Just a Kiss Away (49 page)
Authors: Jill Barnett
She was cold,
so, so cold. Sam’s arms were no longer around her, protecting her. A heat swelled over her, a hot beating heat that burned over her back, her shoulders. Something heavy, maybe the weight of death, pressed against her, over and over.
“Breathe, dammit! Breathe!”
She could hear Sam, far, far away.
“Fight! Dammit! You fought for me before! Fight for me now! Breathe!”
Breathe.
She had to breathe . . . .
Someone turned her over. The heat was on her front now. Something pressed hard, pushing on her belly. Then Sam was near.
“Breathe, you stupid bitch, breathe!” His breath hit her lips. She could taste him. Sam . . . her Sam.
She coughed and choked, water pouring out of her mouth as if her chest were emptying. Someone flipped her over as she coughed. Sand stuck to her wet face. She turned her head.
She heard Sam’s voice. “There is a God.”
She took long slow breaths of air. Every muscle felt dead, drained. Her eyes were still closed, but the darkness was gone. Her eyelids seemed to lighten. The heat that had beaten against her was sun. She could feel it now, burning down on her. She could feel her wet clothes, feel the fabric, the sand beneath her, Sam’s presence kneeling next to her.
“I told you not to call me that, you damn Yankee,” she said, her voice little more than a rasp.
“It worked, didn’t it?” His voice gave away his smile.
She drummed up the energy to roll over. The sun flared in her eyes. She groaned and flung her arm over them, not caring about the sand that stuck to her. She could feel the grit of it against her closed eyelids.
She was just glad she could feel at all. “Are we alive?”
“Last time I looked.”
“Hmm.” She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to sit up. Her whole head throbbed. She slapped a hand against her left temple and groaned.
Sam’s hands steadied her. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
She peeled open her eyes. The first thing she saw was Sam’s one-eyed face.
His expression told her exactly how he felt about her for that one brief instant. Then the harsh, cynical curtain came down again. He released her and looked around the sandy bank.
It all happened so fast she wasn’t sure she’d really seen it. All the things he’d admitted came back to her. She looked at him. His back was to her, but his neck was red, bright red, like it had been that time in her bungalow, the time Medusa repeated his words. Sam was embarrassed.
A pang of pure joy shot through her, and she smiled, resisting the urge to hum a victory tune. She really should let him off the hook. But she remembered the cockroach race. She counted to one thousand, then said, “I love you, Sam.”
Silence.
“You damn Yankee . . .”
He turned around slowly, looked into her eyes. “Me, too.”
“Say it.”
“I just did.”
“No, you didn’t. You said `me too.’ “
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Say it, or I’ll—”
“What? Sock me in the jaw again?”
“That reminds me . . .” She hauled off and rammed her fist into his hard stomach.
“God . . . damn.” He scowled at her, rubbing his stomach. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Don’t ever call me a stupid bitch again.” She dusted the sand off her fist and turned it this way and that.
“Okay. I promise. I won’t ever call you that again.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Now shut up!” And he kissed her hard.
She clung to him, moving her hands over him again and again. “Sweet Jesus, Lollie.” He tore at her clothes.
She tore at his, touching his skin over and over. His hands cupped her face and he shoved her down in the sand, his body covering hers while he gripped her head and thrust his tongue deep into her mouth.
She gripped his wet hair in both hands and pulled his head away. “Love me now, Sam. Please.”
He’d ripped her shirt off before she had his shirt over a shoulder. He touched her over and over, until she writhed against his hand.
“Please.”
He undid his pants, shoving them down and kneeling between her legs all in one swift motion. He entered her, long, slow, and hard.
He groaned, then muttered, “A hot . . . hot heaven.” He gripped her thighs and pulled her up against him. Then he slipped his arm behind her lower back, holding her up over his splayed knees while he moved in grinding circles against her, inside her. “Come with me, sweet.” His free hand held her head so their kiss was unbroken. His hips never once broke the beat, over and over, even when she throbbed around him for the third time. Then suddenly he moved faster, deeper, wrapped his arms around her, and gripped her buttocks.
“Sweet Jesus!” He thrust hard and fell back in the sand with her atop him.
She had no idea how long they lay there, how long it took to still their breathing. She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his chest. “I love you, Sam.”
He didn’t say anything, so she crossed her arms on his chest and rested her chin in them, watching him.
A few long moments later he lifted his head and looked at her.
She grinned.
“All right.” He dropped his head back down on the sand and yelled, “I love you, dammit!” He reached out again and pulled her head up toward his for a kiss.
She put her hands on his chest and shoved back away from his mouth. “Why?”
“What the hell do you mean, why?”
“Why do you love me?”
“Because God has a sense of humor.” And his mouth closed over hers.
One week later, and over two weeks late, they rode into Santa Cruz in the back of a chicken wagon. Two days after going over the falls, they had made their way to an interior road and run into Jim Cassidy and the other guerrillas. Lollie had been reunited with Medusa, much to her delight and Sam’s displeasure.
Jim filled them in on all that had happened in the last two weeks, and it had been a lot. Aguinaldo and Bonifacio had come to an agreement and had combined their insurrectionist forces. The Spanish had destroyed two more rural towns and managed to strain their relations with the U.S. even further. Two days after Sam and Lollie had left the camp, the revolution had begun, starting in interior towns and spreading outward toward Cavite and Manila. The guerrilla base was now Santa Cruz, the largest interior city in the northern provinces, and Lollie’s father was believed to be there still, meeting with the rebel commanders.
