“Goddamn it!” He clutched the dashboard for support, and let the gun drop into his lap. Running his hand over his wet face, he sluiced away what water he could. Lora didn’t even look at him as some of the droplets struck her arms and neck. She was so wet already, she couldn’t get any wetter.
They drove that way for perhaps fifteen minutes, while Lora grew clammier and clammier. He shut off the air conditioner, but that wasn’t much help. He must have been as cold and uncomfortable as she was, because finally, with a muffled growl, he reached over and flicked on the heater. A musty smell was the only tangible result. Lora waited vainly for some evidence that the car was getting warmer, but if it was she couldn’t tell.
“Pull over,” he ordered moments later, sounding fed up to his back teeth. Lora cast him a quick look. For some reason the black scowl that greeted her was almost reassuring. He nearly always looked like that; she imagined that, if he was planning to kill her for her temerity in making him get wet, he would wear quite a different expression.
When she had done as he ordered, he reached out to grab her roughly by the arm and leaned forward so that his face was only inches away. Lora was very conscious of the rough masculinity of him as he loomed so near. She stared at him wide-eyed, and tried not to wonder how the bristle on his chin would feel against her skin. . . .
“If I’m not mistaken, there’s an ejido—a cooperative farm—down that track,” he said with a jerk of his head in the direction he meant. “We’re going to drive down there, and if they’ll have us we’re going to spend what’s left of the night. You’re my wife, and I’m Brian Harding. Have you got that?”
Lora stared at him, then nodded jerkily. She wasn’t sure, but she thought that this new arrangement might be something that could be turned to her advantage. If they were to be in the company of other people, surely she would have the opportunity to acquaint them with her plight. . . .
“If you try anything,” his voice lowered, became the menacing growl he had used when he had first abducted her, “if you try anything, so help me God, I’ll kill you and them too. Understand me?”
He meant it. Lora’s eyes widened as she registered that, and she shrank as far away from him as she could in the close confines of the car. She was no longer even remotely curious about how his unshaven chin would feel. He was an animal, a murderous brute, and she had temporarily allowed herself to forget that fact. How could she have felt even briefly attracted to him?
“Good.” Her shrinking must have told him all he wanted to know, because he nodded as if satisfied. With a gesture he ordered her to start the car again. She did, and at his direction turned left onto a gravel track, only the track seemed to be more mud than gravel.
They had gone only a little way before the car plowed to a halt. Lora hit the accelerator, but the only response was the sound of spinning wheels. They were stuck in the mud. Lora licked her lips, and looked nervously over at her captor, who was scowling.
“Hell, what next?” The hand on the gun tightened, and Lora shrank back toward the door.
“I couldn’t help it!” she protested hurriedly, and his scowl intensified.
“Did I say you could?” He reached toward her, and she shrank even further, but he only turned off the ignition and removed the keys, putting them in his pocket.
“So we walk,” he said, leaning over again to open her door and push her out into the rain. Lora tumbled out, instinctively grabbing for her purse, nearly falling in the mud surrounding the car as he pulled the door closed again. She heard the faint click as he locked it after her. Then, before she even had time to think of trying to run, he was out of the car and closing the door behind him. The soaked and useless sombrero was plopped on his head, and the sarape was once again folded over his arm and hand to protect the gun.
“Come on.” He was beside her now, catching her arm in that same rough grasp and propelling her through the downpour. She struggled through ankle-deep mud as they waded down the track toward a cluster of low, dark buildings that were just visible through the pouring rain. Would the people here help her? she wondered as they slogged ever closer to the quiet houses. Did she dare even ask for help? She cast a scared glance up at the man who was dragging her along beside him like a recalcitrant dog on a leash. The answer was: she just didn’t know.
