“Yeah...it makes me happy,” she snapped, though she looked anything but.
He regarded her intently, nodded his head, then turned and began to march on.
Dalilah felt sick. She couldn’t move. He’d laid it all out right there. She couldn’t do it—she couldn’t marry Haroun. Tension coiled in her gut. But she couldn’t call it off now, either. It was a binding contract, a treaty between countries. Her brother, King Zakir, was relying on it, so was his King’s Council—her whole family. Her nation.
“You coming or what?” he yelled over his shoulder.
“I didn’t ask for your approval,” she called after him. “I don’t care what you think!”
He spun around again. “So why’d you just tell me all this? Why’d you kiss me like that, Dalilah, huh? What are you not getting with Haroun Hassan?”
She swallowed. She’d fallen right into it. She’d set herself up.
She turned her back to him, looked out over the gold grass, the big sky, the route they’d traveled. Immobilized. Trapped.
“Dalilah?”
She couldn’t move. Tears filled her eyes and she wouldn’t let him see.
“Dalilah?” She felt his touch, gentle on her shoulder.
Her heart began slamming against her ribs. She felt dizzy. Confused. It was fatigue, she told herself. Critical incident stress. She waited until her vision came fully back into focus.
Then she turned. Spine stiffening, she lifted her chin, met his eyes and forced a dry laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself about that kiss. Like you said, an itch to scratch.”
He moistened his lips, nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.
A bird flew overhead, big wings whooshing, a momentary shadow.
He swung his rifle back onto his shoulder, muzzle aimed into the air, and resumed his stride into the veldt.
“Damn you,” she muttered softly in Arabic. Then she cursed herself—why should she even care about explaining herself to this broad-chested mutt? Why did she want his approval so desperately?
But she knew why. She liked Brandt—there was something about him she respected, and there was a profoundness buried in him.
Most of all, she was trying to explain it to herself, and he was the punching bag in the way. And a catalyst.
They neared the bottom of the cliff and it loomed even higher than Dalilah had anticipated. The red rocks trapped the heat of the sun, radiating it back like an oven.
Dust devils swirled near the base, fine sand sticking to perspiration on Dalilah’s skin. The game trail to the approach petered out, and grass grew shoulder-high, scrub dense.
Brandt stopped, shaded his eyes, searching for a route up.
She heard a sneeze in the grass to her left and froze. Brandt spun around, lowered his rifle and clicked off the safety, attention trained on the grass.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He put his finger to his mouth.
Another sneeze.
“Impala,” he whispered. “Warning.”
A group of antelope suddenly flew at them from the grass. Dalilah shrieked and ducked as the buck leaped high and over her, violently kicking backward with his rear legs.
Brandt ignored the impala, aiming his gun at the vacated grass.
Her gaze shot to him in fear.
“Wild dogs,” he whispered. “That rocking-horse jump makes it harder for the dogs to grab their stomachs and disembowel them.”
The dog pack was only seconds behind the impala—small mottled black-and-tan predators with huge ears, white tail tips, snarling teeth as they gave full chase.
Dalilah heard a terrible gurgling death rasp as somewhere in the long grass the pack sank their teeth into an unlucky antelope and began ripping it apart alive. She grabbed Brandt’s arm, blood draining from her head and bile rising in her throat as she listened to the wet tearing, ripping grunts and growls.
“Nasty way to go,” he whispered. “That sound will attract bigger predators. We need to move fast.” Taking her hand, Brandt led her at a fast trot to the steaming base of the cliff, not letting her go for a minute. Dalilah was grateful because she felt she’d just hit rock bottom in every way, and was crashing hard.
At the cliff base, she slumped onto a rock, put her face in her hand. She wanted to cry, just release everything inside, but she also wanted to hold it all in. She began to shake. Brandt placed his hand, large, firm, calming, on her shoulder.
The tears welled.
He looked up at the sky, and she knew he was at a loss to know how to handle her. And he had to be tired, too.
Then, as if making a decision, he lowered himself onto the hot rock next to her and tentatively put his arm around her. Then he committed, pulling her tightly against his body.
Dalilah leaned into him, drawing comfort from his solid strength, his confidence, the steady beat of his heart, and she let the tears come.