A Thorned Rose in the Sand

by Lea Bronsen

  She whispered to the nomad, “What is it that they don’t dare to ask?”

  “Transport to Erfoud. There’s a hospital there. By dromedary, it will take a day, but your motorcycle can get us there in an hour.”

  “Oh. Of course, no problem.”

  “Good. Thank you.” He turned to the others and said a few words in Arabic.

  The adults nodded in her direction. “Choukran.”

  “Sure. I’ll get the bike ready.” She needed to get to that town anyway to tell the rally organizers and her support team she was all right. There was no cell reception here in the desert. Last evening, the flap-flaps of a helicopter rotor had sounded in the distance. Since her competitors had seen her stuck in the sand, the organizers must have launched a search.

  She would seize the opportunity to refill the three fuel tanks, too. You could only drive so far with a motorcycle, and after taking the kid to and from the hospital in Erfoud she still had to get to Fez in the north.

  Slowly, painfully, she got up and staggered out of the tent. A chain of red-black mountains in the northwest flanked a vast, flat perimeter of sand and windblown rock that stretched from one horizon to the other. When she turned east, she gazed into Algerian land, across the forbidden border. The sun climbed upward and already heated the air. It promised to be another punishing day.

  She went to her bike and turned the powerful enduro motor on. It growled to life, the noise invasive in this calm, majestic countryside. The Bedouins may consider it a disturbance, but today, this bike could save a kid’s life. From what little she knew about medicine, an untreated acute appendicitis could burst and poison the entire stomach.

  An older man—it was difficult to estimate the age of people who were exposed to sun all their life—came out of the tent. He wore a brown tunic and a black turban and carried the boy toward Stevie. The small patient was about nine years old, slim and olive-skinned, eyes sunken and shiny, arms hanging. Tears streaked his face and he whimpered from pain.

  Worried, she climbed onto the bike and put her helmet on.

  The young nomad hurried to join them. In the sunlight, he stood tall and broad-shouldered in his bright blue tunic and matching turban that covered everything but dark, long-lashed eyes underneath thick brows and the suntanned skin around them. A proud Arab.

  “Everything all right?” he asked her, with that British accent again. Before she could reply, he continued, “You know the way to Erfoud?”

  “It’s logged in my GPS. I was supposed to get there yesterday.” Dammit, she wished she could see his lips when he talked. It was disconcerting to have only a pair of eyes to look at.

  He took the kid from the older man and told him something in Arabic. The older man nodded, replied with a husky voice, and climbed up behind her before accepting the kid back and cradling him on his lap, between him and Stevie.

  “Why don’t you go?” she asked the young man.

  He shrugged. “He’s the father.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “No, but he’ll point the way to the hospital.”

  “Okay.” She gave some gas to fire up the engine.

  “Be careful,” he told her, gaze filled with concern.

  “Of course. I always drive carefully.”

  He thinned his eyes. Ah, he thought back to yesterday, when she’d landed in a sand hole.

  She tilted her head and squinted, too. Don’t start, you ass. The accident had happened during a rally, where she always gave full throttle and no fuck about anything but a win. It was incomparable to the way she drove otherwise.

  He stepped closer and leaned down to match her height, invading her space. The flowery pattern of his dark brown, slightly golden irises became apparent. A pleasant scent of musky maleness drifted from him, but she discarded it and returned his stare. He put a hand on her wrist. “They’re my life, so be careful,” he insisted, voice low and edgy from behind the turban. “I’m very thankful that you’re helping out, but in doing so, you’re responsible for anything that happens to them.”

  Oh, the cockhead!

  He was right, but he was wrong. Stevie was the best biker this side of the fucking Sahara. If she hadn’t gotten stuck, she would’ve won the rally for sure.

  Fuming, she waited for him to remove his hand before pressing the gear pedal down to first. “Ma’ al-salāmah,” she threw at him, releasing the clutch and propelling the bike forward. Good-bye.

