by Kate Roman
“Roy, come back. Where’d you go?” Ash stepped into Roy’s vision, putting a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
Roy focused on Ash’s blue eyes, the sweat on his palm moist against Roy’s arm. He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay here, on this path in the heartland of the veldt.
Here with Ash.
Roy nodded, swallowing again, taking deep breaths of the hot, dry air around them, his gaze darting from tree to grass to sky, unable to meet his companion’s eyes. Ash reached for the canteen hanging at Roy’s hip. Roy flinched, then relaxed as Ash unscrewed the top and held it out to him. Nodding gratefully, Roy took a few sips, letting the water wash away the bile at the back of his throat, the sick taste of adrenaline that always accompanied the flashbacks. He held the canteen out to Ash, who took a few perfunctory sips, his gaze never leaving Roy’s. Roy lingered in the young man’s gaze, drinking in the intensity of his concern, knowing he’d have to try to explain, try to put words to the nightmare that had stalked him across three continents.
But Ash only smiled around his last mouthful of water, screwing the cap back on the bottle. He put a hand out, resting it on Roy’s shoulder, fingers firm and reassuring. He tucked the canteen back into the clip at Roy’s belt and dropped his hands.
With a cheerful grin, Ash stepped past Roy and headed down the track.
Roy turned his head, watching Ash trek onward. He spent a few moments listening to the kingfisher trilling high in the surrounding mahogany-colored mopane, but wherever he looked, the trees, the grass, the whole veldt remained just that. The vision did not return.
Roy followed Ash along the trail.
Another half mile brought the long, low buildings of Thornside into view. Out behind the house, the shapes of cattle were indistinct against the grassy savanna. Roy felt Ash stiffen at his side and pulled him back behind the meager cover afforded by a grove of thornbushes. “Come this way.” He led Ash away from the track, toward the edge of the thornbushes where a large, split boulder made a partial cave.
He unhooked his canteen and fetched one of the enamel mugs from his backpack. “I’ll leave you here. You’ll be safe—no predators hunt at midday.” He filled the mug with water, hung his canteen back on his belt, and passed the mug to Ash. “Someone might notice if I was without my canteen,” he explained.
“Makes sense.” Ash took the pack without the medical equipment and stowed it in the cave, placing the water carefully beside it. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“Quick as possible.” Roy placed his hands on Ash’s shoulders, looking deep into the blue eyes. “I hate to leave you.”
“I’ll be all right.” Ash smiled so well that Roy nearly believed him.
“I’ll be back before nightfall. I promise you that.” Roy squeezed Ash’s shoulders. “Wait for me.”
“I promise.” Ash smiled again, then leaned forward suddenly and kissed Roy, long and sweet.
Roy closed his eyes, drowning in the sweetness of Ash’s mouth, the magic of the lithe body against his own. He drew Ash closer, just for a moment, then summoned all his willpower and stepped back. Ash looked at him for a long moment, then sat down carefully next to the knapsack. “Go well, Roy.”
With a quick nod, Roy turned and headed for Thornside and his enemy.
* * * *
Roy closed the remaining distance to Gerald Haywood’s compound, forcing all thoughts of Ash from his mind. Haywood’s property was large, and his stockade was reinforced by a ditch. Roy walked over the narrow wooden bridge that spanned it and into the compound.
The native quarters were a long, low mud-walled building at the back of the compound, next to the sheds and pens for the stock. The construction stood in stark contrast to the neat bungalow which housed Haywood and his family. Roy set his teeth, walking past the palatial home and ostentatious English rose garden, which, Roy guessed, used as much water as twenty Africans. Maybe more.
“Bennett!” The commanding tones of Gerald Haywood himself rang out behind him, and Roy stopped, composing himself with difficulty.
He turned slowly, arranging his features into the semblance of a smile. “Mr. Haywood, sir.”
Haywood strode haltingly across the compound toward him, face red, bullwhip in its customary place on his belt. Roy eyed it, swallowing anger, and forced himself to look away.
“What brings you here, Bennett? Have you news?”
