Rainbows and Rapture by Rebecca Paisley Page B

bein’ irritated with us. ’Course, sometimes he fergits, and then he acts nice. He cain’t stand niceness, so when he realizes he’s bein’ nice, he starts hollerin’ and bein’ ugly. The man has a temper shorter’n a gnat’s eyebrow.”
    Santiago heard every word she uttered. “I didn’t invite you to accompany me on this hunt, Russia. I made it clear to you this morning that I’m a loner . So if you don’t want to continue this journey with me, fine. Just pack up and—”
    “Look at him, Chickles,” she said to her cat. “He’s so damn mad, he’s stiffer’n a preacher’s prick. You reckon he’s ever gonna decide to like us?”
    “ Santa Maria , what is there about you for me to like?” he roared, totally fed up with her. “You’re sassy-mouthed, stubborn, devious, clumsy, and worst of all, you’re a whore! ”
    The last word he shouted impaled her like a flaming lance, burning her with shame. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. “Yeah?” She tried to yell the word at him, but it came out on a strangled quiver. “Well, what’s there about you fer me to like? You’re impatient, arrogant, and worstest of all, you prob’ly snore! ”
    As he watched her bury herself beneath her covers, her accusation echoed in his mind. You probably snore! Was the possibility of his snoring really the most terrible thing she could say about him?
    Her sniffling broke through his tangled thoughts, and he realized she was crying. Her little weeping noises sounded so sad to him. He didn’t want them to sound that way and couldn’t understand why they did.
    He’d just ignore her stupid tears, that was what he’d do. He stretched out on his bed.
    He could still hear her soft crying. He could hear her stomach growling, too.
    Well, who the hell cared if she was sad and hungry?
    A muffled sob escaped her.
    He glared at her huddled form. If she was waiting for him to apologize for what he’d said, she’d wait forever. Why should he say he was sorry anyway? She was sassy-mouthed, stubborn, devious, and clumsy. And yes, worst of all, she was a whore. Whores were contemptible. He hated them all.
    He hated Russia. She was a strumpet, he hated her, and nothing she said, did, or thought would erase his reasons for hating her and all her kind.
    He was glad she was sad. Glad she was hungry, too.
    “Stop crying,” he ordered.
    She still ached with humiliation. Her feelings continued to sting. It was a very long while before she was able to obey his command. Finally, sheer exhaustion overcame her.
    Sleep was almost upon her when she heard Santiago approach. She sensed that the toe of his boot was almost touching her nose. Then she heard a small noise, like he was putting something on the ground near her bed. When she heard him walk away, curiosity forced her to open her eyes.
    Beside her mattress lay a plateful of bread and raisins.
     
    * * *
     
    “Ants!”
    Russia’s scream awakened Santiago from a dead sleep. Before his eyes were even completely open, his Colts were in his hands. Flinging off his blankets, he raced toward her, the faint glimmer of dawn lighting his way. “What the hell is it?” he thundered. “What’s the mat—”
    “Ants!” Kicking and flailing her legs, she tried to get her quilt off. But it was wrapped around her, and instead of removing it, her battle only wound it more tightly around her prone body.
    With one powerful yank, Santiago ripped it off, the action causing her to roll several feet away. When she stilled, his eyes widened.
    Red ants were crawling all over her. In an instant, he was at her side. He knelt beside her and proceeded to roll her all around on the ground. His efforts succeeded in wiping many of the ants off her nightgown, but he could still see some underneath it. Without a second’s hesitation, he snatched the flimsy gown off. His hands stinging from the numerous bites he received, he slid them firmly over Russia’s bare body, crushing the insects beneath his palms. When he