IV
After their initial surprise and wariness at being disturbed in the middle of the night by gringo strangers was soothed by her captor’s glib explanation—he spoke functional Spanish, of which Lora understood no more than two words in a hundred—and some of her own cash, which she was slightly affronted to watch him fish out of his pocket and hand out so liberally, their impromptu hosts were hospitality itself. Her captor’s sombrero was taken from him—he smilingly rejected all attempts to remove the sarape, too—and both he and Lora were exclaimed over as they were ushered inside the small, cinderblock dwelling.
The middle-aged farmer whose house it apparently was introduced himself as Carlos Rodriguez as he put down the ancient rifle with which he had greeted them and tugged self-consciously on the obviously hastily donned trousers which were his only garment. A slender, black-plaited young girl with a woven blanket draped over his shoulders to cover her nightgown regarded them with unblinking black eyes from behind Carlos’s beefy shoulder. If Lora correctly understood one of the few words that had meaning for her in the reciprocal torrent of Spanish, this was Carlos’s wife, Juana. A tiny, wizened old woman addressed by both Rodriguez and his wife as Mamacita peered at them from the depths of a large iron bedstead in one corner of the single room that made up the lower level of the house. Three big-eyed children snuggled on either side of Mamacita, goggling at the newcomers from beneath the protection of bedcoverings. The single electric bulb dangling from a cord in the center of the ceiling cast a dim light over what, as far as Lora could tell, was an immaculate, if shabby, dwelling. Her abductor, whose supposedly loving arm hugged her shoulders while the gun nuzzled her rib cage beneath the sheltering sarape, soon seemed to be on the easiest of terms with the entire family.
“Veni, señor y señora Harding.” With a beckoning gesture, Juana at last led the way to a ladder set into the wall at the back of the room. Lora’s psuedo-husband followed, bringing Lora with him.
After one swift, despairing look around as he stood aside for her to precede him, Lora climbed the ladder, a trifle awkwardly because of the encumbrance of her purse, which she clutched in one hand. There was clearly no help for her here. To begin with, none of these people seemed to speak a word of English. And even if they had, she could not bring herself to put them in danger. If anything went wrong, her captor might very well kill them all, children included, to save himself from whoever or whatever he was running from. He could not take them all captive, not if he meant to travel. And she certainly didn’t think that he would leave witnesses behind to contact the police. She doubted that they could help her anyway. Rodriguez was a farmer, not a fighter, and even with his ancient rifle he was no match for the hard brutality of the man who was even now climbing the ladder below her.
Lora clambered off the ladder through an open trapdoor to find herself on her hands and knees in what seemed to be a loft. She could not be sure because the only light came from the room below. Except for the area just around the opening, the room was pitch dark. Cautiously, Lora stayed within the perimeter of light as her captor’s head and shoulders appeared through the opening. Bracing his hands on the floor, he hoisted himself up beside her. Juana called out something, and he dropped the sarape and thrust the gun into his waistband before reaching down through the opening to emerge holding a smoking kerosene lantern. Like Lora, he was on his hands and knees; he sank back on his haunches and held up the lantern to survey the space in which they found themselves.
The floor was made of rough wood planks. The thatched roof angled down on both sides so that only in the very center could a person stand upright. A painted iron bedstead like the one below stood in the middle of
the room. Near its foot was a battered tin pail into which a steady series of drips fell with rhythmic plops. The windowless room had a close, musty odor that was not helped by the smell of burning kerosene. Lora felt a sudden surge of nausea and grimaced. Of course she felt sick, and it wasn’t just the smell. She hadn’t eaten a thing in nearly twelve hours.
He scooped up the pistol and dripping sarape as he stood, stooping in the space that had never been intended to accommodate someone of his height. Walking over to the bed, he set the lantern and pistol down on a small table beside it, and draped the sarape over the back of the single straight-backed chair. “You did very well, wife,” he said with a flickering smile as he turned up the wick so that every corner of the small room was illuminated. “Keep that up and we’ll get along fine.” Then he turned to look at her. Lora, still on her hands and knees beside the opening, regarded him warily. She was at his mercy—and she didn’t like the looks of that bed.