  Chapter Four

  Three hours had passed. The sun had reached its peak and pounded without mercy.

  Ragab sat in the shade of the family tent, twining his fingers. He’d chewed his nails so short, they stung as if he’d inserted needles underneath. The acute medical condition of Ali, his little brother, drove him mad with worry, and not being able to do anything to help made him feel ten times worse. Not to mention having put Ali’s fate in the hands of a reckless motorcycle driver. How imprudent! What if something happened to them? He’d rather die than live with the guilt.

  He needed to keep his angst to himself, though, for in his father’s absence, he was in charge of the family and had to keep everyone calm. Every time Mother and his sisters, the eight-year-old twins Leila and Aida, looked at him with prayers in their eyes, he assured them Ali would be fine, and he resisted following their tense glances out of the tent to the track where the motorcycle had disappeared.

  Three hours. A lifetime.

  “Ragab,” Mother said, her face puffy and furrowed beneath the black tob ’ob wrapped around the top of her head. She clutched her two young daughters to her bosom, and they slid their arms around her.

  “Yes?”

  She opened her mouth, but out came no sound. Instead, big tears filled her charcoal-lined eyes and rolled down her sunburnt cheeks.

  No need to explain. Of the ten children she’d carried, she’d lost four to disease, and three other grown ones had left to live in the modern world. Only Ragab had returned.

  “Oum,” he said, voice gentle. Mother.

  “La.” She shook her head, teary gaze pleading. No. Her pain wouldn’t go away.

  His chest squeezed. “He’s in good hands,” he insisted, but wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He knew everything about appendicitis. Its different stages, where to cut to remove the infected piece, what kind of antibiotics to give, and the risks if one intervened too late. And this wasn’t just any patient—this was Ali, a funny and active little boy adored by his family.

  A motor grumbled in the distance.

  The twins squealed, and everyone got up and ran out of the tent. Ragab’s heart galloped in his chest.

  In a large cloud of dust, the girl’s motorcycle appeared on the rocky track, driving at full speed.

  He gasped. Hadn’t he told her to be careful?

  Slow down, you fool, before you get someone killed!

  But…the seat behind her was vacant? Father and Ali stayed at the hospital? Did that mean bad news? The blood drained from his buzzing head.

  Neighbors sprang out of their tents and flocked around Ragab’s family. The sickness of one tribe member, especially a child, concerned the whole tribe.

  Seconds later, the motorcycle came to a full stop a few meters from them, tires screeching and swirling up dust.

  Ragab hurried over to the girl and turned his hands up. “So?”

  She switched off the power so that precious silence descended upon the site…but didn’t say anything, just sat there doing nothing.

  Oh, how he hated her for drawing it out. Didn’t she realize the importance of the news? “Tell me!” he barked. “What did the surgeon say?”

  Sending him a sharp glance, she took off her helmet and hung it on a side mirror. “Give me a minute, will ya? I just did fifty fucking kilometers on the roughest terrain ever.”

  Her cursing pushed his buttons. He growled, “You’re one of the most arrogant and impolite persons I’ve met!”

  “Oh?” She climbed off the motorcycle and got right in his face
, breaths quick against his mouth. “And you are one of the most ungrateful assholes I’ve met.” She stabbed a finger into his chest. “But you were correct, Doc. It’s an appendicitis, just not inflamed yet.”

  He blinked, processing the information while staring into her gleaming emeralds. She stood so close, freckles he hadn’t seen before were visible on her nose and cheeks, beneath the dirty sweat.

  It hit him like a slap: She was beautiful, spectacular. One of a kind. And thanks to her, Ali was going to be okay.

  She lowered her voice but remained in his space. “He needs to stay under surveillance, though.”

  Swallowing, he backed away from her to recoup—try to recover from the angst that had messed with his mind and the sensual shock the girl gave him. So much at once.

  She said, “Your father wants you to pick them up in a couple of days.”

  “All right, will do.” With a nod and a deep breath, he turned to tell the good news to everyone else.

