Dangerous Pursuit (The Protectors)

by Margaret Daley

  “You seem to have everything else in that bag of yours. Do you have anything to eat until we stop for the night?” Brock asked.

  “I thought you were the one who was always prepared.”

  “There’s a limit, even to my abilities." One corner of his mouth quirked up.

  As they walked to the raft, in her mind Samantha went over the contents of her tote bag and suddenly remembered the peanuts that she hadn’t eaten on the flight to Brazil. Within seconds she had the two bags of peanuts in her hand.

  “Do you happen to have a can of soda in that bag of yours?”

  “Sorry, there’s a limit,” Samantha retorted as she handed him his peanuts. "Besides, soda is not tasty hot."

  As they ate, Samantha wondered if she was feeding the enemy. But so what? If so, she would have to turn the table on him. He was her ticket out of the jungle, like it or not. She was completely at his mercy, and they both knew it.

  Back on the river again, Samantha decided to see what she could discover about Brock Slader. “When was the last time you saw your sister?”

  “A while back. Why?”

  “No reason. I know some people in Houston. Maybe we have a friend in common. Who are some people you know?”

  “I doubt we know the same people. Houston is a big place.”

  “Have you met any other Americans in Manaus?”

  “One or two.”

  So much for subtlety, Samantha thought. “Why are you in the Amazon?”

  Brock’s spine stiffened. He stopped paddling and tilted his head.

  Puzzled, Samantha asked another question. “Why did you really go with me to the Para Mission?”

  Brock hurriedly began to paddle toward the shaded bank.

  Samantha stared at their destination. There wasn’t anyplace to land the raft along the shore. “What are you doing? Answer me!”

  “I hear a plane.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The bush plane flew low along the river, as though whoever was in it was looking for something—or someone. Samantha and Brock held on to an overhanging branch of a tree to keep the raft from drifting out of their hiding place.

  As the sound of the plane faded in the distance, Brock looped a rope around a branch to secure the raft. “You can let go now. We’ll wait awhile before moving on.”

  Her fingers held the bark as if they were frozen in place. Normal people weren’t supposed to be scared for their lives like this. She started to pry her fingers loose.

  “Don’t move, Sam,” Brock whispered, his voice hard like steel.

  “Make up your mind!” Then she felt something slide over her hand. Her gaze swerved to the branch above her head. A two-foot, brown-patterned snake was slithering along the branch and across her fingers. She was paralyzed with fear, and yet mesmerized, too, by the almost lazy way the snake moved.

  Brock slowly eased his machete from the sheath at his side and when the snake’s head was past Samantha’s hand, he sprang forward, striking the reptile behind its head.

  The snake’s severed head dropped onto the bottom of the raft; the body landed in Samantha’s lap. As though in a trance she released her grip on the branch and brought both her arms close to her chest. Shocked, she stared down at the snake in her lap, its body twitching as though it were alive without its head. Her mind blanked.

  “Sam?”

  Concern laced Brock’s voice as he lifted the snake off her lap and threw it into the water, along with its head. A moment later the river churned with ferocious action, as if the water were boiling. Still dazed, Samantha looked from her lap to the water where the snake had been. Then she turned her wide gaze on Brock.

  “Piranhas,” Brock replied to the silent question in her eyes.

  “What kind of snake was that?” she finally asked, her voice a weak thread but at least working.

  He glanced away, the river suddenly absorbing his full attention.

  “What kind, Brock?”

  “A fer-de-lance.”

  “Oh, no!” Her eyelids slid closed, and she took in one deep breath after another. One of the deadliest snakes in the world had just slithered over her hand. If it weren’t for Brock, she would be dead now. Shudder after shudder rippled down her.

  He was beside her, his arm slipping around her to pull her close. “This place isn’t for a novice, Sam. The life-and-death struggle in the jungle is too intense. A deadly predator is eaten by a deadly predator.”

  Her life in New Orleans had been very sheltered. She had lived in a world of books and had read about many places and subjects, but had never really comprehended the struggles for existence that went on in other parts of the world. When—if—she ever returned to the United States, she would never take the luxuries of life for granted again.

  “Life in the jungle is surviving one day to the next.” His arm tightened about her. “Are you all right now?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She leaned away and looked into his eyes. “One good thing came out of this incident. After that close encounter I think I just took a crash course in how to lose your fear of snakes.” Her laugh was shaky, but she managed to smile. "Not that I would recommend anyone else to do that."

  He laughed, too, a warm, delicious sound that drowned out all the other jungle noises. Framing her face with his large, powerful hands, he drew her to him, his lips brushing across hers in a fleeting kiss that quickly evolved into more. Breaths tangled.

  His caressing fingers glided to the curve of her neck, holding her. With tiny grazes of his lips he trailed a path to her earlobe and bit down lovingly on its shell.

  Samantha wanted to surrender to the excruciating sensations he generated in her. But her silent war raged. Was Brock Slader her rescuer or her jailer? With the sobering question came reality. She pulled away, wedging her arms between them.

