by Jill Barnett
“Is there any shelter nearby?” She was swiping at the rain, which flattened her hair and ran down her face.
“We need to get to higher ground,” he told her as he grabbed her arm.
He took off, pulling her with him. Ahead of them were the lower foothills, crags of rock, gravel, and crusty dirt sitting at the base of the mountains.
They needed to move fast.
It was pouring so hard now that it was raining in torrents that turned the ground to a thick, pastelike mud; it was like running through quicksand—two steps and you sank past your ankle.
He dragged her up a rocky hill so crusty half of the ground crumbled away whenever they stepped on it. Water was beginning to form muddy rivers, and it rushed at his feet and down the hillside, taking the loose silt like dirt with it.
“Wait!” she shouted and stopped. “Do you hear that?”
“I hear the rain.”
“No. Listen. Is it thunder?”
There was a distant rumble, like thunder, but it wasn’t coming from the sky; it was coming from the ground. He turned around in the direction of the fast-moving storm. It looked like the gray clouds were on the ground. He swore.
“What is it?”
“Flash flood! Run! Just run!” He almost dragged her up the hillside, climbing higher. The hillside was crumbling away from under them. He tried to find solid rock and scrambled up, pulling her with him, ridge after ridge.
He wedged his leg and hip between huge rocks just as the ground below them fell away.
She slipped with it and screamed his name.
“I’ve got you.” He pulled her up by the wrists.
She was crying and almost fell again, but he grabbed her and shoved her in front of him. “Move your feet! Climb, Kincaid. Dammit, climb!” He shoved her up and over the edge of a jagged outcropping, then pulled himself up. “Crawl forward! Away from the edge!” He looked back. “Go! Here it comes!”
He pulled her against him and wedged in between two rocks, his feet braced against them. He locked his hands together and kept her pressed against him. “We’ll make it, Kincaid! Hang on to me, brace your feet, and don’t let go!”
You could hear the roar of water coming, loud, almost like ocean waves. The ground shook and rocks crumbled past them. He looked toward the sound just as a wall of brown water slammed into them.
Water rushed over his head against the rocks. She was choking.
All he could do was hold on to her, press his boots into the rock, and try to keep them from being swept away. The floodwater tore shallow-rooted bushes from the ground. They scratched at his cheeks, his face, but he forced her head down to keep her protected.
It felt like it lasted forever, waves of water that gave them a moment to catch a breath before hitting them again and slamming him against the rocks; it was like being beaten with boulders.
The water stopped, leveled out, and subsided, washing down the hills. But the rain didn’t stop. The rocks gave them some shelter.
“You okay, Kincaid?”
She stirred, lifted her head, and pushed away from him. “Is it over?”
“I think we’re okay.”
“A-okay?”
“No. I’m not making that mistake again. We might have an earthquake next.”
She gave a short laugh, but then stopped when the wind picked up and rain blew against them.
“Get comfortable, sweetheart. We’re staying put.”
They shifted positions so she was sitting between his legs again, her back against his chest. He locked his arms around her waist.
Cold, driving rain came down for the rest of the day and into the night. They stayed on the ledge, because it was the only place he felt the ground would hold. Water rushed over and around them, stung their faces when the wind turned bitterly wild.
They had to move positions twice for some kind of protection when the rain became gusts of water or drenching showers. Puddles formed around their bodies, and soon they were sleeping in a bed of sticky dark mud. He wondered if she were right, if perhaps someone did have it in for them.
Driving clouds obscured the sky, and little gusts of rain pattered against the rocks. The steady drumming of rain lulled you to sleep, only to be woken by the howling wind.
He woke up for the tenth time, checked his watch. It was 0300. Their bodies together gave off some welcome warmth, but his left leg was asleep. He shifted positions. She murmured something into his chest. He looked down at her and brushed the hair out of her face. Her breathing was even and her eyes were closed.
Even soaking wet, with her face sunburned and mud splattered over it, she was a looker. Her dress was soaked and melted against her thighs. She had great legs and all the right curves.
But then, so did a thousand women. And he had watched women all his life. Found them fascinating creatures. Walking, talking contradictions. So many of the ones who were knockouts used their looks like a Howitzer, blowing through platoons of men who never knew what hit ’em until it was too late.
But Kincaid was blind. Looks were no weapon with her. If there was anything she wielded, it was her damned honesty. And funny thing, he could respect that.
He was alone with a soft woman in his arms and he was thinking about her mind, instead of her tits. He stared at her for a full minute and felt a sudden rush of vitality, a high, a buzzing, like he’d drunk half a bottle of 100-proof Smirnoff.
Shit . . . . He had it bad.
“IN THE MIDDLE OF A KISS’’
A sound woke her up. Kitty grabbed J.R.’s shoulders and shook the heck out of him. “Cassidy! Wake up! I hear a plane!”
He sat up, blinking, then shook his head. “What?”
“I hear a plane. Listen.”
“A plane?” He shoved her aside and stood up.
“Can you see it?”