“Hungry?”
Lora nodded, her eyes never leaving him as she contemplated her situation. Would he dare try to rape her with the entire Rodriguez family right below? With another long look at him, Lora thought, Yes, he’d dare.
“The price of a night’s stay also included a meal. Señora Rodriguez is probably preparing it now. In the meantime, I suggest you get out of those wet clothes and into bed. We’ve turned the Rodriguez couple out of what is obviously their love nest, so we may as well enjoy it.”
“I—I’m fine,” Lora stuttered, her eyes widening. Did he mean what she feared he did by that last? Determinedly, she ignored the chills that were running up and down her spine. She was soaked to the skin, her hair sending icy streamers of water down her neck, her dress clinging clammily to her goose-bump-riddled body. Even her sandals were miserably awash with mud and water, and slid uncomfortably around on her feet. Every cell in her body longed to be out of the wet, filthy clothes—except those in her brain. They shrieked at her to remain fully dressed at all cost. Love nest, indeed!
“What do you mean, you’re fine? Thanks to your idiocy, we’re both as wet as a pair of fish. I’m going to strip off, and if you have any sense you will, too.” He looked very big and intimidating as he stood eyeing her from beneath scowling brows. The effect was in no way mitigated by the forced bowing of his head in deference to the low roof. Lora sidled back toward the trapdoor, which was still open. If it actually came down to attempted rape, she would scream like a banshee and let the chips fall were they would.
He still stood near the foot of the bed, looking big and dark and frightening as he waited for her reply. The lantern cast weird shadows over his face making him look like some evil demon risen from the netherworld to terrorize her. His black brows were drawn together over glittering eyes that were no less dark. His mouth was compressed grimly beneath the mustache that was just what was needed to make him look the part of a desperate criminal. The square, unshaven jaw and gleaming wet black hair, the height of him and breadth of his shoulders, the length and strength of his limbs all combined with the knowledge that she was his helpless prisoner to scare her through to the very marrow of her bones.
“Are you going to get undressed or not?” He was regarding her in a way that made Lora feel sick. His hands hung loose and flexed at his sides. Any minute now he would come across the room and grab her, she thought, and she would scream because she would not be able to help it and the innocent Mexican family downstairs would come tumbling up the ladder to see what ailed their guests and they would all, herself included, likely end up dead. . . .
“No.” Her voice was hoarse with dread. This is where he came storming across the room to rip the clothes from her shrinking body. . . .
“Suit yourself, then,” he said, turning his back on her. “If you want to sit around freezing in wet clothes, it’s no skin off my back.” And with that he started to unbutton his shirt.
Lora didn’t know whether to feel relieved or freshly alarmed. She watched, both frightened and fascinated, as he stripped off his shirt to reveal those massive shoulders and that lean, muscular back. His skin gleamed in the lamplight like bronze silk. The muscles underneath rippled as he moved . . . His hands were on the narrow leather thong that served him as a belt, pulling it free, and Lora understood that he meant to take off his clothes with as little regard for her presence as if she had not been there at all. She stared, unable to look away as he kicked the silver and maroon running shoes from his feet and then pushed his jeans down over thighs and calves that were dark with hair and ridged with muscle. Clad only in a pair of white jockey shorts that seemed to be as wet as the rest of his clothes from the way they molded every hard curve and shadowed indention in his rump, he sat down on the bed to remove his white athletic socks. Lora watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles in his arms and chest as he bared long, narrow brown feet. That done, he stood up again, holding his socks in one hand as he gathered the rest of his clothes from the floor and spread them carefully over the iron footboard to dry. As he moved, Lora saw the spiderweb design of silvery white scars that marred the front of his right knee. So that was the reason for his limp. She didn’t think she had kicked him that hard . . . If Lora thought the underpants revealed his backside, it was nothing to what they did to his front. She looked at the soft bulge beneath the doubled material of his fly, then kept on looking because she couldn’t help herself.
