Dangerous Pursuit (The Protectors) (13 page)

She woke with a start, her eyes flying open.

Standing over her were five Indians, painted red and black with lips discs in their mouths and feathered plugs in their noses and earlobes. Her gaze flew to Brock’s hammock. It was empty. Then she looked back at the Indian nearest her. He was holding a six-foot bow with an arrow strung and aimed at her. Tied around his waist was a shrunken head.

The Indian lowered the bow and arrow and reached toward Samantha’s head. She tried to scream, but nothing would come out.

CHAPTER NINE

The Indian with the shrunken head touched Samantha’s hair and said something to his companions. They all nodded in total agreement with whatever he had said. Her scalp tingled as her thoughts raced with possibilities of what the leader had said. None of them were very inviting.

The Indian again reached out toward her. Finally she screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that sent all five Indians jumping back, confusion on their faces.

An eternity passed as Samantha stared wide-eyed at the Indians, and they looked at each other, then back at her.

Brock charged into the clearing, halted, and surveyed the six people who turned toward him. He took one look at the group of Indians, then at Samantha’s pale face, and he laughed.

“If this is funny, please let me in on the joke,” she said between clenched teeth.

After easing out of the hammock, she skirted their five “visitors” and crept toward Brock, scared to make any fast moves. She brushed her long unbound hair behind her shoulders and kept stepping inch by slow inch toward the fringe of the trees where Brock was.

When Samantha was halfway there, Brock moved forward, approaching the Indian who had touched her hair, and greeted him in a language that didn’t sound Spanish or Portuguese. Then he said something to each of the other four Indians. Brock knew the natives’ language? Her heart still pounding, she noted the camaraderie between Brock and the Indians. It looked like a class reunion.

When Brock came to her side and put his arm around her shoulders, she had a sneaky suspicion he was informing them she was his “woman.” The grins on all the men’s faces held a wealth of meaning, and Samantha seethed at the knowing glances they exchanged.

“I may not understand the language, but I do know body language, Brock Slader, and I don’t appreciate it. What did you tell them?” she whispered in a furious tone.

“That you’re my—ah, friend and that we’re traveling together.”

His slight pause was all she needed to confirm her suspicion. “Somehow I get the impression your meaning of friend and their meaning of friend don’t add up to my meaning.”

“The last time I ran into them they were very friendly, but a few years back some men of the tribe did kill a scientist who had been living among them for four months.”

“How can you say that so calmly?”

“I thought you had a right to know the delicacy of the situation.”

“Thanks. I’d rather be ignorant.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you and I would regret later.”

“Don’t worry. Even I know a dangerous situation when I see one—or rather, all five sets of them.” She looked pointedly at the bows and arrows, then at Brock, fear in her gaze. “That chief touched my hair with a gleam of ownership in his eyes.”

Brock chuckled.

“Does everything amuse you? You must be one of those people who laugh in the face of death.”

His expression became serious, but the glint in his eyes told Samantha it was all an act. “Sorry, Sam. The chief was just admiring your beautiful hair of fire. Perfectly innocent.” 

“Admiring it for what?” Her scalp still tingled, and she was sure it wasn’t caused by Brock’s arm about her.

“There isn’t much we can do but offer them our hospitality. They want to share their kill with us.”

“What kill?” She said the words louder than she had intended, and the Indians turned their attention toward her. She wished she had kept quiet. It was obvious they didn’t know what to make of her.

“They were hunting and killed a monkey.” 

“I think I’ll pass.”

“All I had time to gather was some fruit from a cacao tree. Monkey meat is good, especially when there isn’t anything else. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get one. I’m a bit rusty on my hunting skills.”

“How can I eat a monkey when as a child I used to love to read Curious George books?” 

Muttering under his breath about picky eaters who could starve to death, Brock shook his head and walked across the clearing. While the Indians prepared the monkey meat over the fire, Brock picked up his harvest of fruit and moved back to Samantha.

