up to stand beside her. At six feet tall, James Gadson towered over almost everyone he met. "That man is trouble." Her father's eyes followed the vehicle's departure.
"He is gone for good this time. I threatened to call Jesus." Lyric bent over and put the machete into a tray she'd been using to collect the items she'd sharpened.
"I'm sure that pissed him off." He put his hands on his hips and watched the vehicle disappear.
"Oh, yeah, it did." She straightened and motioned to the bags in her father's hand. "Did you get everything?"
"I think so." He sighed and walked with her into the small house. "I'm worried. He's never been late coming back before."
Lyric nodded. Her grandfather was due back two days ago from his annual pilgrimage to the shrine he’d built in the mountains memorializing his loved ones who had died in the civil unrest—his wife, his sons and most recently his daughter, Lyric's mom.
"I'll leave at first light." She motioned to the small white bag. "Antibiotics?"
Her dad nodded and tossed the bag to her. "Yup. Jo-Jo to the rescue again. One of these days our vet is going to demand to see this accident-prone donkey." He shrugged. “Though chances are he already knows half the medicines he prescribes don’t go to animals.” Her father looked down and seemed to shrink, suddenly showing the stress and worry of the past few days.
Lyric gave him a sad smile. "I'll find him, Dad. Grandfather always takes the same trails. I'm sure there is a logical reason for him to be late."
"Logical? I doubt that. The man is a stubborn old cuss." Her father's back was to her as he looked out the kitchen window towards the path that her grandfather should have emerged from days ago.
"Too stubborn to die. I'll find him." At least she hoped he was and that she could. Her grandfather was never late. Never.
"I should be going instead of you." Her dad ran his hands through his hair and spun from the window.
"I can't fix the tractor or handle the chores that need to be done before the harvest. It is best if I go. Besides, what would I do here alone if Ricardo came back?”
Her father turned back to look out the window. "Let's get the pack loaded." Her dad marched into the small living room, but not before Lyric saw the worry etched in his face.
She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for her grandfather and for her father. The two men in her life depended on each other although neither would admit it.
Her father called from the back of the house. "Where did you put the bandages? And rubbing alcohol?" Doors slammed shut.
"I'm coming!" Lyric turned on her heel and headed to the back room before her father pulled everything out of the cupboards.
Lyric swung her braid off her shoulder as she moved along a trail that rose into the Andes. Every year at this time, Grandpa made this trip to the shrine he had erected to his beloved wife of twenty years. He'd also inscribed the names of his children as they died. Her mother had been the last of his children. If he wasn't back, something bad had happened. Lyric and her father had accompanied him, and she knew the way...basically. Did she regret not paying more attention to the route? Hell, yes. She grabbed the water bottle out of the side pouch of her heavy backpack and took a long drink. There was a stream near the small shrine. She co
uld refill her bottle and use the water purification tablets she carried when she reached her destination. She mopped her face and throat with the small towel she used to protect the back of her neck while she walked.
Her father had insisted she take the pistol with her. It hung off her hip in its holster. She'd learned how to shoot out of necessity. Snakes, especially rattlesnakes, roamed the foothills as freely as the human predators that populated the Andes. Lyric learned to shoot so she could protect herself and had no problem carrying the weapon. Her concern was leaving her father with only a rifle. Normally when they were out harvesting, he carried the pistol and responded if the need arose. Unfortunately, until recently it had been necessary to remain armed in case factions of the FARC demanded taxation. Lyric stepped out from the shade of the tree she rested under and headed up the steep incline. She struggled up the loose dirt and gazed down the drop off. Her grandfather was part mountain goat, but still, she worried that he'd missed a step and fallen. She kept her eyes active as she headed further up into the foothills.
She would have to make camp soon. It took two days to reach the shrine, although with as far as she'd traveled today, she might reach her destination by early tomorrow afternoon. Without the assistance of the sun, gathering firewood for the night would be impossible, so she found a flat spot along the trail and set up camp. With the worry that assailed her, she dreaded the long hours of darkness and the sleepless night yet to come. She built her fire, cleared the area and set up her small camp. Living in Jacksonville, Florida had not equipped her for roughing it in Colombia. It was her grandfather who taught her how to survive. The ten years she'd spent with him had taught her many things—survival being the most important of those lessons. As a protection from the insects the fire would attract, she wrapped a lightweight shirt around herself and sat back against the trunk of a fallen tree. The music of the night floated around her. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, magnified the worry that floated unchecked through her mind. As much as she tried to block the thoughts, the worst-case scenarios played like a movie on repeat in her brain.
To combat the runaway doomsday thoughts, she pulled out a book she hadn't read. Her father had ordered it for her—reason enough to cherish it, whatever the story. Lyric hadn't been the best student while in school. Hell, that was an outright lie. She’d run wild and barely managed to pass her classes. It was after they moved to Colombia that her mother had taught her to love a good book. Her mother said even if her body was stuck in Colombia, there were no barriers to where a book could take her mind. Lyric opened the cover and caressed the clean linen pages. The simple act reminded her of her mom. Leaning next to the firelight, her mind fell into the marvelous world of words, because according to the first line, "It was the best of times..."
The terrain had changed since she'd last made this trek. Bushes that lined the path were larger, and the walkway wasn't as wide as Lyric remembered it. The trail crumbled into nothing, forcing her to leap over the breaks that punctuated the now treacherous way up the hill. She crested the ridge and gazed into the small valley below. Trees covered a vast portion of the valley, and there was no campfire evident. Lyric deflated. For some reason, she'd hoped she’d notice her grandfather's presence immediately. With each step she took down the steep slope, she reminded herself the trees could be hiding him.