  The crowd broke into happy dancing and cheering. Mother’s face lit up in a white-toothed smile, and she hugged her daughters close.

  In moments like these, Ragab wished he were religious. He needed something or someone to give thanks to. Well, her, the fiery redhead, maybe. He gazed back at her. Moments ago, he’d hated this crazy woman, and now, he loved her. Well, liked was a more correct term.

  He wasn’t the only one having these sentiments. Squealing children swarmed around her motorcycle, put their small hands all over the black-and-orange plastic parts, and asked a million questions in Arabic.

  She laughed out loud, the sound thrilling. “I don’t understand what you’re saying! I only speak a few words.” When little fingers came too near the engine, she swatted at them. “Careful, it’s very warm.” She turned to Ragab. “Would you please tell these kids not to touch the motor, it can burn them?”

  The commotion and excitement around her amused him. He warned the children about the motor, and they gazed from him to her, eyes big like saucers, as enthralled by her exoticness—few westerners ever visited the nomads—as by her powerful motorcycle.

  Like that wasn’t enough, she undid her braid and shook her long hair loose, a waterfall of shiny red-orange curls over her jacket. Magnificent.

  The sight of this striking, albeit sincerely crazy woman filled him with fuzziness. He bit his lip and scrambled for something intelligent to say. “Thanks for taking my brother to the hospital.”

  She gave a lopsided smile. “Eh, that was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. It’s a long ride, and my family owes you.”

  “Nah. You pulled me out of the sand, remember?” She winked.

  “We’re still thankful.”

  “Listen, if you really want to thank me, you can show me where to get a bath in this godforsaken place. I stink like a camel’s ass.” She creased her nose in a mock-grimace.

  Chapter Five

  When the nomad had offered to go to a well about twenty kilometers from the camp, Stevie had envisioned an oasis with a turquoise-colored pond surrounded by palm trees whose long, green leaves danced in a breeze.

  Not so. In the absolute middle of nowhere, with a wide expanse of sand dunes stretching north-to-south and the black mountains bordering to Algeria a barrier, a well emerged out of the desert. A hole in the ground, really, with a rudimentary brick wall encircling it and three branches above making a support for the rope and bucket. Basins lay around for the animals.

  The nomad had told Stevie they only came once or twice a week as it took many hours to ride on dromedary back, so her driving him today was a big favor.

  Well, if it meant getting the chance to have a bath, she was happy to help. She’d never felt so dirty in her whole life.

  But…

  “That’s a bath?” she asked with an incredulous laugh, killing the engine and shielding her vision from the blinding sunlight. He had to be kidding.

  Seated behind her, the nomad dropped two empty jerrycans to the ground and got off the bike. “I never said there was a bath. I said there was water.” He gazed at her with a gleam of humor in his dark eyes. “Cool motorcycle, by the way. Powerful. And it handles the difficult track very well.”

  She grinned. “My bike is my friend.”

  “Ah.” He tilted his head, as if to tease. “But you can’t have feelings for a thing like you can have for an animal.”

  “I don’t care, as long as this baby here”—she patted the bike’s warm flank—“takes me safely from one place to another. I trust it.”

  “I prefer a relationship with an animal. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s hard to believe. You have innate balance and agility.”

  She smiled from the compliment.

  “Would you like to try riding a dromedary?”

  “Maybe...”

  He nodded. “Okay, when we get back to the camp, I’ll introduce you to Usain.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Usain Bolt, my favorite dromedary.”

  “Hah!” She laughed loud. “What a funny name-giving.”

  “Usain and I have won many races together.”

  “You race, too?”

  “Yes, like you, only I actually win.” The corners of his sparkling eyes creased, as if he were smiling.

  How annoying not to be able to see this man’s face! She began to like their interaction. And she began to like him. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Ragab. And yours?”

  “I’m Stevie.”

  “A tough name for a tough girl.”

  The compliment hit home, but she didn’t comment on it. “How come you speak with a British accent?”