Instead of giving her some cacao fruit, he handed her a cluster of orchids. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Surprised, she didn’t know what to say. She stared at the delicate flowers, a touch of rare beauty in their untamed surroundings. Her throat closed as she reached out and took the cluster. Swallowing hard, she blinked to keep her tears at bay.

Samantha spun away from Brock, not wanting him to see her tears at his unexpected kindness, at his touch of gentleness in their harsh situation. Her tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto the orchids, and she couldn’t stop them.

Silently Brock turned her toward him and drew her close against him, and she cried on his shoulder—for their predicament, for her brother, for Brock’s gesture. Her tears released the tension that had been building since her brother’s phone call two weeks before.

“When I swarmed the cacao tree, I found the orchids and thought you might like them,” Brock whispered when her tears abated.

“Valentine’s Day isn’t today.”

“I never was one to do things when I was supposed to.” He smiled, a crooked half grin that gave the impression he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Now, that I believe,” she said, laughing and feeling a lot better. Brock had a way of making her feel safe even amid a band of Indians who practiced shrinking heads—hopefully years ago.

The leader of the Indians said something to Brock, and he replied, then turned back to Samantha and translated, “The monkey is almost done. Are you sure you don’t want to try some?”

“Absolutely.” Samantha peered around Brock to look at the five Indians who were all staring at her. The chief grinned at her, revealing several missing teeth.

“Did you see what was dangling from the chief’s waist?” she asked as she straightened, using Brock as a shield between herself and the Indians.

“From an enemy tribe. It’s very old, but he likes to wear it as a symbol of his position. A lot of their old beliefs and practices are dying with the encroachment of civilization.”

“Thank goodness! That’s one practice I hope they don’t suddenly decide to revive.”

Brock and Samantha joined the Indians around the fire. She tried to avoid looking at the men eating the monkey meat, especially the leader with his “ornament” about his waist. All her attention was on her cacao fruit, which was tasty.

While she ate, Brock and the Indians talked. She was dying to know what they were discussing until the Indians started laughing. She looked up to find them staring at her again.

“What, or should I say who, were you talking about?”

Brock poked at the fire, adding a stick that didn’t need to be added.

“You were talking about me, weren’t you?”

“Yep.”

When it appeared that he wasn’t going to give any more details, Samantha asked, “What were you saying?” Brock Slader would be a great spy. Information was extremely difficult to drag out of the man.

“The chief was giving me advice on how to handle my woman.” His voice caressed the word woman as his eyes caressed her length.

Samantha was sure her face turned as red as her hair. “And?” She had gone this far, she might as well hear all of it.

“He said I should beat you at least once a day to keep you in line.”

“Beat me!” Her gaze veered to the chief, who gave her a semi-toothless grin. Thank goodness she had some sense left or she would march right over to the man and give him a piece of her mind.

“Sam.”

Brock said her name with such tenderness that her attention was immediately drawn back to him.

“This tribe believes strongly in the husband’s right to punish his wife physically, often cruelly. I don’t condone it, but I’m not in a position to change their cultural beliefs.” His voice was soft, very sober, as were his eyes as they wandered over her features.

“Those poor wives.”

“As I’ve traveled the world, I’ve seen many cruel things done by one human being to another, often condoned by the society they lived in. That’s a part of a ‘book’ I would like to skip over, but it’s an integral part of the whole and not easily taken out.”

She frowned. “And as you said, you aren’t someone who likes to rescue damsels in distress.”

His eyes hardened. “I don’t like to use force. There are ways to change people’s beliefs quietly, subtly. I’ve learned the hard way that force can often backfire on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I once interfered in a fight between a husband and wife in another part of the Amazon. I ended up narrowly escaping with my life and she was exiled from the tribe. I provided for her and she lives at a mission, but she wants to live with her people. But because of me, she can’t. She didn’t appreciate my help. The women must be reeducated as well as the men before anything can be done.”

“You can’t tell me women enjoy being beaten.”

