The Sheik's Safety. Dana Marton
chances were she was in league with the thieves. Her proximity to the cave when he had found her certainly pointed in that direction.
She had come to steal from him, then had a fallout with her partners in crime who’d left her in the desert for dead. If that was the case, she could hardly reveal her identity to anyone. But with time, if she came to trust him… For a suitable reward she might be willing to give up those who had betrayed her.
But not anytime soon. She was completely limp in his arms. He tightened his hold on her to make sure she wouldn’t slip out of the saddle now that she was out again.
The wadi they rode in deepened, until he could no longer see out. He didn’t mind. If someone drove across the sand at a distance they wouldn’t see him, but he would be able to hear the noise of their motor. And they were close to camp now. That, too, made him more comfortable.
Soon he would be able to see the small rocky jebel, not even a hill but more of a tall outcropping of stones, that protected the encampment from the wind on the east side. A small path led down, steep but doable. Hawk could manage just about any terrain.
He turned the horse up the familiar incline when they reached it. Another few feet and they were high enough so he could see over the bank. And saw the men. He pulled on Hawk’s rein, and without a word, made the horse retreat, then stopped him when he was sure they were back out of sight again. There were people on the ledge above the encampment, two Jeeps with seven men that he had counted.
Not his people.
Had he been alone, he would have crept closer to investigate; as it was, he had to go around, miles out of his way, to get all the way behind the camp without being seen.
He managed, pushing Hawk more than he should have, worried he might lose the stranger in his arms.
DARA STARED at the enormous weaving to her left that hung from the black ceiling of the opulent tent, dividing it in half. Willing the pain in her shoulder to go away, she let her gaze glide over the vibrant colors that made up the slightly off, ornate pattern in the badly woven material. She had fleeting memories of a woman, wrapped in black from head to toe, bending over her. What happened to her?
Sunlight filtered through the cloth panels, the voices of distant chatter coming from outside. Déjà vu. She shook her head to clear it of the memories of summers she had spent on the reservation when she was young. She had loved her mother’s Lenape heritage as a small child, hated it as a teenager, denied it as an adult. Maybe if her mother hadn’t abandoned her father and her when she was twelve, it would have been different.
She sealed off the thought and the feelings it brought with practiced ease and sat up, noticing for the first time the indigo dress of fine linen that reached to her ankles. And panicked. Somebody had dressed her, which meant she’d been undressed first. The voices rose outside. Women. There were women around. She relaxed and straightened her dress, letting her fingers glide over the soft material. It had been a while since she had worn one. She was used to army fatigues.
Because she was a soldier, she reminded herself, annoyed because she liked the dress. She didn’t miss that kind of stuff. Didn’t need it. She stood and looked around. She had the skills to get out of here with or without help, trained for not only fight but escape and evasion. Other than her shoulder and a mild burning sensation around her right eye, she was fine.
Kilim carpets covered some of the sand; colorful bags hung from the tent posts; a handful of large pots and pans lay around the ashes of the cooking fire. A strange loom stretched to her right, a half-finished black-and-red cloth on it. She looked for a weapon. A small kitchen knife would have done. Nothing.
She rubbed her right eye, her stomach growling. God, she was hungry. And thirsty. She glanced at the plastic containers in the corner and hoped they held water.
Some kind of funky butter in the first, tea leaves in the second, an aromatic spice in the third. She popped the lid off the last one and sighed in relief.
The water going down her throat felt like heaven. She drank as much as she dared and stopped far from being satisfied. She was in the middle of the desert. When she left, she had to take as much water with her as she could.
She remembered the men at the oasis, the fight, Saeed. She needed to figure out where she was, get her hands on some food and water, borrow or steal a car, or at least a horse. She wasn’t sure she could manage a camel, but if it came to that, she’d sure as hell try.
Voices rose and fell outside like music. She could make contact and hope they were friendly and would help her with supplies, or sneak away before anyone realized she had come to. She looked through a small gap in the outer panel of the tent where time had loosened the threads of the weaving.
She could see another dozen tents from her vantage point, a couple of men around an open fire, armed as if for war, with bullet-studded belts looped over their shoulders and rifles lying across their knees or in the sand next to them.
A sudden noise behind her made her spin around into a crouch, ready to fight.
A small boy of five or so stood by the tent divider, wearing a colorful dress, his large brown eyes rounded at the sight of her. She straightened and smiled, not wanting to scare him.
He watched her with open curiosity, unruly black curls framing his head, gold glinting at his ears. After a few seconds of perusal, he spoke in Arabic.
Dara smiled and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m Salah. Are you my new teacher?”
“No,” she said.
His big brown eyes rounded even larger. “Is my father going to marry you?”
“Absolutely not. I’m just visiting.”
He visibly relaxed. “That’s what Fatima said. She says Father will marry for alliance between the tribes. He can’t marry a foreigner. It wouldn’t be any use at all.”
Dara blinked at so much practicality coming from such a little person. Who was Fatima? Probably one of the boy’s father’s wives.
“Is your father Saeed?”
The boy nodded.
The fact that there were women and children around set her at ease. She didn’t think it would be so at a renegade terrorist camp. Saeed had saved her life by carrying her out of the desert. And he had said he would help her to get to the city once she was better. She would just have to convince him she was better now. She had no time to waste.
“Can you take me to your father, Salah?”
The child shook his head. “He’s with the elders. I’ll call Fatima and Lamis and then he can talk to you when he comes back.”
Of course. Although Beharrain was a progressive country, in most regions the old traditions held fast. Women did not keep company with men unless they were related. She had read the culture advisory report, all twenty pages of its dos and don’ts before deployment.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that.”
The child ran off, and Dara stepped to one of the tent poles, felt around inside the woven bags that hung from it. Clothes, yarn, some funky tools she couldn’t recognize—maybe for cooking or weaving—none of them suitable as a weapon. Damn it. She needed to be ready in case she couldn’t bring Saeed around to take her to Tihrin right away. She needed food and water, transportation, and weapons for self-defense.
She stepped away from the bags a split second before two young women came in, one around twenty, the other a year or two younger, introducing themselves as Fatima and Lamis. They wore beautiful dresses, one purple, one dark green with gold thread designs. They brought food and water, and set it in front of her.
“How are you?” Fatima, the older one, asked with a pronounced accent. She was stunning. Her ebony hair reached to the middle of her back, visible through the sheer black scarf that covered it. “Please let me know if you don’t like this.” She pointed to the