to do that,” she flashed. “My new husband might not like it.”
“That’s true,” he answered. “He might miss it, and it could lower your bride price. So, keep your tongue and drink your tea. Or I shall pour it down your throat.”
The cup was pushed toward her face again and this time Tally took it. “If I drink the tea, you’ll leave?”
His dark gaze met hers and held. The corner of his mouth lifted, a faint wry acknowledgment of the battle between them. “Yes.”
And yet still she hesitated. “And if I die out here of dysentery, will you at least promise me a Christian burial?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I can’t promise that, but I will take your ashes to Casablanca.”
Tally wasn’t sure if she should be reassured or troubled by his faint smile. He wasn’t a particularly smiley-kind of guy. “Fine, I’ll drink it. But then you go.” Quickly she downed the now lukewarm tea, scrunching her nose and mouth at the bitter taste but at the same time grateful for the liquid. Her throat had been parched and one cup wasn’t going to be enough, but it was a start. “There. Done.”
He rose, but didn’t leave immediately. Instead he stood above her, gazing down at her. “By the way, we may be bedraggled barbarians and bandits, but all our water is boiled. Any water we cook with or drink is always boiled. You might get parasites in town, but you won’t get any parasites from me.”
And smiling—smiling!—Tair walked out. As he left the tent, Tally grabbed a pillow, pressed it to her face and screamed in vexation.
He couldn’t keep her here! He couldn’t. And he couldn’t be serious about finding a husband for her. My God. That was just the worst.
She gripped the pillow hard. But what if he never returned her to town? What if he just kept her here? What if he were serious about marrying her off?
She shuddered, appalled.
Her lack of communication with her world back in the States made her situation doubly frightening.
The fact was, there was no one who’d even think to worry if she disappeared from the face of the earth.
Raised in a tiny town at the base of the Cascade Mountains in Washington, Tally had lived at home far longer than she’d ever meant to stay but once she’d left North Bend, she’d gone far away.
Her mother sometimes joked that the only time she heard from Tally was the annual Christmas cards Tally sent documenting her travels. One Christmas card was a misty hand-tinted shot of ancient Machu Picchu high in the mountains of Peru. Another year it was the sun rising in Antarctica. Last year’s card was a child born with AIDS in sub-Sahara Africa.
Once Paolo was the one who would have cared. It was Paolo who taught her to rock climb and sail, Paolo who’d taught her to face her fears and not be afraid. But Paolo wasn’t around anymore and since losing him all those years ago Tally had never tried to replace him.
Love hadn’t ever come easily for Tally and one broken heart was more than enough. And not that she would have married Paolo, but if she’d wanted a husband—and that was a huge if—it would have been him. And only him. But with him gone, marriage was out of the question.
Tossing aside the pillow, Tally forced herself to eat even as she struggled to remember who she last spoke with, whom she’d written, and the last e-mails she’d sent from the Internet café in Atiq a month ago.
Did anyone even know she was still in Northern Africa? Her editor might, but they hadn’t communicated in weeks.
No, keeping in touch wasn’t her forte. While she loved taking pictures, she didn’t like writing and most of her e-mails were brief one-liners. In Israel, went diving in the Red Sea. Or, Arrived in Pakistan, took a bus through Harappa, have never been so hot in my entire life.
Tally now stared glumly at the breakfast tray. She was going to pay for her laissez-faire attitude, wasn’t she?
The older man was outside her tent again, calling to her, saying something she didn’t understand as he spoke with an accent or in a dialect she’d never heard before. But before she could answer, he’d entered the tent, carrying a relatively large copper tub. He placed the tub on the carpet, indicated that he’d go and return and when he returned he had help. Three men carried pitchers of water.
A bath.
So something she’d said to Tair had sunk in. Thrilled, Tally watched as the elderly man filled the tub with the pitchers of steaming water and left behind a soft soap and towel. The bath wasn’t particularly deep, and not exactly hot, but it was warm water and she had a bar of soap, a soap that reminded her of olive oil and citrus. She washed her hair, soaped up and down and by the time she rinsed off, the water was cold but she felt marvelous. Marvelous until she realized she had nothing but her dirty clothes to put back on.
Regretfully Tally dressed in her clothes, combed her fingers through her hair, pulling the wet strands back from her face and then looked around the tent. She was sick of the tent. She’d been here for not even a day and she already hated it.
So enough of the tent. She was heading out to explore the camp.
From the moment she pushed the goatskin flap up and exited her tent, stepping into the startling bright sunlight, Tally became aware of the eyes of the men in camp on her. It was obvious they didn’t approve of her wandering around but no one made a move toward her. No one spoke to her and no one detained her. They pretty much let her do as she pleased.
The camp was actually bigger than it first appeared. There were over a dozen tents, and several large open ones with scattered rugs and pillows and Tally guessed these were the places the men gathered to eat and socialize.
A mangy three-legged dog hopped around after her and Tally considered discouraging the dog but then decided she liked the company. And it was her first friend.
Crouching down, Tally scratched under the dog’s chin and then behind one ear. “If I had my camera working, I’d take a picture of you.” The dog wagged its tail that looked half gnawed. “Poor dog. You look just as bad as this camp does.”
And the camp did look bad. She’d never seen anything like this place. It was poor. Stark. Depressing. And once again she thought she’d give anything to have one of the memory cards back because she’d love to photograph the camp. The stained tents with the backdrop of sand dunes and kneeling camels would make amazing pictures.
Suddenly she heard a now familiar voice—the old Berber man—and he was running toward her with long cotton fabric draped over his arm.
Tally didn’t know what he was saying but once he unfurled one of the strips of fabric and she saw it was a robe she knew he wanted her to cover up.
“No, thank you,” she said, shaking her hands and head. “I’m fine.”
But he insisted and the more he insisted the more adamant Tally was that she wouldn’t wear the black robe and head covering. “No,” she said more firmly, even as she began to wonder just where Tair was. She’d walked the circumference of the camp twice without spotting him once.
“Tair,” she said to the old man. “Where is he?”
The