“No, but the sky’s clear. Blue as all get-out. Damn, where are my binoculars? Shit, forget the binoculars.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Quick! Give me your slip.” Before she could reach for it, he jerked it out of her belt. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’m climbing up on the rocks so I can wave this at them.”
She heard the scratching of his boots on the rocks; then his body blocked out some of the sun. “Can you see the plane yet?”
“No.”
“I hear it from over there.” She pointed.
“Yeah, there it is. It’s coming from the west. It looks like they’re not flying right over us. They’re headed south and not close. Come on, you idiots! Look over here! Shit!” He paused. “Waving this at them won’t work. Come here, Kincaid. Quick!”
She stepped toward his voice. He was squatting on the top of the rock. She felt his hand on her shoulder. She held out her hand for him, and he pulled her closer against the rock, which was almost as tall as she was. She heard the click of his lighter.
“Help me blow on it, Kincaid. To get it smoking. It’s on this boulder at twelve o’clock about a foot away from your chin.”
She could hear him huffing and puffing on it and leaned over and joined in.
“Come on! Harder, Kincaid. Harder! It’s starting to smoke.”
“I can smell it!” She kept blowing at it, and inhaling the smoke, so she had to turn her head away to inhale.
“Don’t stop!”
She didn’t. She blew and blew until she was getting light-headed and flashes of light swam before her blurred vision.
He swore again.
She kept blowing.
“You can stop now.” She heard him exhale. He sounded disgusted. “It’s too far away. They didn’t see us.”
“Are you sure?”
“They would have circled back.”
She sagged against the boulder. “Seeing a plane must mean we’re close to something.”
“I hate to point this out to you, sweetheart, but we were in a plane and not close to anything but sand and desert and the damned flies.”
“Could you tell what kind of plane it
was?”
“I’m looking at it through the binoculars right now. It’s flying into the sun. I can’t tell what the hell it is.”
She waited.
He jumped down from the rock. “It’s gone.”
“So now what?”
“We gather our stuff and climb over these mountains. I can see a pass ahead in the distance. It’s not that far. We’ll see where it leads. Maybe if we’re lucky the coast will be on the other side of these mountains.”
She couldn’t smell the sea, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
“The good news is, with all that rain we have a full canteen. You thirsty?”
She took a drink. It tasted so much better than that tinny, salty, well water. “That tastes so good. I swear that well water was like drinking the Pacific Ocean, during the red tide.” She handed him the canteen and heard him take a drink.
“Water is water, but you’re right. After the well water, this tastes almost as good as a beer.”
“I’d love a beer. A cold, icy beer.”
“When we get out of here, Kincaid, a beer’s the first thing I’ll buy you. All the beer you want.”
“And a hot dog. With mustard, onions and sauerkraut.”
“Why do you women talk about food all the time?”
“Women don’t talk about food all the time.”
“You were just talking about hot dogs. And then there’s your reaction to that chocolate bar. It was a candy bar, not a Studebaker. Ever since I was a kid, whenever my mother and my aunts would get together in a room, all they could talk about was food.”
“I’m certain they were only sharing recipes.”
He laughed. “I doubt that. My mother has never cooked a day in her life.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, I like to fantasize. It gives me something to walk toward. Like the idea of a long bath. I’m going to sit in the tub until my skin is as wrinkled as a prune. How ‘bout you? If you could be anywhere right now, doing anything at all, what would it be?”
“Me?” He turned back at her. “I’d be sailing in Narragansett Bay. Near Newport.”
“I thought you had a Rhode Island accent.”
“What ah you tahking about? We don’t hahve ah ahccent.”
She burst out laughing.
Four hours later, however, nothing was funny anymore. She was feeling the strain of the walk, the strain of everything. At the summit, there had been thick slabs of ice on the rocks, but the air wasn’t unbearably cold, because the sun was out. However, the ice was melting and slick. She had trouble walking.
But the worst section to cross was the pass, where there were rocks everywhere. She knew she slowed him down. She’d slipped and stumbled almost every other step, until they figured out a routine. He would climb down the rock. She would slide down and into his arms and he’d set her on the next one.
Her arms were scratched, and she felt bruised all over, but her butt was the worst. Silently, she kept going, until she felt as if her legs were made of rubber and she had to say something. “Can we stop for a minute?”
“We can, but we’re only about a hundred yards from the end of the pass. That’s not much farther.”
“Okay. Let’s go on.”
For the next five minutes he held on to her arm, at least until they left the rocks and hit more solid ground, which was muddy and sticky from last night’s rain and sucked at her shoes.
“You can stop. We’re on the other side.”
“Can you see the coast? What do you see?”
He didn’t say a word, and that was more telling than anything.
“Cassidy. Please. Tell me what you see.”
“Desert. More goddamned desert. There’s no coast in sight.”
She swore.
“Before you give up, I’m using the binoculars.”
“Do you see anything?”
“Yeah. I see something in the distance.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to focus. The terrain and the sun can play havoc with your eyes.” He paused, then said, “Interesting.”
“What?”
“I think I see a road.” He faced her when he spoke. “Don’t get too excited. It could be a mirage. We’ll rest here and then move on. Here’s the canteen.”
