Stranger Danger by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

his
back asleep.   He slept fitful.   His body twitched with restless energy and
she suspected lingering pain.   Once or
twice, he mumbled something in Spanish, but she couldn’t quite make out what he
said.   Sara touched his right arm and
stroked it. “ Calmarse .   Take it easy, Santiago.   I’m here with you, mi corazon .”
    He calmed a little and shifted
into a deeper sleep.   Sara closed her
eyes, one hand touching him for reassurance he was here. He was safe for now,
but she didn’t sleep at all.   Her mind
whirled with the rapid sequence of events and she replayed them.  
      Tomorrow loomed unknown and more than a little
scary.   Fear burned through her, swift
and potent.   Her chest tightened and her
breath caught.   Sara sought her mind for
the prayers she’d learned in childhood and later in Spanish with Santiago’s
help.  
    “ Dios te salve, Maria ,” she whispered, so soft she doubted he could
hear her even if he awoke. “ Llena eres de gracia,
El Señor es contigo …”
The words of the Hail Mary, the Ave Maria comforted her so she repeated them,
alternating from Spanish to English and back.   Her repetition leached away some of the tension and fear.   And although she failed to sleep, Sara rested
a little.   After the first light turned
the black to gray, she rose and made coffee, reacquainting herself with the
kitchen.
    While it percolated, Sara opened the front door to
greet the morning.   Hot, humid air
flooded her senses, but the sunlight kissing the tops of the tall trees
radiated with brilliant beauty.   She
listened and heard no sound but the dull roar of the air conditioner in the
bedroom.   The fresh farm aroma of cut hay
wafted on the slight breeze and Sara sighed.   For now, they seemed safe.   Maybe
they could stay that way.
    After her first cup of coffee, Sara checked on
him.   She found him awake and staring at
the ceiling. “ Cómo estás ?”
    “ Estoy mal ,” he said and she believed
him. He looked awful. “ Me
duele la cabeza .”
    “I imagine your
head hurts from the tequila,” Sara told him. “How’s your shoulder?”
    Santiago
frowned and rubbed his face. “Sore as a bitch.”
    “There’s
coffee if you want some.”
    He nodded. “ Si, por favor, gracias, la
muñequita .”
    “I’ll pour you
a cup.   If you’re hungry, I can make
breakfast.   Would you like some eggs and
sausage?”
    “No,
just coffee.”
    She brought it
to him.   He’d propped up against the
headboard, so she sat down on the edge of the bed facing him. “ Gracias ,” he told her. “I probably
should eat, but I don’t want anything. I feel like shit.”
    Sara ached to
embrace him, but she didn’t want to hurt his shoulder.   Instead, she reached for his left hand and
wrapped hers around it, gentle and careful not to jar him. “Of course you
do.   You were shot.” Beneath her touch,
his skin baked. “Your hand is hot,” she told him. She put the back of her other
hand across his forehead, then her palm. “I think you’re running a
temperature.”
    He sipped
coffee and tried to shrug.   It must’ve
hurt, because he winced after the brief effort. “ Si, I probably have a low grade fever, nothing to worry about.”
    But, she did. “Right,
macho man, but I’m still concerned. Do you want something to help your
headache?”
    “How about
ibuprofen, maybe some ice?”
    “Sure.” As she
stood up to fetch both, Santiago swung his legs around and sat up. “What’re you
doing?”
    He fired a
sharp look in her direction. “I gotta piss,” he told her. “And I’m going to the
couch.   I’m not staying in bed like I’m
sick.”
    Torn between a
desire to kiss him or slap him, Sara shook her head. “No,” she said in a tone
dry as crisp toast. “No, you just have a bullet wound through your
shoulder.   You lost a lot of blood
yesterday and you’re running a fever.   No
reason to stay in bed, none at all.”
    Santiago
snorted. “Don’t make a big deal,