Thirty minutes later she wanted to call a cab. Forty-five minutes later she realized she would have sold her soul for a single glass of water. An hour later, the fear won and she knew she was well and truly going to die in the desert. Her eyes burned from the dryness. Her skin felt as if it were a size too small and her throat was raw and on fire.
She wondered if death in the desert was like death in the snow. Would she simply get tired and go to sleep?
“Not with my luck,” she muttered between parched lips. “My death will be much slower and more painful.”
Still she continued to put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the tempting mirages appearing directly in front of her as the sun slowly set. First she saw a wavering oasis, then a waterfall. Finally she saw a half-dozen men on horses riding closer and closer.
Horses? She stopped walking. She blinked, then squinted. Were they real? As she paused, she realized she could feel the thunder of the horses’ hooves on the ground. Which meant there was a possibility of rescue. Or something less pleasant.
Sabrina spent summers in Bahania with her father, supposedly learning the ways of his people. Not that he could be bothered to teach her anything, but some of the servants took pity on her and she’d picked up a thing or two. One tidbit had been that hospitality was guaranteed in the desert.
However, she spent her school years in Los Angeles, California, where her mother’s maid had warned her never to speak to strangers. Especially men she didn’t know. So should she stand her ground or run for the hills? Sabrina glanced around. There weren’t any hills.
She studied the men as they galloped closer and seemed to get larger. They were dressed traditionally in burnoose and djellaba. Their long cloaks swept along behind them. As a way to distract herself from her growing apprehension, she tried to admire the strong yet elegant horses they rode. Bahanian horses, bred for the desert.
“Hi,” she called as the men approached, trying for a breezy, confident tone. Between her dry throat and growing fear, she wasn’t entirely successful. “I’m lost. The sandstorm caught me flat-footed. You wouldn’t have happened to have seen a horse and a camel anywhere would you?”
No one answered her. Instead they circled her, speaking in a tongue she recognized but didn’t understand. Nomads, she thought, not sure if the men being nomads was good or bad for her.
One of the men pointed at her and gestured. Sabrina stood in place, even when several moved their horses very close to her. Should she tell them who she was, she wondered as she turned slowly. Nomads would respond to her father’s name, but what about outlaws? Of course outlaws would want to hold her for ransom and she might impress them by telling them that even though she didn’t look like much, she was actually Sabrina Johnson, aka Princess Sabra of Bahania. Or they might just kill her and leave her bones to bleach in the desert.
“I have want of a slave girl, but I doubt you’d do well at the job.”
She spun toward the speaker. His clothing hid most of his features. She saw that he was tall in the saddle, with tanned skin and dark eyes. Lips curled up in a smile as he laughed at her.
“You speak English,” she said stupidly.
“You do not speak the language of the desert,” he replied. “Nor do you know its ways. She is not a forgiving lady.” The humor fled his face. “Why are you out here alone?”
“That’s not important,” Sabrina said with a dismissive wave. “But maybe you could loan me a horse. Just to get me back to the outpost. My truck is there.”
The man jerked his head. One of the others scrambled off his horse. For a second Sabrina thought she was going to get her wish. The man had actually listened. Most unusual in a Bahanian male. They generally ignored—
The nomad reached for her head covering and pulled it free. She screamed. The circle of men around her grew still. Sabrina sighed.
She knew what they were looking at. Long, curly red hair tumbled down her back, a legacy from her mother. The startling combination of brown eyes, red hair and honey-colored skin often caught people’s attention, but no more so than here.
The men talked amongst themselves. She strained to understand what they were saying.
“They think I should sell you.”
She glanced toward the English-speaker. She had the impression he was their leader. Panic fluttered inside of her, but she didn’t let it show. Instead she squared her shoulders and raised her chin.
“Do you so need the money?” she asked, trying to fill her voice with contempt…or at least keep it from shaking.
“It makes life easier. Even out here.”
“What happened to the hospitality of the desert? The laws of your land won’t let you mistreat me.”