A Spear of Summer Grass. Deanna Raybourn

herself as Ryder jumped from the vehicle.

      “Where are you going?” I demanded.

      He reached into the back and lifted a can. “Water. After a ride that hot, you have to fill the radiator. Remember that if you ever do the drive by yourself.”

      He stepped around the vehicle and I made to follow. “Stay inside,” he ordered. “There’s wildlife around here and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

      I opened my mouth to argue when he raised a hand, silencing me with a gesture as imperious as a Caesar’s.

      There was a low snuffling sound, and then a crash as something enormous moved in the bushes beside the stream. Ryder stepped carefully backward, his eyes never leaving the shivering bushes.

      “Hand me my gun.”

      I twisted, reaching into the gun rack behind me. “Which one?”

      “The biggest. It’s already loaded and the safety is on. Just pass it over.”

      I did exactly as he told me. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Don’t make any noise or any sudden movements. You can’t make it back up that hill, the engine’s too hot. If anything happens to me, drive like hell straight down the road until you come to a duka. The storekeeper will know what to do.”

      “If anything happens to you?” I hadn’t known it was possible to shriek in a whisper, but I managed it. Dora was cowered against the seat, peeping over her handkerchief and pulling so hard on the flask I thought she was going to suck the finish off the metal.

      “It’s probably a buffalo,” Ryder explained. “They don’t much like people, and if I have to take him, I’ll have one shot. He’ll be out of that cover too late for a second. If I miss, don’t stay to watch. It won’t be pretty.”

      His tone was so calm, so matter-of-fact, we might have been discussing what he wanted for dinner rather than whether he would live or die. He hadn’t looked at me once. His whole attention was directed toward the coming reckoning. He was on the far side of the vehicle, and with his gaze fixed firmly on the bushes, it was easy to slip into the back and retrieve the Rigby. The ammunition was close at hand, and I took out two rounds, my fingers slick with sweat against the cool metal. There was no point to taking more. I wouldn’t have time to reload. I slid the cartridges into the rifle and closed the breach. I moved soundlessly to stand behind Ryder. He never moved his head, but he must have seen the shift in the shadows. His own rifle was lifted to his shoulder, one eye closed as the other sighted down the gun.

      “Get back on the other side of the car. I want you to shoot from cover. Wait until you have a clear shot,” he instructed softly. “He’s coming head-on. Aim between the eyes. I’m taking the heart.”

      There were a dozen things wrong with that, but I didn’t argue. I moved back to put the vehicle between us, using the hood to brace my arm. I cocked both barrels of the rifle and waited. It felt like the end of time and back again before the branches shivered hard and parted. What came through was the size of a small house, big and black and relentless. He was solid as the earth, and his eyes were narrow and mean. He paused for a moment, and I saw the sweat gathering on Ryder’s shoulders, soaking his shirt as he held the gun steady, waiting, waiting for a chance not to shoot.

      But the buff didn’t oblige. It put its head down and gathered its strength, pushing off to run straight at us.

      Ryder was wrong. He did have time for a second shot. His first was fast and hot and straight through the thick shoulder of the buff into its heart. I put one round into its forehead, and before I could recover from the punch of the recoil to sight the next shot, Ryder had put a second bullet into the same spot. The buffalo sat down heavily on its haunches and flopped forward, coming to rest inches from Ryder’s boot. I crept around the car, one round still in the chamber. I held the gun out to Ryder.

      He didn’t take it. “No need. He’s finished,” he told me. We stood watching as the mean, piggy eyes went blank and soft and glassy. I was panting hard, and a trickle of sweat ran down the hollow of my spine, puddling in the curve of my bottom. I put a hand to my forehead and pushed away my fringe, letting the air cool my face. Little beads of perspiration rolled off my neck. I was damp and trembling all over, and my legs had second thoughts about holding me up.

      Ryder looked at me closely. “You all right?”

      “Yes.” The lie was easy.

      He glanced at the stillness of the buffalo. “Damned good shot, princess.” He reached down and dipped a finger into the buffalo’s blood. He pressed the finger to my brow, marking me.

      “First African blood,” he said gently. “It’s a hunter’s custom out here.”

      He unloaded my Rigby and put the guns away. Dora was weeping quietly into her handkerchief in the car, and he said something consoling to her in soothing tones. Then he came to where I still stood, staring down at the vast emptiness of the buffalo’s corpse.

      He took me by the hand and led me to the stream. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and the sight of that small square of plain linen brought hot tears to my eyes. It ought to have been a Gypsy bandana, filthy and smelling of cheap perfume. But it was as white and clean as any my grandfather carried.

      He took off his hat and knelt at the stream. When he bent his head I saw that his hair curled a little at his neck, and the bareness of his neck and the sweetness of that curling hair nearly did me in. He dipped the handkerchief into the stream and passed it over my face, wiping away the blood and the sweat, diluting my tears. “It’s all right, princess,” he said softly.

      If I had leaned into him, he would have held me then. But I didn’t lean. I just sat on a rock, letting him clean me. “You’re a fool,” I told him. “You should have shot from cover as well.”

      He didn’t say a word. He merely crouched at the stream and washed the blood from the handkerchief, wringing it out until the water ran clear.

      “You put yourself between the buffalo and us to give us a chance to get away if it charged,” I accused.

      He swivelled on his heels. “That’s my job. The clients’ safety comes first.”

      “And if it’s a question of us or you, it must be you?”

      He shrugged. “Like I said, that’s the job.”

      “It’s a damned stupid way to earn a living.”

      He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. He extracted two cigarettes and lit them, drawing deeply until the tips glowed hot. He handed one to me and I took it. It wasn’t black and sleek like my Sobranies, but it would do. My hand shook a little, and he pretended not to notice. The cigarette case was slim and silver, sterling from the look of it. A tip from a wealthy client, no doubt. Most likely a woman.

      “Why do you do this? Haven’t you any education?” The words were needle-sharp and chosen to prick.

      He pulled thoughtfully on his cigarette. “I have as much education as any man needs.”

      “Not if you have to risk your life just to haul stupid rich people around to shoot at animals.”

      “Well, the rich are the only ones who can afford to pay me.”

      He was smiling and I threw the remains of my cigarette at him. He ground it out slowly under his heel and reached a broad hand to help me up. I took it.

      “Come on, princess. It’s time to get you on the road.”

      I rocked a little on my heels. “I think I’m going to faint.”

      “Don’t you dare,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

      He made to loop an arm around my waist, but I batted him away. “I can walk on my own, thank you.”

      I pushed off and made my wobbly way back to the truck, scrubbing uselessly at the bloody streaks on my white dress and shoes. I looked like a walking wedding night.