  “I’m fine now. Don’t you think we ought to be on our way?” She met the desire in his eyes with an unwavering directness. She couldn’t give in to the part of her that wanted him as Eve had wanted Adam in the first garden paradise, and look where that ended up. Being thrown out of paradise.

  He said nothing, but untied the rope and pushed off.

  While he steered the raft back out into the current, Samantha was able to compose her traitorous emotions. She wouldn’t allow that to happen again. They still had seven days to go, but she was a strong-willed person.

  Yet as she watched him paddle, she was struck by his earthy masculinity. He fit in with the wilderness because there was an element of untamed primitiveness in him. He was at ease with nature at its core, its raw essence. He reminded her of an early explorer of the Americas who could be at home in a dugout canoe, going where no one else had been, or at court among the lords and ladies.

  As they headed down the river, they kept close to the shaded bank. The silence between them, broken only by the sound of rain falling from time to time, stretched out like the river in front of them.

  Finally Samantha decided she didn’t want a repeat of the morning’s silence. “Who do you think was in the plane?”

  “Could be anybody.”

  “Carlos and Paul?”

  “Very likely.”

  “How did they get a plane?”

  “Called in reinforcements, probably.” The even rhythm of his paddling continued, splash, lift, splash. “Whoever’s after your brother is now definitely after us. They think we know something. We can’t trust anyone, Sam. This operation might be bigger than we thought. It’s obvious they’ll go to great lengths to get their hands on what they think we have.”

  Can’t trust anyone. Samantha was afraid she couldn’t trust Brock even after he had saved her life. Carlos and Paul had been waiting for her at the mission. How had they known? The only answer she could come up with was that Brock told them that morning he went out to make his calls. Had Carlos and Paul betrayed him at the mission for some reason?

  Now, she had to wonder if he even called the hospi
tals and clinics. Maybe Mark was injured or ill and in one of them.

  She felt betrayed, and yet there was a part of her that didn’t think Brock was capable of that kind of treachery. He could have simply let the fer-de-lance bite her if he wanted to be rid of her—unless for some reason they wanted her alive. To use her as bait to snare her brother? As miles of endless jungle passed, her doubts mushroomed and her nerves tautened like a band pulled to its limit. It was only a matter of time before they snapped from the tension.

  “I’ve never seen so many animals in one place, not even in the zoo in New Orleans. A zoologist would be in heaven here.” And she would trade places in a second’s notice with any zoologists in the world, Samantha added silently as she stared at Brock’s back. “For that matter, a botanist could spend his whole life categorizing plants and still not get to all of them. I think I have a few smaller versions of some of these same plants back home. And the minute I return home I’m going to throw out all my houseplants. I never want to be surrounded by so much greenery again. I think I’ve seen every imaginable shade of the color that there is and probably a few I didn’t know existed.”

  One part of her listened to her prattle and wondered when Brock, a man of few words, would jump overboard to get away. The other part of her couldn’t seem to stop the unnecessary babble as a way to disguise her extreme nervousness. “When I get home, the first thing I’m going to do is eat a big New Orleans feast at the best restaurant in the French Quarter. No, first—after I rid my house of plants—I guess I’ll soak in a hot tub of scented water for a good hour, then I’ll dress up and go out to eat with a crowd of at least twenty friends. What will you do?”

  “I won’t be returning to the States.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He shrugged, not once looking back at her.

  “After I feast, I’ll curl up in my bed.” She hesitated, realizing her nervous chattering was leading her into dangerous territory.

  “And what will you do in bed?”

  Hearing the amusement in Brock’s voice, she glared at his back. “Read all the books that I’ve missed since I was gone.”

  “That many.”

  “When was the last time you read a book?”

  “I read one a few years back.”

  “Oh, that many.” To Samantha, who loved books, it was a crime that a person didn’t read more than one every three years.

  Brock laughed, the sound angering her even more. Nothing bothered him.

  “I’d rather experience life than read about it. I haven’t found myself bored enough to sit down and read.”

  “Bored! My life isn’t boring. I read because I enjoy it. It transports me to places I’ve never been. I learn about things I would never have an opportunity to firsthand.”

  “I like to go to those places. I like to do those things firsthand. If you want to bad enough, you can find a way.”

  “Some people have to stay home and run things. If everyone dropped everything and traveled all over the world having adventures or whatever you have, who would keep things going?”

  “There are always people who are too afraid to do what they really want to in their heart.”

  “First, you call me bored and now you call me afraid.” Her anger was mounting and surpassing her wariness.

  “You’re the only one who can be the judge of what you’re truly feeling.”

  So now she had a philosophic adventurer as a traveling companion. “Do you advocate that I sell my bookstore and travel to those places I read about?”

  The oar sliced into the water ten times before he finally answered, “No. I can’t picture you letting yourself go and taking each thing that happens to you as it comes. You have to have things neat and orderly, everything planned. As you can see, life in the jungle isn’t something you can plan.”

  She was disconcerted that he had read her so well. She couldn’t picture herself letting herself go and taking things as they happened either.