She trudged straight across the meadow toward the face of granite where her grandfather had carved his love's name into the rock. Her grandparents had buried three sons, all lost to the FARC and then shipped away their only daughter, Lyric's mother, to America to keep her safe. After all the death and tragedy, this valley became their haven, the place where she, her father and her grandfather spent one week every year, the one place in the world where war, worries, and pain couldn't reach them. This valley was a sanctuary, and Lyric prayed it had kept her grandfather safe.
Saplings and flowering marmalade bushes populated the small meadow. The flowers, a mixture of yellow and shades of orange, blossomed almost year-round and provided an abundant natural habitat for butterflies and birds. Lyric noted them in passing, but she didn't have time to admire their beauty. Bent under the weighty and cumbersome backpack, she jogged across the meadow floor toward the shrine. When her father had helped her prepare the pack, they had no idea what she would find, and it was laden with medical supplies and some food in case her grandfather needed it. She gladly shouldered the heavy pack. Her breath caught in her chest as she hit the rock ledge leading to the shrine. Her leg muscles strained. The weight on her back was as heavy as the worry in her heart. Lyric dug down and found the strength to push herself harder.
She reached the small shrine, nothing more than carved words and a cross chiseled in the stone face of the mountain. There was recent evidence her grandfather had been there. Several days’ worth of ashes remained in the small rock-ringed fire pit off to the side. Shouldering the heavy backpack, her center of gravity shifted when she bent down and threaded her fingers through the fine ash. The movement overbalanced her, and she barely caught herself from planting face first into the dirt.
No hot coals or lingering warmth remained in the feather soft ashes—only the faint smell of wood smoke. She clutched a handful of ashes and closed her eyes, as disappointment and despair fought for dominance. Had she missed him? She'd been careful, but fast. Could she have missed where he went off the trail? Had he used the trail, or had he taken another route back? Where was he? Her mind whirled as she pushed up and spun around, visually examining the area for any clue as to where her grandfather had gone.
"It took you long enough. If I were hurt or dying..."
Chapter 6
At her grandfather’s words, Lyric spun, made clumsy by the backpack. Immediate relief filled her heart as she lunged towards him with a shriek of happiness. "Why didn't you come back?"
His strong, able arms surrounded her and held her tight. "There were reasons. What have you brought?" He grabbed the top handle of her backpack and, after she unbuckled her waist strap, helped her free of the shoulder straps.
"Food, medicine, bandages, a little bit of everything. We didn't know what had happened to you." She waited until he had set down the pack before she caught his arm and made him look at her. "Tell me, why didn't you come back? You had to know we'd be worried."
"I did know you would worry. I was counting on it." His eyes searched the meadow before he picked up the pack. "Come with me."
Lyric sent a furtive glance around the area, the same way her grandfather had, only she had no idea what led him to look so worried. "Grandpa, is everything okay?" Horrible thoughts erupted again. The visceral sensation something was very wrong grabbed her and pinned her with unyielding tenacity.
He lifted his weathered hand and put his finger to his lips silencing her. He made a beckoning motion and disappeared behind a marmalade bush. Lyric hesitated for a microsecond before she pushed the branches aside and followed him.
A two-foot-wide clearing opened up, leading into what appeared to be a cave. She hated caves. Caves had spiders and snakes and animals. And bats. Shit, shit, shit. She hated bats. Not that she'd ever seen one, but she had memories of a horrible television show where bats had attacked a woman. No, she wanted nothing to do with bats. While she was more willing to face the animals, the ones that lived in caves could probably kill her. No, she really didn't want to meet them on their home ground, in a cave. In the dark.
Rather than follow her grandfather into the back hole in the rock, she squatted down and peered into the darkness. A small fire deeper in the cave threw a faint glow on the walls of stone a few steps into the opening. If there was a fire, where was the smoke? She popped up, no longer encumbered by the pack, and scanned the rock above the cave. There had to be a fissure which allowed the smoke to dissipate and escape. Well, fire meant no bats, or at least she assumed that's what it meant. Right?
Her grandfather put the backpack down and walked to his left and out of her view. Dammit. She gritted her teeth a
nd stood, only to duck low through the entrance and remain bent as she moved deeper into the cave. The ceiling lifted as she approached the fire. Her eyes tracked her grandfather's movements. She gasped at the sight of her grandfather on his knees beside a huge man lying on her grandfather's blanket. His hair was dark brown, and he was unnaturally pale beneath his full beard. Lyric shuffled over as her grandfather took a cloth out of a square camp container and wrung it out, wiping a film of perspiration off the man's face and neck.
"I watched him." Her grandfather dipped the cloth again and wiped the man's parched lips. "He half fell, half slid down the slope near the trail’s head. I could tell he'd been injured. I waited." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "He could have been FARC." His hand dipped in the water again, and he repeated the process. "He could have given up at the bottom of the hill. He did not. He pulled himself into the cave. Propped himself up and aimed his rifle out the opening. I watched for an hour, maybe more. I heard someone walking above. There were words. My ears aren't so good anymore. I don't know what was said. I came into the cave. This one, he's unconscious. His wound...filthy. He needed stitches." He shrugged again. "I could not leave him to die."
"This man is why you didn't come back?" Lyric sank to the ground beside her grandfather.
He nodded. "What else would you have me do?"
His eyes turned toward her, and she smiled and shook her head. "Nothing else, Grandpa." Turning, Lyric rose to her feet and walked to the fire. She dropped a small log from the substantial stack someone, probably her grandfather, had placed alongside the wall before she once again tugged the heavy pack onto her shoulder and carried it to her grandfather. "He needs fresh dressings. I can clean the wounds. Has he regained consciousness?"
"No." He shrugged again. "He mumbles. In English, in Spanish and in languages I don't know."
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