Roy drew his brows together. “News? I come to tend to your man, Mwale, who was injured on the hunt, as I was told?”
“Oh.” Haywood stopped, fingering his mustache. “Of course. A man was hurt; you’re right. Perhaps you have not heard of our troubles?”
“Ah. The man you lost?”
“Yes, my nephew, Ashcroft—my brother’s son. Tragic.” Haywood shook his head. “You’ve seen nothing?”
“No, sir. Some of your men came to me, and I went out on the veldt with them. We found…a shirt.” Roy looked straight into Haywood’s eyes as he lied.
“They brought it back.” Haywood fingered his whip, and Roy pressed his lips together in a thin line. The messengers had, of course, been beaten. “I expected them to bring back the body.”
“I’ve seen nothing more, I fear. But I heard the cats two days ago during the heat of the day, and I wondered at the time what had disturbed their rest. I suppose now I know.” Roy fought to keep his eyes on Haywood’s. “How about you, sir? You’re limping; are you injured?”
“Oh, a trifle, nothing more. I fell and cut myself, but it’s healing nicely—I shan’t trouble you.” Haywood waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Get on and do your work, man, and if you come to the kitchen after, Cook will let you have a meal.”
Roy fought the urge to punch the man in the face. “Thank you,” he said through clenched teeth and turned on his heel.
Inside the native quarters, Roy found Mwale lying on a rough pallet. Haywood did not believe in pampering his servants: the crude hut had no furnishings, and the natives slept on spartan bedrolls on the dirt floor. Roy felt another surge of anger as he crossed to Mwale’s side.
He was feverish and barely lucid, and a quick examination showed Roy that the man was a victim of Haywood’s bullwhip. Several deep cuts, encrusted with dried blood and crawling with flies, marred his back and ribs.
Roy worked as quickly as he could, dosing Mwale with a preparation to combat the fever, then bathing the wounds clean. He dressed them with a mix of barks and herbs ground into a powder to stem the bleeding and provide protection from the African insect life.
By the time he’d finished bandaging, Mwale’s fever had eased, and he lay quietly, watching Roy work.
“You’ll be well soon,” Roy said reassuringly, pouring a measure of the fever medicine into a bark bottle. He placed it beside the bed. “Drink this when the sun comes up.”
“Thank you,” Mwale said. His voice was thready and weak.
As Roy rose, Mwale’s hand closed over his wrist. “The lion… He ate the young master?” Mwale’s eyes were both sorrowful and frightened.
Roy looked at Mwale in surprise, then said, “I saw no lion.” He didn’t want to lie, but at the same time, he knew Haywood’s methods and dared not trust Mwale with the truth.
Mwale stared at Roy, black eyes boring into his. Then his grip on Roy’s wrist relaxed. Roy repacked his supplies, then set the bark bottle a little farther back from the pallet. By the time he was done, Mwale was asleep.
Roy left the hut. At the edge of the stockade, a team of natives worked hard, manhandling logs and boulders despite the heat of the day.
Roy headed over in search of the foreman. Gondai, or “Brown” as Haywood called him, could send word to Mambokadzi if Roy was needed again.
“Bennett! Masaramusi!” Gondai came out to meet him. “You’ve seen Mwale?”
“I’ve left a bottle of murimo-juice. He must drink it when the sun rises.”
“That will make him well?”
“I hope so.” R
oy sighed. “I’m heading into the bush for a few days, but Mambokadzi can find me if you need me.”
At a cry from one of the workers, Gondai turned and called out something Roy didn’t catch. Immediately, most of the team of natives ran from the fence and stood pointing and shouting.
And well they might: at the gate of the stockade stood a young male lion.
Roy stood stock-still and stared. The animal was a distinctive pale gold in color, and Roy estimated him to be about three years of age. His deep golden mane was plentiful but had not yet attained the thick magnificence of a mature animal. As everyone stood staring, the lion opened his mouth, showing a selection of white, gleaming teeth as he let loose with a roar that Roy felt thunder in the soles of his feet.