  “I suppose that’s one of the reasons there are books,” Brock continued. “I agree with you that everyone can’t go or do everything.”

  “I’m one person who’s extremely glad there’s a need for books. If not, I would go out of business.” If they were at such opposite poles on this issue, Samantha could just imagine how they stood on other subjects.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I think there’s a definite place for books in this world, whether ebooks or print ones.”

  “Where? The library or someone’s closet?”

  “No, I think more like a fireplace. Books are made from trees. Great for burning,” he teased, laughter edging his voice, the look he tossed over his shoulder full of merriment.

  A comedian as well as a philosopher. She’d be entertained, saved, and philosophized all at the same time. What an exciting week!

  In the next stretch of the river there were a lot more sandbars to negotiate. Brock fell silent, his concentration on the water ahead of the raft. Ten minutes into the silence Samantha realized just how much she had enjoyed their verbal exchange, even if they didn’t believe in any of the same things.

  Samantha was contemplating how to start a new conversation when she heard a roaring noise. Alert, she sat up and listened. The roar grew louder, closer as Brock paddled. She had a sinking feeling she knew what was ahead of them—between her and Manaus.

  “What’s that?” she asked, praying Brock wouldn’t confirm what she thought.

  “A waterfall.”

  Flashes from her nightmare inundated her.

  “We’ll stop there for the night. Tomorrow morning we’ll portage around it. There’s nothing to worry about, Sam.”

  “Great! How many more of these do we have to portage around?”

  “I’m not sure. Three at least.”

  As they neared the waterfall, Brock angled the raft toward the shore, the current near the falls pulling them along faster. Samantha had visions of the raft getting caught in the rapid flow and plunging over the waterfall. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead as the drop a few hundred yards ahead mesmerized her.

  She was so absorbed in the waterfall that she didn’t realize Brock was tying the raft to a log protruding out in the river until he clasped her arm to get her attention. She scrambled to the front, and he helped her step onto the log. Then she walked the few feet to the bank. As he unloaded the raft, he handed the items to her, and she placed their meager belongings in a pile by her feet.

  When Brock hoisted the empty raft up and over his head, Samantha was amazed at his sense of balance as he tight roped along the log to shore. Putting the raft down by their belongings, he took his machete from its sheath and began to hack the vines in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, watching the movement of his muscles as his blade attacked the foliage, more interested in them than his answer.

  “Finding us a place to make camp for the night.”

  A short distance into the jungle there was a clearing where Brock set up camp and slung the hammocks.

  “While I’m gone, start a fire,” he commanded, picking up his gun.

  “Gone? Where are you going?” She would take back all the negative things she thought about him not to be left alone.

  “Grocery shopping.”

  “May I come too?”

  “We need a fire. It’ll be dark soon. Besides, Sam, I’ll move faster without you tagging along.”

  She wasn’t a dog, she fumed silently, determined to show him she could do something worthwhile. She wasn’t totally dependent on him.

  While Brock scouted for food, Samantha gathered wood, not going more than a foot from the clearing, and began the fire. When she stepped back to survey her work, pleased with her contribution, she collided with a solid wall of muscles and warmth—human warmth. With her nightmare at the waterfall in mind, she spun about with her hands clenched ready to defend herself. She found Brock standing behind her with a wide grin on his
face.

  “Next time you sneak up on someone, whistle,” she said breathlessly.

  “Sorry. A habit of mine.”

  His grin was sheer sexiness, and Samantha had to look away. “What are you, a soldier of fortune?” The question had come out before she realized what she was saying, but now she wanted to know the real answer. Had Carlos and Paul hired Brock to take care of her, then decided to do the job themselves? Or had Brock decided he wanted one hundred percent of whatever her brother had found? Was he working for himself or someone else? Did she have something to fear from him? Not knowing was slowly driving her crazy—or was it the jungle and the isolation?

  “We’re in luck. I found some pyxidia that contain Brazil nuts.” He held up two balls, each the size of a grapefruit. “We’ll roast them over the fire, then I’ll open them. I also found some water to drink.”

  “Water? With all that?” Samantha gestured toward the river.

  “This is better. Less likely to make you sick, even though this river water is okay.”

  “Where’s the water? All you’ve got is a stick.”

  He cut a section of the vine and held it over his mouth. Water began to drip from the vine. He passed it to Samantha, who was astonished at just how thirsty she was. It was the best thing she had tasted.

  “And for dessert I have some yellow berries. They’re like hard orange candy.”

  Samantha was starved. The Brazil nuts were delicious, having a moist white meat better than a coconut’s. Even the “dessert” was good, and by the time she had finished eating, she felt sated.

  “Tomorrow night we’ll stop earlier. I want to go farther and get some meat. If we’re lucky tomorrow we might find some turtles along the way.”

  “I used to have two pet turtles named Fred and Susie. I don’t know if I could eat one.”

  He pinned her with a penetrating gaze, the hunter in him evident. “Sam, if it means your survival, you will. Contrary to food shopping in the States, in the jungle you don’t always have a wide variety or even a choice of what to eat. You take what nature gives you and you’re grateful for that.”