  “I studied in London. Well, Stevie, let’s get you some water.”

  London! What an intriguing man, with, it appeared, quite a varied life experience and maybe a few secrets, too.

  While he brought the jerrycans to the well, she climbed off the bike and checked the surroundings. She could probably manage washing from a bucket, but the problem was privacy: not a tree to hide behind, not the slightest hill. This was out in the fucking open and alone with a stranger. No matter how intriguing he was, she didn’t know him.

  “You’re lucky,” he called, as if reading her mind. “Normally, it’s full of animals here. Goats, sheep… Full of life. But the herders have already come today and gone back to their camps.”

  Huh. There’s still you.

  After what had happened in college, she wasn’t exactly on the trusting side.

  He pulled a bucket up and out of the well, rope squeaking. “Mind if I fill the jerrycans first? Then you’ll have the bucket all for yourself.”

  “Sure.”

  While he worked on his end, she dropped a bag to the ground, containing an empty water bottle and a dress she’d borrowed from the nomad’s older sister, who’d left the family—it would be much nicer to wear than her heavy rally gear. She slid out of her jacket and spread it beside the bag, inside up: It would protect her naked feet from the burning sand. Then she sat to take off her solid motorcycle boots. Not an easy task, after having worn them for what, two, three days in a row?

  She closed her eyes to focus, couldn’t remember the last time she’d stripped completely. She was tired to her bones. God, all the villages she’d visited during the rally, the grueling laps she’d driven, the curious crowds she’d plowed through, the technical issues she’d fixed, the endless tank re-fueling. Seven days of chaotic memories. And she’d had so little sleep last night, she would probably need a nap—no, make it another night—before hitting the road to Erfoud and, in three days, flying back to her delivery girl job in California.

  Oh, and she needed to eat, too. And drink. Thirst scratched at her throat. She reopened her eyes and struggled with one sweaty boot, then the other, groaning and cursing.

  Ragab came with the bucket and placed it by her jacket.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Now, look away.”

&
nbsp; Without a word, he went to the motorcycle and studied it, keeping his back to her.

  She turned away to take off the riding pants, her sticky socks, the sweat-soaked top, and her panties, then knelt on the jacket. The sun torched her naked skin, but she smelled something like rotten eggs and had to wash.

  Quick, now.

  She dipped her hands in the bucket and oh! pulled them out again, splashing water to the sides. I-c-e f-u-c-k-i-n-g c-o-l-d. How was that possible in the Sahara, the hottest desert in the world?

  She glanced behind to check if Ragab had noticed her reaction.

  He stood by the bike, head tilted in deep scrutiny.

  Okay. She slid her hands into the cold water again and leaned forward to collect some to drink.

  God… Water had never tasted this good. For a moment, she savored the heavenly wetness on her raspy tongue and the refreshment down her throat, swallow after swallow. Simply delicious.

  Once sated, she collected more water and brought it to the top of her hair to wash it—but the ice-cold droplets slid over her thick curls and ran splashing down her back and chest. She startled. “Eeeeee!”

  Chapter Six

  Too hard to resist, that girly scream! Until now, Ragab had had a difficult time respecting her privacy, but surely, a scream called for attention. What kind of a gentleman would he be if he didn’t check on a woman in distress?

  He spun and found her kneeling on her jacket, nude and wet, arms outstretched in shock. He bit down a laugh. Yes, the deep well water was cold, but one got used to it, and in the extreme heat of the desert, it was a blessing.

  She turned, caught him staring, and even though he couldn’t see anything inappropriate, she hurried to cover her breasts and pubic area. “Look away!” she shouted, voice panicky.

  The laugh bubbled inside him, but he obediently turned back to the motorcycle—then stood in such a way he could see her reflection in one of the side mirrors.

  Oh, it was like watching a porn scene. Her long, red curls hung wild over her back and round, white butt cheeks. Every time she moved, a portion of her breasts appeared in the space between her ribs and arms. Such perfect feminine curves, all over. Imagine if he saw the front…