Gondai ran back to his men, shouting and gesticulating as several of them fell to their knees. They all began signing to ward off evil, and one voice quavered above the rest, leading a chant. One by one, the others joined in.
Pounding feet signaled the arrival of Gerald Haywood, bullwhip in his hand. “What the devil is going on here? Don’t stand about dawdling! Kill it!”
The lion roared again, louder, and Haywood dropped his whip. His face went white. “Kill it! Brown! Paul! Get the guns! The beast must die!”
His voice galvanized the natives to action. Gondai and another man ran for the house. The lion watched with apparent interest; then, with a flick of its tail, it turned and bolted, puffs of dust raised by each heavy paw as it disappeared behind the main house. Moments later, there was the terrified bellowing of cattle from behind the compound.
Gondai returned, panting, two rifles over his shoulder, and Haywood grabbed one. “About time! Bennett, take the other—have to get the beast—must be the animal that killed my nephew!” The other man panted after Gondai, loaded down with stakes and nets.
Roy took the rifle Gondai held out mechanically. Ash…
Haywood ran out of the compound, leading the charge, six of the natives armed with stakes and nets at his heels. Roy followed, head spinning. Ash mustn’t be found, whatever happened.
But he needn’t have worried. They followed the lion’s tracks to the pasture where the cattle grazed. The frightened beasts were huddled together in their thorny corral, but there was no sign of injury to the herd.
“Bloody thing! It’s gone for the best stud bull!” Haywood hurried on, heading west toward the next pasture in the opposite direction from where Roy had left Ash.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Roy unobtrusively dropped behind the group and ran for Thornside’s main buildings. He placed the rifle carefully on Haywood’s veranda, then picked up his knapsack and, with a brief look around to make sure he was unobserved, set off for the trail and Ash.
Roy covered the short distance quickly, going faster than the heat dictated, terrified of what he might find if either the lion—or Haywood’s party—found Ash before he arrived. He only prayed that Ash had not decided to go out exploring.
When he first entered the cave, the dim light tricked his eyes, and he thought for a few anxious moments that the cave was empty. Then, heart pounding, he spotted Ash’s knapsack near the rear of the cave.
What Roy had taken for a jumble of rocks beside the knapsack moved and became Ash raising himself unsteadily on one elbow, looking sweaty and disheveled. His chest heaved as if he’d run a great distance. “Roy?”
Roy rushed to his side and grabbed his shoulders, looking him over. “You’re okay!”
“Of course I…” Ash blinked rapidly and shook his head, as if clearing it from a blow.
Roy held him close, one hand snaking through the sweat-soaked curls at Ash’s nape. He breathed deeply, smelling Ash’s sweat against the damp, cool air of the shallow enclosure. Ash panted, a hand at Roy’s hip, as if scrabbling for support. There was a smear of blood across his arm.
Roy pulled back sharply. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“I…don’t know. I think… I don’t know.” Ash stared at the blood on his skin as if unsure how it had gotten there.
Frightened, Roy took Ash’s arm and gently examined it. There was no wound that he could see. He explored the slashes on Ash’s back, but the ointment was doing its work. None were bleeding. “Ash, where did this blood come from?”
“I don’t know.” Ash shivered, looking miserable. “I… Roy, it’s the strangest thing, but…”
Could he be running a fever? Thrashed in delirium and cut his arm on a sharp rock? Roy pressed a palm to Ash’s forehead.
Ash brushed it away. “Mwale. Is he… Did you see him?”
“He’ll recover. I left some medicine for him, changed his dressings. But Haywood has a bee in his bonnet about lions. I know he’s a vindictive bast—sorry, Ash. I forgot he’s your uncle.”
Ash started. “Lions? You saw one?”
“A big male, a young one. He came right up to the estate, then headed for the livestock pens.” Roy snorted. “I think he went after Haywood’s prize bull. And good luck to him. Haywood has a party out, armed to the teeth.”
“He does?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t affect us. They’re tracking him west, past the bull’s paddock. We’re southeast of the compound, and if he knows what’s good for him, that lion’s long gone. He could’ve easily outrun your uncle’s party and be hiding out in the long grass. Haywood won’t find you.”