“No, but they don’t know anything else. Remember, these tribes are very isolated and civilization is just starting to touch them.” 

“Thank the Lord for at least that.”

“In the long run it will destroy the Indians and their culture if it keeps up the way it’s going. Their population is quickly dwindling. Their ways, some good ones, are totally different from ours. They aren’t used to our common illnesses. What we can weather often kills them. Nothing’s black or white. There are always gray areas. Advancement is usually a good thing, but it might kill them.” 

Samantha peered at the chief and his warriors and saw them in a different light. They knew the forest and respected it. But their ways were dying. What would their children have to face? Would the people who came to the jungle in the future understand this complex environment? Would they care as the Indians did?

When they had finished eating their breakfast, the Indians offered to help Brock and Samantha portage around the waterfall before heading back to their village. The natives moved quickly and sure-footedly through the dense jungle. Samantha had a hard time keeping up with them. Brock bridged the distance between her and the Indians.

At the bottom of the falls, the Indians put the raft into the river and tied the rope to a tree trunk. Then they bade Brock and Samantha good-bye. Their appearance had disturbed her, and yet for an hour Brock and she had not been alone in the jungle. In a strange way the Indians had made the forest seem less foreign to her. They were people trying to survive in the world just like everyone else, even if she didn’t agree with all their ways.

In the raft again, Brock and Samantha began the long journey down the river, the miles a monotonous repetition of the day before. The sudden, occasional rainstorms forced them to the bank of the river to seek shelter under the overhanging trees. Then when the storm passed as suddenly as it appeared, they continued as before, in silence.

Near noon Samantha decided to end the silence. “Have you always been on your own doing what you’re doing now?”

“Lady, do you always ask so many personal questions?”

“I love unraveling a good mystery.”

“Is there any type of book you don’t like?”

“A bad one,” she countered with a laugh.

He continued to paddle, and she thought about pounding on his back to get his attention. Just when she’d decided that, yet again, he wasn’t going to answer her, he replied, “I used to work for a large oil company in Houston. At the age of thirty I developed an ulcer. That was when I decided I wasn’t cut out to work for anyone else. I love to travel, so I took off to see the world, hoping to make enough money to live on along the way.”

Listening to Brock, Samantha realized he was a wanderer while she was a homebody. She liked security. Brock thrived on living each day with no real regard for tomorrow, like her brother. She loved Mark, but she didn’t understand him. “Don’t you worry about where your next meal will come from?”

“Nope. I always manage.”

“What about your future? Retirement? Roth IRAs?”

“For eight years I played the corporate game, and it was taking its toll on my health. I could have stayed in the game and had a heart attack at forty or I could change the way I lived. I opted for the latter. I don’t worry about my future. It’s useless to worry about the unknown. Wasted energy.”

When the sun was almost directly overhead, they stopped for their siesta and lunch. This time there was no debate about Samantha taking a nap. She was exhausted, not having slept well for days.

Brock slung her hammock. “We’ll stop early for the night. I’m going to try my hand at hunting.”

He was so close that Samantha found herself reaching out and touching his arm. Part of her was shocked at her boldness; part of her was thrilled.

He laid his hand over hers and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip, then her palm. Gently tugging her to him, he took her mouth in a deep mating that rocked her to her core.

When he pulled away, he whispered, “Get some sleep this time, Sam,” then moved to sling his own hammock.

Frustrated, she sank down into her hammock, going over all the reasons she shouldn’t fall in love with Brock Slader. The fact that he was an unemployed geologist with wanderlust in his blood was right up there.

* * *

Samantha awakened before Brock, feeling the grime and dirt of traveling. She dug into her canvas bag for her compact mirror and the makeup that she had tossed into it. There was no rule that said she couldn’t at least keep up appearances as best as she could under the primitive circumstances.

She longed for a manicure and pedicure as well as a facial and shampoo. When she returned to New Orleans, she was going to treat herself to the works. But at the moment all she could do was put on some foundation, powder, and lipstick after she washed up in the river.