The cart rambled over the cobbled street on the outskirts of the town. Chickens cackled and squawked, and Medusa joined in. She’d been mimicking them for the last four days. Lollie plucked a feather from Sam’s head and smiled. He looked like an Indian, with chicken feathers sticking out of his eye-patch string.
“If I ever see another bird . . . another feather . . . hear one more squawk,” Sam muttered after watching Medusa carry on with the caged chickens.
“Now, Sam, if it wasn’t for this cart we’d still be on foot.”
He gave her his best grumpy look and waved away some floating feathers. He’d grown progressively grouchier the closer they gotten to the town, and for the past hour he’d done nothing but scowl.
She wondered if maybe Sam was upset because he’d missed fighting with the others. It was his life. She contemplated that for a few minutes, then decided that wasn’t what was wrong. He hadn’t been anxious to leave with Jim.
Picking off an occasional chicken feather, Lollie glanced down at her clothes and wondered what her father would think when he saw her. She was a far cry from the girl who’d worn the pink frills and a cameo and had paced the floor in her room, waiting. Her hair hung in ragged ends despite the combs she’d gotten from the same native woman who’d given her the clothes. Her shirt was a blousy sheer white cotton that was two sizes too big and showed the men’s underwear she wore underneath. The skirt was full and long—dragged on the ground, in fact—and it was made of a green and red striped cotton fabric. On her feet she wore flat embroidered slippers, and her toes stuck out of the ragged, tattered ends.
Her face had colored from the sun, and Sam told her she had freckles. She was horrified, immediately picturing her brother Harrison’s hounds, with their freckled noses, heads, and backs. Sam had laughed at her and told her he could only see the freckles when he was just a kiss away.
The cart rumbled to a stop in front of a tall adobe building. Sam hopped out and helped her down. He held her for a moment longer than necessary, the released her waist. She stumbled, her legs being asleep from sitting in one position too long. Never breaking eye contact, he asked, “You okay?”
She smiled and nodded, then turned back to the cart. “Medusa!”
Sam muttered something.
The bird hopped down from the chicken cages and perched on her shoulder. Lollie turned to the bird and said, “Now, you behave, and be quiet. We’re gonna go meet my daddy.”
“Awk! Quiet! Ya bloomin’ little pecker!” The bird’s voice changed to a distant drawl. “Damn Yankee! Awk! I’m Medusa. I’m a mynah. Sam’s an ass.”
“Don’t you think we should leave that bird somewhere else?” Sam asked. “Like the nearest butcher.”
She ignored them both and turned to look at the building. There were five sets of heavy doors. “What one do we go in?”
“He’s your daddy. You decide.” He crossed his arms and gave her a cold look.
“I know why you’re acting like this.”
“Like what?”
“As if you’d like to pick a fight with the world.” He grunted.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’ve never been nervous a day in my sordid life.”
“I know, and you never get jealous, either.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the closest doors. They walked inside.
“This can’t be my daughter.”
The tall gray-haired man turned imperiously to the Filipino man who stood at the door holding Medusa and gave him a look that would have fried an egg. The poor man’s reaction was to stand stone-still.
“My God,” her father went on. “She’s dressed like a filthy peasant, her hair looks like a rat’s nest, and her skin is almost . . . brown.”
The Filipino man gave Lollie a look of pity before he left with Medusa, closing the door in his wake.
Her father turned back to her and raked her with a disdainful look. “Thank God your mother isn’t alive to see you.”
Lollie closed her eyes to block the tears she felt rise. They were tears of shame, of humiliation, of hurt. She wanted a mother and father who loved her and were proud of her. She took a deep breath and looked at the man who was her father, that revered scion of the LaRue family. Her brothers stood behind him, having come to the Philippines after her kidnapping. Now they all were there—the LaRue men. And she stood across from them like a naughty child.
But Sam stood behind her and held her hand. He was there for her. Sam Forester was always there for her, and right now she loved him even more for it. Her father started to pace in front of her, and she gripped Sam’s hand a little tighter.
Her father stopped in front of her and looked down. “You’ve caused enough trouble, something you’ve been good at since you were small, if your brothers’ letters were anything to go by. In the last few weeks, you’ve kept me waiting hours at that bay and now over two weeks here. Well, girl, what do you have to say for yourself?”
She’d kept
him
waiting? She thought about that for a moment. My God, she thought, I’ve waited for some sign of acceptance and love from this man for seventeen years. She didn’t even realize that she’d clamped a death grip on Sam’s hand until he squeezed it—for encouragement. She squeezed it back—in thanks.
A couple of deep breaths and she looked up at her father. “I’ve kept you waiting?” she said, then repeated it louder and louder until she shouted, “I’ve kept
you
waiting! You pompous old man!” She could feel her tears rise again and spill this time, but she couldn’t help it.
She took another step closer to the man who had conceived her, yet never had given her a lick of his time. “I’ll tell you about waiting, Father dear. Waiting isn’t a few hours or a few weeks; it’s seventeen years. For seventeen years I waited for you to come home, waited for some sign of love from you, my own father. You never came, never had the time, or was it that you never cared to give me the time?”