She drank and handed it back. “I’m starving.”
He laughed. “See? You bring up food.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Cassidy, we’re lost and close to starving. Even you have to be hungry.”
“Yeah, I am. I’d guess you’ve changed your tune and that snake or a squirrel would taste pretty good right now.”
“Anything would taste good right now. I swallowed a fly a little while ago and didn’t even gag.”
“If you keep walking with your mouth open, Kincaid, you might not be hungry anymore.”
She groaned. “I’m not quite that desperate. Do you think there’s any nutritional value in a fly?”
“Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and come across another snake.”
“Never in my life did I think I’d be looking forward to coming face-to-face with a snake.”
“You ready?”
“Sure.” He took her hand and they did what they’d been doing for days. They walked across the desert in the hot sun and the great silence. They didn’t talk much. She just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and figured he was doing the same.
He stopped and handed her the canteen. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
He took the canteen back and clipped it to his belt. “Good, then let’s pick it up. We’re not that far away. From what I can see, it still looks like a road to me.”
His steps picked up, and she stayed with him, until they were almost running. But the ground was hard and flat and she didn’t care. “Can you see it?”
“Yeah. Come on.” He pulled her with him; then a few minutes later he stopped so suddenly she almost ran into him.
“What is it?”
He said nothing.
“Dammit, Cassidy. Tell me why you stopped.”
“Here. Take about four steps.” There was a smile in his voice. “Feel that.” He placed her hand on a hot stone the size of a cantaloupe that was level with her waist.
“You know what that is?”
She brought her other hand over and felt up and down the pile of tall round rocks. “It’s a marker?” She moved her hands over it quickly. There were smooth spots that felt like paint. “One of those desert road markers, the kind made of stones?”
“You got it, and it says, ‘Cairo, four hundred twenty-three kilometers.
“Egypt? We’re in Egypt?”
“Or near the Libyan border. The road looks like it’s headed northeast.”
She started laughing. “We made it!”
“Yeah, Kincaid, it looks like we did.” He grabbed her and spun her around again like he had before, but this time she didn’t tell him to put her down. All she could do was hold on to his shoulders and laugh.
He stopped spinning with her and slowly set her onto the ground. “We’ve still got a long walk.”
“I don’t care. At least I know we’re headed somewhere.”
“We were headed somewhere before. We just didn’t have a clue where.”
She placed her hands on his scratchy, stubbled cheeks and stood on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. “Thank you, Cassidy. Thank you, so much.”
He didn’t say anything. Next she felt his hand slide to the back of her head, his other hand around her waist. He kissed her, and not a quick smack on the lips.
She moved her hands to his shoulders, then one hand to his neck as he pulled her hard against him and separated her mouth with his tongue.
Is this crazy?
She didn’t care. She just kissed him back, the two of them standing there together under the hot sun, hands everywhere, petting as if they were standing on a front p
orch back home.
She heard something, or thought she did, a distant sound, then one she recognized: the same rattle-slap noise she’d heard in the marketplace—rifles going from shoulder to hand.
“Achtung!”
Cassidy broke off the kiss and swore under his breath.
“Nicht bewegen!”
“Ja! You two. Do not move!”
“You know, Kincaid, looks like you might just get that hot dog . . . or at least the sauerkraut.”
“MACHEN WIR’S DEN SCHWALBEN NACH”
Rheinholdt was examining the contents of a mortar crate when he heard a commotion. He straightened and turned to see three of his men leading a man and a woman toward him at gunpoint. They looked as if they had been in the desert for days.
“We found them while patrolling the road, Herr Leutnant. Engländers.”
Rheinholdt faced the couple. “What is this? You are English?” He used their language.
“No. American.” The man grasped the woman’s hand. “My wife and I were in a small plane. We flew into a storm. The plane went down in the desert. Southwest of here. We’ve been walking for four days.”
“They have no papers, Herr Leutnant,” Dietrich said.
The man turned to Dietrich. “We barely got out of that plane.”
Rheinholdt observed in silence. He saw that the woman stared at him with an oddly blank look in her pale eyes. She wasn’t looking directly at him, but past him. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder.
“My wife is blind.”
Rheinholdt turned back and studied the man who was looking at him so grimly. He had a thick dark beard, a few days old, and hair that was golden blond like his own. His skin was as burned by the sun as any one of them.
It was odd, because his clothes looked military-issue. However, he knew pilots wore jumpsuits and boots. The man wore no chain around his neck for military identification tags. The woman was quite pretty, with hair true black and light blue eyes. Her skin was uncomfortably red, and she was in a ragged, filthy dress that was the style Heddy would wear out to lunch. She wore broken shoes. But somehow she did not look broken.
He felt something like sorrow—he knew it wasn’t pity—when he looked at her. It wasn’t her affliction that made him feel something like compassion toward her. It wasn’t even that she looked as if she’d been dragged here through miles of desert. There was something about the way she stood, this woman, in a place where you seldom saw women, that made him remember a courtesy too easily forgotten in a desert post comprised of men.