Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,46
trying—these boots are too big.”
He paused, waiting for her to catch up. But she was tiring, her gait shortening, and she was stumbling repeatedly in the oversize men’s boots. It was wasting her energy. The wool socks he’d given her were good, but she was going to get blisters. Still, she’d have to live with some pain if she wanted to get out of this alive.
Again he berated himself for losing the jeep, losing focus. For letting her get under his skin and pry into his life. As he waited for her to catch up, tension torqued tighter—this was not a good place to linger. The grass was long and tight here, and he worried about lions. He touched the hilt of his panga, then his knife, then his pouch with the bullets, mentally keeping track where everything was as he scanned the long grasses, watching for the slight twitch of a flattened ear, the flick of a dark tail, Brandt concentrated on the ambient sounds of the bush, listening for the sound of a gray lorie, the warning cough of an impala or the alarm whistle of a zebra.
Stay aware, Stryker. Don’t lose it again.
When Dalilah reached him she was sweating and breathing hard, and she bent over, bracing her hand on her knee.
Brandt uncapped the water pouch, held it out.
“Drink.”
“There are nicer ways to order people about,” she snapped, snatching the water and drinking thirstily before he stopped her, taking it back.
“Got to ration it,” he said, recapping the pouch.
“You’re not having any?”
“Not until we find a new source. Maybe up there. See?” He pointed to a dark line bisecting the looming cliff face. “That could be a small waterfall, especially after the rains last night.”
She squinted up, trying to catch her breath. “I need to sit for a minute.”
His jaw tightened.
“Please.”
Brandt relented. “Just for a second, okay? It’s not a good place.”
She lowered herself onto a rock, taking her hat off and dragging her hand over her hair. Despite the dust, it still gleamed rich blue-black in the sunlight. Her skin was glowing from exertion. Brandt felt he was going mad—she was more beautiful to him by the second. It was driving him to distraction—bewitched by the exotic princess.
She looked up with those big liquid black eyes fringed by long lashes.
“What are you thinking?”
He shook himself. “Nothing,” he said, unhooking the GPS from his belt, and rechecking their route, waypoints.
“If you’ve got satellite coverage for that—” she jerked her chin at his GPS “—a satellite phone could have worked out here.”
“Too bad I lost mine while saving your ass at the lodge, huh?”
Her mouth flattened. She glanced away, watched a row of red ants carrying pieces of some dead animal.
He hooked the GPS back. “Ready?”
She said nothing, but got to her feet, clearly spent.
Brandt set a slightly slower pace so she could keep up, but losing time ate at him. The sun was moving in its arc over the sky, and shadows were growing longer already—they needed to get up that cliff before darkness fell.
“What do you farm, Brandt?” Dalilah called from behind after a while. “How much land do you have?”
The question startled him. He’d hoped she’d given up poking into his personal life.
“Big enough.”
“For what? Game? Cattle? Maize?”
Brandt wanted to remain silent, keep to himself, but on another level he knew talking would keep her mind off things. “My land forms part of a privately held game conservation area,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a block of about ten kilometers by twenty.”
“So...” She jogged a little to keep up, her voice breathless. “You offer game viewing?”
“Not in my segment.”
“But your neighbors do?”
“I never see them.”
“I mean, do your neighbors run safaris?”
Irritation sliced through him. “Yeah.”
“Do you ever plan to?”
He stopped, spun round. “No, because I don’t like people, Dalilah. Running camps for idiot tourists who ask too many stupid questions would drive me mad.”
She had the audacity to smile. “You’re already mad.”
Brandt glared at her. “I’m thinking postal.”
She met his glare. “I bet you weren’t always like this.”
“Like what?”
“Bitter and twisted.”
He wiped sweat from his brow. “And what makes you so sure?”
“I also bet that you’re trying to grow things on your land.”
“So now you’re psychic?”
“You called it a farm.”
He moistened his lips.
“So, what are you trying to farm?”
“Have you forgotten we’ve got killers on our ass? Come on, we need to move.” He resumed marching, faster now, hotter under the collar, part of him trying to escape her, even as he needed to