“He wouldn’t think to look for us here,” Ash said slowly. “Right?”
“That’s right.” Roy pulled his shirt over his head, then tipped a little water from his canteen onto a sleeve. “Here.” He carefully bathed the blood off Ash’s arm, reassuring himself as he did so that there was no wound. “Perhaps you had a bloody nose.”
Ash was watching him with a faraway expression. He nodded slowly.
Roy frowned, putting his shirt back on. “Your uncle’s obsessed with lions. You’ve seen his estate, that house—it’s a mausoleum for any animal that’s ever thought of running the veldt. But you should’ve seen him when he saw that lion today. It’s like nothing else mattered. He lost it.”
A flash of anger darkened Ash’s handsome features. “That sounds like my uncle all right.” He shoved himself to his feet and grabbed Roy’s elbow, tugging him up. “Once he saw that lion, you were lucky he didn’t shoot you for not bagging it for him on the spot.”
“Exactly.” As Ash made to leave the shelter, Roy stopped him, a hand on his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay? That blood…and when I first got here, you seemed…” You seemed surprised to be here, Roy thought. You looked amazed to see me.
“I had a dream, I think, but…” Ash’s eyes were clouded by an emotion Roy couldn’t read. “Just a dream. I was more tired than I’d imagined, I think.” Ash grinned, and the warmth of his smile went straight to Roy’s cock. “Where to next?”
A dream, huh? A smile like that, Roy could only imagine what the dream had been like. He only hoped he figured in it somehow.
In answer to Ash’s question, Roy indicated his canteen. “We’ll need more water soon. I meant to refill at Thornside but forgot in all the excitement. There’s a spring a few miles on, toward the hills. We’ll stop there, then keep going, head for my bolt-hole.”
The two men set off with Ash’s long legs eating up the dusty savanna, keeping pace with Roy as he led them farther into the heart of the veldt.
Roy backtracked a little to get well away from Thornside, then turned north toward the foothills shimmering in the distance. He stopped from time to time, checking the earth for lion tracks, and Ash went a little ahead, looking about him with interest.
It was in the dust directly beneath a baobab tree that Roy saw the lion’s footprint. There was only one, and it pointed due north.
Roy stared at it for a moment, long and hard, but Ash seemed not to notice, and blithely kept hiking. Not for the first time, Roy wondered what exactly his new companion had dreamed of while he’d visited Thornside.
Chapter Eight
Traveling in the
heat of the day was not without its own risks, and they went much more slowly than they had in the morning. Roy watched Ash carefully for signs that the heat or the strong African sun was affecting him, but the younger man moved easily across the veldt with no trace now of a limp.
They saw little in the way of wildlife. Beasts knew better than to roam in the heat of the sun—that was part of what made the lion’s behavior at Thornside so strange. Roy bit his lip, trying once again to force the lion out of his mind.
He scanned the horizon carefully. They were still a good three hours’ march from the foothills that were their destination, much too far to cover in the steadily increasing heat. But they were less than a mile from a spring where Roy planned to wait out the sun.
The spring wasn’t large, a mere trickle between rocks. Two thorn trees grew side by side, taller than most on the veldt, nourished by the precious water. Their intertwined canopies cast a generous shade. As Roy and Ash approached, a small group of impala leaped from the shadows and bounded away.
Ash watched them run. “I’m sorry to have disturbed their rest.”
“Right now, our need is greater.” Roy knelt beside the spring, pulled off his shirt, and soaked it in the cool water. He rubbed it over his face and arms, removing the soft red African dust that clung everywhere, then rinsed it out and passed it to Ash.
With a shy smile, Ash dropped beside Roy and removed his own shirt. He followed Roy’s example, cleaning the dust from his slim, lithe body. Roy watched avidly, the feel of Ash in his arms heady and consuming in his memory.
Then Ash twisted around, and the red welts across his shoulders came into view.
Cursing himself for a scoundrel, Roy reached for his medical kit. “Ash, let me dress your wounds again.”