shoulders with a shiver. Tomorrow, as soon as it dawned, she would set off towards the east again, and see how far she could get before finding some shelter against the fierce heat of the day.
But now she needed to rest. The next day was going to take as much energy as she possessed. She curled up on the seat, her cheek resting on her hand like a child's. Sleep came more easily than she could have hoped, worn out as she was by the tensions of the past few days and the long struggle with an unfamiliar and often recalcitrant vehicle. She dreamed of Barton Abbas and her childhood, lying in a cornfield and watching a hawk turn in a long slow circle in the blue sky above her. It was peaceful and reassuring, and Nicola's lips curved contentedly as she slept. It was good to be a child again, to let the worries and pressures of adult life slide away. Good to be in a sunlit landscape and watch the hovering hawk—until suddenly the dream tilted sideways into nightmare, where the hawk was swooping, and she was the prey, transfixed and helpless, unable to run or defend herself.
She sat up with a little cry, staring round her. The air in the cab was chill, but she was drenched with sweat, and shaking. What had woken her? she wondered dazedly. The dream—or something else? Some sound?
She reached for the torch and slid across the seat to the door. She climbed down from the cab slowly and gingerly and stood rigidly, her head bent, listening.
Yes, there was a sound. A chinking, scraping sound. She shrank nearer to the bulk of the truck, gripping the torch, and peering into the pool of light still cast by the headlights. The torch was hardly ideal for the function it had been designed for, but it was all she had as a weapon.
Hooves, she thought, still listening intently, her nerves screwed up to screaming point. More cattle? Another burro?
There was a shadow now on the edge of the circle of light, a big dense shadow which moved, and she heard the unmistakable creak of harness, and a soft whinny.
She called out, 'Quien es?'
The shadow moved forward into the light. Dark horse, dark rider, A man, dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his face. Her hand tightened round the torch. He said, 'Que pasa?'
Her body went rigid. Those two laconic syllables had been delivered in a voice which was only too familiar. But it couldn't be true, she argued desperately with herself. Ramon was miles away on his cousin's business. He couldn't be here. Surely fate couldn't play her a trick like that. It was her own nervousness, the fact that she'd just woken up from a bad dream that was making her imagine that it was no one but him confronting her from the back of the tall black gelding.
Almost dizzily she waited for his accusation, and then realisation dawned. He didn't recognise her. How could he? When he'd seen her, she'd been a vivid brunette dressed in pink, speaking Spanish—whereas now...
She said slowly and haltingly with no accent at all, 'Señor—me he perdida!'
‘So you are lost,' he said in English. 'It is hardly surprising. This is not good country to drive in. There is a good road ten kilometres to the south. Why didn't you use that?'
She hesitated. 'I was heading that way—but the truck ran out of fuel.'
'Would it not have been wise to have filled up the tank before starting on your journey?'
'I—I left in rather a hurry,' she said, her heart beating so loudly it seemed impossible that he shouldn't hear it. 'I—I'm also very hungry and thirsty.'
He nodded. 'No gasolene, no food and drink and—-' he looked her over—'no adequate clothing. Even for a crazy turista, you seem singularly badly equipped. Where did you get the truck?'
His tone was hardly sympathetic, but the abruptness of the final question threw her. It would be just her luck if he recognised the damned thing. She would have to be careful.
She said, 'That's a little difficult to explain, señor.'
'Try.' It was a command, not an
But now she needed to rest. The next day was going to take as much energy as she possessed. She curled up on the seat, her cheek resting on her hand like a child's. Sleep came more easily than she could have hoped, worn out as she was by the tensions of the past few days and the long struggle with an unfamiliar and often recalcitrant vehicle. She dreamed of Barton Abbas and her childhood, lying in a cornfield and watching a hawk turn in a long slow circle in the blue sky above her. It was peaceful and reassuring, and Nicola's lips curved contentedly as she slept. It was good to be a child again, to let the worries and pressures of adult life slide away. Good to be in a sunlit landscape and watch the hovering hawk—until suddenly the dream tilted sideways into nightmare, where the hawk was swooping, and she was the prey, transfixed and helpless, unable to run or defend herself.
She sat up with a little cry, staring round her. The air in the cab was chill, but she was drenched with sweat, and shaking. What had woken her? she wondered dazedly. The dream—or something else? Some sound?
She reached for the torch and slid across the seat to the door. She climbed down from the cab slowly and gingerly and stood rigidly, her head bent, listening.
Yes, there was a sound. A chinking, scraping sound. She shrank nearer to the bulk of the truck, gripping the torch, and peering into the pool of light still cast by the headlights. The torch was hardly ideal for the function it had been designed for, but it was all she had as a weapon.
Hooves, she thought, still listening intently, her nerves screwed up to screaming point. More cattle? Another burro?
There was a shadow now on the edge of the circle of light, a big dense shadow which moved, and she heard the unmistakable creak of harness, and a soft whinny.
She called out, 'Quien es?'
The shadow moved forward into the light. Dark horse, dark rider, A man, dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat shadowing his face. Her hand tightened round the torch. He said, 'Que pasa?'
Her body went rigid. Those two laconic syllables had been delivered in a voice which was only too familiar. But it couldn't be true, she argued desperately with herself. Ramon was miles away on his cousin's business. He couldn't be here. Surely fate couldn't play her a trick like that. It was her own nervousness, the fact that she'd just woken up from a bad dream that was making her imagine that it was no one but him confronting her from the back of the tall black gelding.
Almost dizzily she waited for his accusation, and then realisation dawned. He didn't recognise her. How could he? When he'd seen her, she'd been a vivid brunette dressed in pink, speaking Spanish—whereas now...
She said slowly and haltingly with no accent at all, 'Señor—me he perdida!'
‘So you are lost,' he said in English. 'It is hardly surprising. This is not good country to drive in. There is a good road ten kilometres to the south. Why didn't you use that?'
She hesitated. 'I was heading that way—but the truck ran out of fuel.'
'Would it not have been wise to have filled up the tank before starting on your journey?'
'I—I left in rather a hurry,' she said, her heart beating so loudly it seemed impossible that he shouldn't hear it. 'I—I'm also very hungry and thirsty.'
He nodded. 'No gasolene, no food and drink and—-' he looked her over—'no adequate clothing. Even for a crazy turista, you seem singularly badly equipped. Where did you get the truck?'
His tone was hardly sympathetic, but the abruptness of the final question threw her. It would be just her luck if he recognised the damned thing. She would have to be careful.
She said, 'That's a little difficult to explain, señor.'
'Try.' It was a command, not an
Similar Books
My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past
Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair
