What Others Are Saying About This Book:

“The tale grabs my interest from the beginning, and keeps me reading.  This is an entertaining story, just real enough to make me think, “Well, I guess it could happen,” and just improbable enough to set my own imagination to spinning daydreams.  If you like romance novels, you’re in for a treat.  If you like a heroine that isn’t quite predictable, this is the book for you.” 

--Andrea Chester, AbsoluteWrite.com 

“This is a wonderfully written story about two people from diverse cultures who learn that love can be the common ground for a lot of things when given a chance to grow. The author describes the Almach ceremony in such detail I felt as though I was there.” 

--Jaycee at Romance Reviews Today (http://romrevtoday.com )

 Beth Ann Erickson has done an outstanding job with her narrative and protagonists. Against odds that this couple would ever meet, the love they share is beautiful. THE ALMACH is an entertaining read with an interesting premise and well-drawn secondary characters.

--Betty Cox, Member Reviewers International Organization (RIO)

FIVE Star Review at Amazon.com:

GREAT Read, VIVID imagery
Reviewer: Penny  from Nebraska
This book is a wonderful book filled with imagery so vivid one starts to wonder "Where is Loran & are there any men like Jonathan still living there?" I recommend it very highly!!

FIVE Star Review at Amazon.com:

The Almach

Reviewer: Rosanna Mouser from Lubbock,TX USA
I was intrigued by the ceremony from the first mention of it. While the developing romance will have your heart pounding, the timely setting will send chills up and down your spine.

“I've finished the book it was great!!! I liked how your story line brought the reader into the book. Its almost like I could feel the sand. I'm looking forward to reading your next book!!! --Junebug – A Reader.

 "The Almach provides ample reading pleasure and more than enough adventure for any lazy afternoon."

--Denise Clark for the Road to Romance

 
The Almach

Copyright © 2001 Beth Ann Erickson

 All Rights Reserved

 ISBN 0-9710796-0-9

Published 2001

Second Printing 2003

Published by Filbert Publishing, Box 326, Kandiyohi, Mn, 56251, USA. 2001 Beth Ann Erickson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Almach

Beth Ann Erickson

Dedication:

 This one’s for my folks. Mom and Dad, you never gave up on me. You always encouraged me and never let me stop sending out those queries. You did everything you could to make sure hope didn’t die. You’ve put up with this dreamer for many years. And all I can say is “Thanks….” 

For Maury: You keep me grounded. When I’m deep in my stories, you pull me back to earth and make sure I experience life. I’m lucky to have you in my life. 

To my Gogi Monster: You’re my inspiration. I think you’ve taught me more than I’ve taught you. Always remember, who’s my sunshine? Who makes me happy? Who’s the luckiest mom in the world? Why? 

Sharon, Penny, and Janet: I don’t believe anybody has a cheering section like you three. The healer, the nurturer, and the educator – you’re three gifted women who make the world a better place. And I’m lucky enough to call you all “Sister.” 

Beverly, you’re my inspiration. You never give up, never give up, never give up – no matter what. And you’re a pretty grand lady to boot…. 

John L.: Thanks for everything. I’ve never had a better writing coach…. 

Finally, to little BJ. You were with me when The Almach exploded in my mind. You were my companion through every rejection and every encouraging moment. How sad I am that you aren’t with me any more. 

And to Lucy: You aren’t BJ – and you don’t even try to compete with him. You’re my new writing partner and you’re doing a fine job. Just quit chewing my reference books….

Adversity with his pick

mines the heart, but he is a cunning

workman. He hollows out new chambers

of joy to abide in, when he is gone.

-Author Unknown

 The Almach

Part I

Zadok Awakens

Horab – The Middle East – 2000

Chapter 1

The sound cut through her psyche all morning. That pitiful cry. Piercing the air – frantic and frightened – carried into her quarters by the hot wind. No matter how she tried to push it from her attention, every wail pierced her mind. Every time she walked past her window, she couldn’t help but steal a glance. A kitten.

It struggled, tangled in vines next to an olive tree just outside a fence surrounding the compound. Its pitiful moans weakened as the morning progressed.

"Why won’t somebody help that poor creature,” she thought, gazing through her window.

The kitten lay on its side, chest heaving. The shade from the olive tree crept away from the little mass of fur and it wouldn’t be long until the sun would beat its fiery fists on the tiny body. But it was the wind that seemed to torture it the most. It was like the breath of Satan blasting burning sand on the defenseless kitten.

"Somebody's gotta help that thing," she mourned aloud.

"Don't do it, Ms Andrews."

Turning, she faced the maid assigned to her for this visit.

“Don't do it,” the maid continued, “The Queen has strict orders that no one leaves the mansion.”

“But it's just a kitten," she glanced towards the window.

"Stay inside." The servant shook her head, “It’s dangerous out there.”

She leaned on the windowsill to better observe the sad sight. The kitten’s chest heaved as sand blasted its body. It wheezed, struggling for oxygen devoid of debris. It snorted in an attempt to clear its nose. But its effort was fruitless. Grains of sand lodged everywhere, matting its hair, clogging its ears, and lodging within the damp corners of its eyes. The kitten mourned aloud. It was obvious to Ms Andrews that it would soon become too exhausted to fight the force of nature.

Her laptop computer beeped – battery needed re-charging again. Damn thing. Even with all the “Power-save Options” activated, the battery always died sooner than she expected. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the kitten.

What harm could come from slipping outside for just a moment to help the little creature? She had to do something. Something soon. "Fine," she stated flatly, "I'll stay up here and watch it die."

"He'll be fine. You wouldn't believe how hardy those little cats can be," stated the maid, "Besides, it would be a greater loss if we were to lose you. It's not often someone of your stature comes to our small country.” The computer beeped again. The servant glanced towards the laptop as she continued, “The King has insured your safety while you’re with us. Stay in your room and forget the cat."

     “A person of my stature,” she chuckled to herself, “They must not get many visitors…” She gazed out the window again. “Fine,” she sighed, “I’ll stay put. Now I'd appreciate if you'd leave me a while. I've found this incessant meowing to be very tiring.” She turned from the horrible sight and wandered to her desk. She paused briefly then touched the “power” button on her computer. It beeped once before the screen turned black.

"If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know," the servant nodded as she padded from the room.

After the servant left, she placed the laptop in her suitcase, laid down, and closed her eyes. “I won’t allow that cat to die,” she mused, “The people in this country obviously don’t value the life of animals, but I do.”

She decided to close her eyes and wait until the servant was convinced she was sleeping. Then the maid would hopefully leave to do some of her other duties. When she was gone, she’d slip out the door, down the hall and towards the servant’s entrance of the fortress.

She closed her eyes and waited. She listened to the maid outside her bedroom door chatting with someone on a cordless telephone. “God, when will she quit?” she thought as the kitten’s cries weakened. Finally, after disconnecting, the servant crept into the bedchamber. She tiptoed to the bed and paused. She leaned over and examined Ms Andrews. Her breathing seemed strong and regular. The maid touched her. No reaction. After scanning the bedroom, she scampered out of the room.

With the servant gone, Ms Andrews sprinted out of the bed and scrambled out of the bedchambers, sneaking down halls and through doors until finally slipping outside. She dived behind a shrub and took a moment to catch her breath. She paused to check out her surroundings. She didn’t notice anything unusual. She focused her eyes on her target.

The kitten laid just beyond a metal structure – probably a storage shed – and the iron fence. If she were to creep past the metal structure, she could easily squeeze between two of the fence bars and untangle the kitten. Then she’d scoop it into her arms and scrunch back to safety.

"Should only take a few minutes," she thought, scanning the area outside the gate. She didn’t see anything unusual but continued to scan, making sure her assessment of the situation was correct. Sand pelted her eyes making tears roll down her cheeks. She imagined how awful the cat felt as she squinted at it. Her gaze shifted to the left, then the right. Still, nothing out of the ordinary was visible for hundreds of yards -- only tan sand expanded forever beyond the wooded compound area surrounded by the fence. She breathed deep to strengthen her resolve. It should be easy.

She rose to her feet and planned her path to the kitten. She counted to three, then sprinted to the metal building. She squatted and glanced around. Still nothing unusual for as far as she could see. Her movement hadn’t aroused the attention of any guards. She wondered where the parameter guard was. From this vantage point she could see further. She scanned the area until a movement caught her eye. She saw the guard entering the fortress with someone. Someone she recognized. Her maid. She smiled. Her servant would help the kitten after all – she’d keep the guard occupied while she executed her rescue plan.

She popped to her feet, crouching as she sprinted to the fence. She paused, wind whipping her hair into a whirlwind before breathing deep then squeezing through two of the metal rails. It was a tighter fit than she’d anticipated. “Shit, gotta lose weight,” she mumbled, pushing her torso through what now felt like the eye of a needle. Pulling her rib cage between the rails she snagged her new silk blouse, losing two buttons in the process. “Damn,” she mumbled as she wrenched her torso through the rails, “hope I can get back through again.” She sat, leaning against the fence for a moment catching her breath before glancing to her right and left. Nothing unusual…. She smiled, feeling smug, as she stooped to scratch the kitten’s ear.

“C’mon little fella,” she murmured, “Let’s get out of here.”

The moment her hand touched the cat, a hand flew out from under the sand and grabbed her wrist. She gasped and tried to shout for help, but another hand flew from beneath the sand and pulled her head to the ground with a thud. Blinded and groping for a way of escape, more hands grabbed her ankles and flailing arm. Somebody gagged her mouth and threw a long burlap bag over her head, shoulders, reaching all the way to her knees. Then they hoisted her, carrying her like a roll of carpet, and scurried away from the kitten who still lay meowing, complaining, tangled in the vines behind her. Within moments, any evidence of her attempted rescue of the cat was blown away by the harsh wind.

She heard labored breathing as she was carried away from the fortress. She jerked furiously until someone cuffed her alongside her head. Still, she didn’t give up.

Finally, they paused and chattered in a language she didn’t understand. She felt ropes entwine her arms tight against her body. Then she felt herself get tossed onto a large creature. It felt like it could be a horse. Lying on her belly, with her arms bound tight, she lay draped over this horse-type creature knowing that if she were to wiggle too much, she could tumble onto her head. That would mean instant paralysis or even death. Her mind swam trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Muffled voices babbled. Finally the animal stomped the ground and whinnied. Someone mounted the animal and placed their hand on her backside. Anger ripped through her body. She struggled in protest but he only chuckled, squeezed her buttock and fumbled with the bands that held the sack to her. She figured he was probably attaching her bag to what was some sort of saddle. He spurred the horse, jerking it ahead and bouncing her. She figured she’d eventually fall off the creature and die. After an hour or so of bouncing like a rag doll, she actually felt rather thankful for that firm hand on her butt.

They galloped at break neck speed for what seemed like an eternity. Nausea began to creep through her body as black inkiness swirled through her mind. She felt her glasses slip off her face and land in the top of the sack. The sound of meowing echoed through her ears. Sand gritted between her teeth. She began to choke. The words, "God, why didn't I listen to the maid," echoed through her mind just before she passed out.

*****

She opened her eyes and found herself back in the States, arguing with her editor.

"Warren, I can't make that change in Chapter 2 -- it's one of the best supports for my theme!" She hated when he wanted to make major changes in her manuscripts.

"Your theme is too complicated anyway. Nobody wants to read anything that's so confusing! Lighten it up,” he sipped his cappuccino.

"How am I supposed to do that? All the research indicates that…." she adjusted her blazer preparing to go into one of her well-prepared speeches that effectively castrated any male within hearing distance. He crossed his legs and interrupted her.

“The average reader is unimpressed with ‘all that research.’ Go out and get some real life experience. You've spent so much time in that god-damned lab with those god-damned scientists testing god-damned theories that I think you've forgotten what it's like out here; out here in the real world. If you want to write about the life and politics of Horab, then GO there and experience it. I've had it with all these theories. I’ve had it up to here,” his index finger cut an imaginary line across his throat, “with those intellectual egg-heads you’ve befriended." He was obviously angry but attempted to demonstrate an air of calmness.

Warren Bessman had been Penny Andrew’s editor for well over a decade. What had started out as a brilliant career was now fast evolving into mediocrity. He’d watched her abandon her dreams. He’d seen her begin to fear the real world and had watched her embrace the sterile existence of labs and theories. Penny used to be one of his best writers. Now her work was dry and lifeless, completely without imagination. He uncrossed his legs.

"I can't go to Horab,” she retorted, “It's too dangerous. You know that peace in the Middle East is touch-and-go right now and travelers are discouraged from going there. I don’t know a single travel agent who’ll recommend a visit to Horab or anywhere near there for that matter."

"Life is dangerous,” he shrugged, “maybe some exotic travel will ignite some passion in you. I've read the manuscript. I think you've become too subjective living in your safe little world. You need to get out and experience life. I'm not going to publish this piece of shit until you've made MAJOR revisions to it.” He flung the manuscript into the trashcan next to his desk. Leaning forward, he thrust his face into hers, “Get your sorry ass to Horab and talk to the monarchy and the people. Then come back and finish your book. No scientific theories -- this time I want a People focus rather than a Thesis focus. Got it?"

"Got it," she sighed. Larry wouldn’t like this at all.

"Let's have some enthusiasm," he said shrugging.

"Yeah, Warren. Why not be enthused? My fiancée is gonna love hearing I'm off to the ‘Powder Keg of the World’ so I can get ‘life experience,’” she whined.

Warren wouldn’t back down. "My secretary will handle all the arrangements. Just give her the dates -- they better be soon 'cause I've got a deadline too. If you miss it, we'll have to re-think our relationship.” He sighed, remembering her beautiful prose. She had talent. She just needed to find it again. He softened towards her, “Look, you're a brilliant writer but you’re not a researcher. All this research crap has affected your true calling – writing from your heart.” He sighed, “Maybe you need a vacation. Some time alone. Away from Larry. If you want to formally extend the deadline, I may consider it. But I want you out of here for a while. If nothing else, you'll get some sort of vacation in Horab." he stated matter-of-factly.

"Warren, you know the final draft will be great – it always is. But do I really have to go to Horab? I can interview Horab-Americans, I can read first hand accounts, I can....”

He glared at her.

"I'll set it up," she responded.

One week later she was on the plane. First class. She could still see Larry’s scowling face as she boarded the flight. But if she were to finish her book and get it published, she needed to do what Warren wanted.

Besides, it almost felt good to get away from everyone for a while. She smiled. She’d not only visit Horab, but the Horab’s King Johosaphat Jihad, had offered to be her host. She’d see and do things no writer had ever done before. She was almost excited to begin her wonderful adventure. She gazed out the plane window.

She felt warm, but the air blowing on her from the vent above her head was cool. She closed her eyes and allowed it to brush against her face. It felt wonderful. She lifted the glass of wine and gazed through the burgundy liquid, then lifted it to her lips. For some reason she was unusually thirsty. She gulped the liquid but it didn’t quench her thirst. It tasted sweet, but didn’t wet her mouth. She gazed into the glass trying to figure out why she was so incredibly thirsty. Turbulence buffeted the plane causing her to spill her drink.

She spilled a lot. She was wet. Very wet. Before she could understand what was happening, wine splashed her face, dripped down her chin and landed in her lap. She shook her head. How did she get so wet? She began to choke. Her mouth was full of something – something gritty – but what was it? Why did she feel like choking and why, when she tried to page the stewardess, did only muffled sounds escape her lips? She gagged, opened her eyes and found herself full of sand. Strangers splashed water on her face.

She tried to leap to her feet but succeed only in falling to her side. Her arms and legs were bound so tight, her fingers and toes throbbed. She pulled the ropes. One of the men, dark and rugged, propped her upright again and ungagged her mouth. She instinctively spat sand on his shirt. Memories of the day’s events flooded her mind.

She heard the kitten meowing. She felt the hands on her wrists. She smelled the horse and heard it whinnying. She heard men laughing and mumbling in that language.

As she struggled to free her hands, the man leaned close to look at her. She took the opportunity to study him too. He looked strange and distorted. His face twisted in curves and angles she’d never seen before. But, he spoke English.

"Hello, Madam. How may I assist you?" He pulled her glasses from nose, wiped water droplets dry and replaced them back on her nose. He didn’t look so strange anymore; the water on her glasses had distorted her vision. Now he looked almost handsome, for a kidnapper and barbarian, with dark flashing eyes and a broad smile. Anger welled within her stomach – how could he smile after the horrible crime he’d just committed? In her opinion, he should look at least a little ashamed of himself.

"Let me go," she hissed, sputtering grains of sand from her mouth. They zipped through the air, sticking where they landed.

"I can’t do that," he stated, brushing sand from his shoulder.

"Why not?" she growled, pulling at the ropes.

"Is there anything else I can do to assist you? He reached to finger her silk shirt, stopping briefly to study the vacant spot where one of the buttons had torn off. She cringed.

"Go to hell!" she snarled, feet flailing as she attempted to kick him. She’d never been a swearer, but today seemed like a good time to start.

He chuckled and turned to the other men. He yelled something to them in their language. They responded with gales of laughter. Shrugging, he turned away from her and proceeded towards the camp.

Tears of frustration pooled in her eyes. She sat for a moment then surveyed the area. Lush trees and grasses surrounded her. A small lake, maybe a pond, lapped at its shore nearby. She longed to swim in its cool water and take a long drink. Thirst parched her throat and a desert of sand ground between her teeth. More than anything she wanted to forget these men and pretend everything was fine.

She turned to memorize the faces of her abductors. She tried to remember as many details as possible so she’d be able to describe them to the police when she finally got home. They wouldn’t get away with this crime.

They all had dark wavy hair. Two had ponytails. A few had mustaches and one, a beard. The leader had laughing brown eyes and straight white teeth. The men periodically turned to look and laugh at her. She wondered why no one guarded her closer.

She scooted to the other side of the tree to see what was behind her. Disappointment enveloped her as she realized where she was. Sand completely surrounded them and stretched for as far as she could see. She figured they were probably in Horab. She didn't know exactly where she was but her knowledge of this area confirmed that the desert would continue for hundreds of miles. This, she supposed, was why nobody guarded her. If she ran away, she would probably die from heat exhaustion. If she didn’t die from that, the desert animals would surely find her quite tasty. She pulled on the wrist restraints, nonetheless.

Seeing her struggle with the bands, the leader strode to her again.

"Are you ready to settle down yet?" he spoke in English and acted almost civilized. She glared at him but he simply shook his head and chuckled. "Would you like some food?" he asked, holding a bowl towards her.

Hunger had already dissolved her innards. "No. I'm not hungry," she retorted.

"You need to eat or you'll become ill. Here, let me untie you. I’m sure you won’t try to run away, will you?" he touched a revolver strapped to his side. She tried not to react.

He straddled her legs, knelt down and reached around her to untie the bands around her wrists. Suddenly aware of her vulnerability, she turned her head away from him but became incredibly aware of his muscular shoulder next to her cheekbone.

"Damn, I feel like I’m trapped in a stupid romance novel," she mumbled.

“What?” he leaned back.

“Nothing,” she retorted.

He shrugged and pulled at her restraints again.

After feeling the welcome relief of the bands loosening she drew her hands in front of her and comforted her aching wrists. He didn't move. Rather, he bent his knees further and straddled her lap. He nonchalantly grasped the bowl again and gazed deep into her eyes, "If you try to run away, we'll kill you. You don't know where you are and there’s no one here to help you. We will reach our destination within two days.” Then he smiled, gaze slipping to her breasts, “Tonight you will be with me."

She cringed at the connotation of the sentence. She gritted her teeth and pushed the bowl into his chest. Hot, brown liquid stained his shirt and crept towards the waistband of his pants. Angry fire shot through his eyes as he clenched his jaw.

"Now," he continued, struggling to restrain his anger while scooping black sludge from his shirt back into the bowl, "since you’re our guest, what are you called?"

"What do you mean," she replied careful not to make him madder. His anger bubbled too close to the surface to suit her. She made a mental note not to irritate him further. She didn’t want to be the person who caused him to explode.

"What is your name?" His lips smiled, but his eyes seethed. She knew she’d better cooperate a little and give him enough information to placate him.

"Penny," she blurted.

He furrowed his brows. “Penny?” he repeated.

“My name is Penny,” she answered, grateful to see his anger subside a little. Then she added, “What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Name.”

“It’s none of your business,” he answered, “But if you have to know, it’s Benjamin.”

“Benjamin,” she repeated.

He nodded. "Well, Penny," he said, setting the bowl on the ground, "you have the name of an American coin.” She nodded, not speaking as he continued, “Well, it seems you were in the wrong place at the right time. You aren't exactly what we expected to find outside King Jihad's fortress, but you'll have to do for now. Tomorrow we'll decide what to do with you."

"What do you mean by, ‘you’ll decide what to do with me’?" she deflated.

He studied the woman. She was probably nice to look at, but was definitely a foreigner. Her smooth, ivory skin glistened with perspiration. Straight blond hair lay in strings around her shoulders and she made no attempt to cover her head. Women from his country always covered their heads and would feel horrified at being exposed for so long. He smiled as he studied her. He'd never touched blond hair before. It looked like spun gold. He reached to touch it but she immediately recoiled and shoved his hand away. He pulled his attention away from his thoughts and back to the situation at hand.

"Where do you come from?" he asked, his anger replaced with a mild curiosity. Any woman from this area would certainly never push a man away -- especially a woman in such a precarious position.

"I'm an American citizen and I demand to know what's going on!" She tried to sound important.

Now it was he who deflated. "Shit,"  he thought, "an American -- I hate Americans. They’re inconvenient. Uncooperative. Full of self-importance. It’s going to be impossible to travel with her.” He sighed, exhaustion creeping into his face. He couldn’t believe his misfortune. “Why couldn’t she at least be European?”

He thought intently, trying to think of a way to get rid of this American. “We went to Horab to get Jihad’s Chief of Security and extract as much information as possible. Now we may have dragged the United States into this.” He sighed and continued his thoughts, “If the U.S. decides this woman is important, we’ll rue the day we ever set eyes on her. I’d better contact Zadok." He breathed deep again. He finally spoke.

"You'll find out what's going on tomorrow.” He seemed distracted as he continued, “As for now, you need to eat. We all need to rest so we can get moving as soon as possible.” His eyes finally met hers, “Here’s what’s going to happen: We'll eat, we'll sleep for three hours and travel tonight when it's cool."

He rose from her lap and watched intently as she scurried to untie her legs. After she stood, he grasped her arm and led her to the group of men. He then re-filled the bowl without bothering to remove the sludge he’d scraped from his shirt. He handed it to her. The contents looked like brown shoe polish.

"What am I supposed to do with this," she inquired, hoping it wasn’t the food.

"Eat it,” he spoke without emotion. Then he stepped towards his men.

She sniffed at the contents in the bowl. Then wrinkling her nose she dipped the tip of her index finger in the gelatinous liquid and touched her tongue. It was OK, but like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Somewhat intrigued, she submerged even more of her finger into the goo and tasted again. This time she didn’t like it at all. It not only looked like shoe polish but it also tasted like it. She wrinkled her nose as her stomach rumbled. She needed to eat even if it didn’t taste good. She had to maintain her strength if she were to ever escape from these men. Her eyes scanned the camp as if she were looking for something.

She had no spoon, he’d only handed her the bowl. She couldn’t very well drink out of a bowl. He’d obviously forgotten to give her eating utensils. She glanced towards the men. They were in the midst of an intense conversation, waving their hands and yelling. She tentatively interrupted them. "Where's my spoon?" she asked.

He ignored her.

She stepped towards the men and spoke louder, “Excuse me, but where’s my spoon?”

He groaned. She was already an inconvenience. She couldn’t even eat without demanding something. "Your what?" he barked.

"My spoon."

"Just drink it."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not uncivilized. I need a spoon if I'm going to eat soup." Her words grated on his ears.

He rolled his eyes as the men observed the proceedings with amused curiosity. "It's not soup. Just drink it so we can go to bed."

Her heart sank. "We? What do you mean by ‘we’? I'm not sleeping with you."

He was losing patience. "Sit down and eat it or I'll make you eat it."

Judging from the look on his face, she knew this was not an idle threat. She didn’t want to find out how he planned to “make” her eat. She stepped away from the men, gingerly lowered her body to the sand, moved the bowl to her lips, and sipped some of the concoction. It wasn't as bad as she thought, but it wasn't very good either. It tasted like some sort of a slimy mush made from grain. Meanwhile the man spoke intently with the others in their language. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, but could tell by the tone of their voices that they were discussing something serious. After choking down about half of the “soup”, she placed the bowl on the ground.

He turned and asked, “You done?”

“Yes, thank-you,” she endeavored to sound somewhat pleasant.

"Finish it,” he demanded then mumbled, “Typical American. They waste everything.”

"I'm full,” she lied, still famished but unable to stomach any more of that concoction.

"Fine, we better get to bed."

He strolled over to her and yanked her to her feet. She tried to struggle but the look in his eyes made her quit. Some of the other men scattered to small blankets on the ground while others took rifles and stood at what she figured must be some sort of guard posts. One spoke intently on a cellular phone.

After yanking her to a grassy spot, he demanded, "Stay right here and don’t move.”

Penny trembled. She tried to imagine what sort of person would bury themselves under a stranded kitten. Why did they take her? How long had they laid under that sand waiting for her? She yearned to go home, but had a sinking feeling it would be a long time before she’d step foot on American soil again.

She watched as he yanked some blankets from a pack on the horse’s saddle. He tossed a thicker one on the ground and rolled another like a jellyroll, making something that resembled a pillow. He then snatched another blanket and dropped it beside the "bed". Striding towards her, he grasped her arm and pulled her to the blankets. She landed on her knees.

"I can't sleep on that." She figured she might as well make one last effort to avoid sleeping with that man.

"Why not,” he sighed impatiently.

"It's too itchy. Now, if you had some nice cottons or maybe even silk it would be OK. But this woolly stuff,” she gestured dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Wow, I mean I could possibly be allergic to it. And also, the ground seems kind of hard, kinda lumpy too...."

“Get down,” he demanded.

“I don’t think I like your intolerant attitude,” she mumbled as she fingered the blankets. He dropped to the ground and pulled her against his chest. With his free hand, he covered both of them with the extra blanket.

Her back rested against him and the warmth of his body radiated into hers. He lay too close.

"So much for 'social distance,’" she thought wryly, remembering her Sociology professor’s lectures.

He’d said, “Public Distance: It ranges from 12 to 25 feet and requires a loud voice and is illustrated by someone giving a lecture. Social Distance: It ranges from 4 to 7 feet and is the distance for a formal business meeting.” Public or social distance would have been far more comfortable for her. She’d easily be able to tolerate these men from that distance. Her professor’s lecture continued to ring in her mind, “Personal Distance: It ranges from 18 inches to 4 feet. It’s the distance for friendly conversation. And finally, we have Intimate Distance: It ranges from 0 to 18 inches and is illustrated by a couple making love, by a mother nursing an infant and by wrestlers locked in a tight hold.” Penny cringed. She lay intimately close to this stranger. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed this stranger wouldn’t force her to engage any further in “intimate distance.”

She lay as still possible and listened to the men laugh and speak in that strange dialect. She couldn’t pick up a word they said -- not that she could have understood them if they spoke the “proper” form of the language. She only spoke English. Specifically, American English. She decided then and there that she would only visit English-speaking countries from then on. She had begun to mentally list these countries when he interrupted her.

"Even though you’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met, I have to admit that you’ve captured my interest. You’re very soft, my American," his breath brushed her ear while his palm caressed her outer thigh.

Her body tensed.

"I've heard American women are wonderful, passionate lovers. Is this true?" he simmered.

"Leave me alone," she sneered.

"I've never touched such white skin. It's soft."

"Leave me alone or I'll scream." She tried to pull away but he held tight and threw one leg over hers. His hand wandered under her shirt towards her chest.

She struggled, mumbling curses while he caressed and squeezed her right breast. Finally she yanked her left arm free and elbowed him with every bit of strength in her torso. He gasped, letting go of her chest, clutching his ribs. He smiled, admiring this woman’s spunk. He chuckled, “What the hell are you wearing under that shirt?” White anger shot through her veins. She jabbed him again and again. He laughed, deflecting her flailing elbow. “Settle down,” he chuckled, “I’m too tired for a fight right now -- perhaps later. I think we better sleep.” His arms encircled her waist again and his head lowered to the pillow.

Trembling with anger she lay tense, hands tight against her chin, protecting her body. When his breathing became regular and his grasp around her waist loosened she allowed herself to relax and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

She awoke abruptly when a shout pierced the air. The man beside her leaped to his feet, dragging her to her knees.

Hardly awake he yanked her towards the fire at the center of the camp, threw her to the ground near one of the men and spoke sharply. The man grabbed her and dragged her to a tree where he bound her hands and feet. Then he stood over her with his rifle cocked, set to fire. Five horses with five riders approached the camp.