“Señor! Señora!” The voice from below brought Lora back to reality with a jerk. She blinked, and felt her face color hotly. Thank the Lord that Señora Rodriguez had interrupted when she had, before he had seen the fascination that must have been written all too plainly on her face. What was the matter with her, that she could find such a man sexually exciting? That was the question that plagued her as she wet her embarrassingly dry lips and, in response to his gesture, leaned down through the trapdoor to answer Señora Rodriguez’s call.
The Mexican woman handed up two chipped crockery plates filled with a steamy concoction of beans and tortillas, the scent of which made Lora’s mouth water, a bottle and glasses, and two rough towels.
As Lora took the provisions and set them on the floor next to her purse, she realized that this might be her only chance to alert her hosts to her predicament. Perhaps Señor Rodriguez could summon the police while her captor slept, and he would be captured and she freed by morning. Throwing a quick, nervous look over her shoulder, she saw that he was occupied with dragging a blanket from the bed, his back to her. She leaned down through the opening again, her eyes fixed pleadingly on the other woman’s face as she tried to remember enough Spanish to ask for help.
“Aidez-moi.” Drat, that was French. Why hadn’t she studied Spanish in school instead? French had never done her a lick of good, and now her lack of Spanish might very well end up costing her her life. Señora Rodriguez was staring up at her with a slight frown wrinkling her brow. She obviously had not the slightest inkling of what Lora was trying to say.
“Como dice?” The question sounded puzzled. Lora abandoned her attempt to find the right Spanish phrase. She leaned further out of the opening, her voice hoarse with urgency as she whispered.
“I need help. Please. You must fetch—” She had been going to say la policía, one of the few Spanish words she knew, but was stopped in midsentence by a rough hand closing around the nape of her neck.
Lora cast a single, terrified look back at her captor as his steel-like fingers threatened to crush the vertebrae in the back of her neck. She couldn’t move, couldn’t utter a sound, and didn’t know if it was from fear or from some kung fu hold that he was using on her. He drew her inexorably backward, then leaned forward, a smile on his face, to speak to Señora Rodriguez.
“Perdóname, Señor Harding, no entiendo la señora . . . ” Señora Rodriguez began, an apologetic smile on her smooth young face.
“No es importa,” he answered, smiling. Lora was amazed at the charm he could put into his voice and face as he continued soothingly. The only other phrase Lora caught was
something about mi esposa, which she knew meant wife and guessed referred to herself. She could have sworn that he had not a trouble in the world as he concluded with, “Buenas noches, señora, y muchas gracias.”
“De nada, señor. Buenas noches, señor y señora Harding.” He had apparently managed to allay any slight puzzlement she might have aroused in Señora Rodriguez, because the woman walked away from the ladder without a backward look. He bent, never letting go of Lora’s neck, and closed the trapdoor very gently. Then he straightened and turned to look at her. Despite her chilled state, Lora felt sweat break out all over her at the look in his eyes.
V
“You don’t learn very fast, do you?”
She was still on her knees with his hand on her neck forcing her head back so that she had to look up at him. He loomed over her, the striped blanket he had wrapped around himself to speak with Señora Rodriguez dropping from his shoulders so that he was once again clad only in his underpants. His body was huge and dark-furred and menacing, and his eyes glittered fiercely in the harshly carved face. Combined with the strength of the steely fingers that threatened to snap her neck, the homicidal look in his eyes terrified the wits out of her. The soft voice which had put the question to her only intensified her fear. She sat dumbly, quivering from head to toe as she stared up at him. At her lack of reply, his fingers tightened cruelly on her neck. Lora’s hands half rose to grasp his arm in an instinctive effort to free herself of the excruciating grip, but something warned her that any resistance on her part now would be a grave mistake.
Wild Orchids Page 5