<< Go Back

While I Count the Stars

By Valerie Banfield

Order Now!

Spring 1940. “Hullo. Hola. You, up there, are you Señorita Savannah?”
“Who’s asking?”
When the man raised his arm to shield his face from the sun, unkempt locks of his dark mane poked beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Probably one of the locals who heard about her plight. A gawker, a curious spectator. If only she’d not confided in Benita. Well, no, Benita wasn’t exactly the culprit, it was the arrival of the others—the serious contenders—who presented the greatest problem. Who knew?
“Señorita Savannah?” the man asked again. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and waved it at her.
Savannah wiped her sweaty brow with the tail of the ribbon that held her hat in place. A thorough inspection of the man’s clothing identified him as a foreigner. Dark stains of perspiration dotted the heavy fabric at his underarms and chest. She looked at her own peasant blouse, its gauzy weightless material ready to catch the next breeze, an offering of relief from the warm summer air. If only these men tried to assimilate . . .
He started walking up the slope. “Señorita?”
Those shoes were unfit for a climb. Should he lose his footing, dark, damp soil would ruin his trousers. Savannah shook her head at the obvious. He, too, was a green one. Not what she ordered.
“Stay where you are,” she said as she pushed the edge of her shovel into the soil and tucked her gloves into her skirt pockets. She peered at the visitor, assessing the good looks and strong build of what would certainly prove to be an unacceptable solution to her situation. The lovely smile and perfectly formed white teeth caught her by surprise. Too late, she turned her attention back to her feet.
When the heel of her right foot lost traction, her flailing arms overcompensated for the misstep, leaving her unbalanced body to toddle momentarily over her left leg. The slippery carpet of the hillside took her down, fast and hard. From the corner of her eye, Savannah watched the wind catch her hat and send it ahead of her. After three revolutions during which dirt smeared her cheeks, weeds clung to her hair, and the sun blinded her eyes, Savannah lost count of the number of rotations that followed.
Her body landed at the base of the hill, accompanied by an inharmonious, “Oomph.” The sun’s heat found its way through what had to be umpteen layers of mud, and rested on her face. She dared not open her eyes until she took inventory of her form.
“Señorita? Are you all right?” The voice carried mixed tones of astonishment and alarm.
The fingers he placed on her arm were tender and warmer than the sunshine—as if that were possible.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice held little more than a whisper, but the venom with which she delivered her warning through clenched teeth forced the man to retract his hand.
She tested her fingers, hands, and arms first. Nothing broken. Her toes passed the wiggle test, as did her ankles and legs. If she managed to survive the fall with her back, neck, and shoulders intact, she could get rid of the visitor and get back to work. Regardless of her physical condition, time was short.
Savannah lifted one eyelid. A creased brow and worried lips—perfect and full . . . inviting—replaced his lovely smile and curious expression. When she opened her other eye, tiny orbs of light danced around the man’s dark brown eyes.
“Señorita, are you all right?”
“I see stars.”
“You see stars?” he asked, the furrows in his forehead growing deeper. He looked over his shoulder, as if he might see someone—anyone—who might help him deal with the lump sprawled at his feet. “Lie still. How many stars do you see?”
“You’re number four.”
“You see four stars?”
“No, you’re number four.”
“I look like a star?” he asked. His face took on a perplexed expression. Wasn’t he listening?
The flickering lights swirled in slow motion as Savannah propped herself up on her elbows. She wrestled herself into a sitting position and stretched her shoulders, testing her muscles and ligaments. She pushed her neck forward, sideways, and back. When the backward movement seemed to encounter a knot, she uttered, “Ugh.”
“Please, Señorita. Are you all right?”
Savannah blinked her eyes several times, hoping to eradicate the dots of light from her view. She fastened her attention on the form in front of her: dark chocolate eyes framed by long black eyelashes, prominent cheekbones on a most pleasant face, and that smile—at the moment, tentative yet optimistic.
When her cheeks warmed at his attention, she adjusted her view downward. So much for trying to save the man’s trousers, the knees of which bore the black hue of the rich soil on which he knelt. She extended her hand.
“Help me up?”
He looked sturdy and rugged from her view at the top of the hill. Standing next to the stranger, she measured her slight frame against his stocky form. Her visitor was muscular—and handsome in the way of the Costa Rican men. Yet he bore traits not consistent with those of the nationals. Not that it mattered. She’d have to send him on his way, just as she intended to do with the others. The other three . . . who just wouldn’t go away. Could it get any more complicated?
“You are Savannah Hamilton, are you not?”
Was his a statement or a question? Savannah glanced at her untidy condition and swallowed her amusement. She intimidated him? Looking like this? When she ran her fingers through her tangles, she encountered leaves, dirt, and an uprooted flower. Her white blouse and coral-colored skirt wore large brown and black spots that might look rather nice on a painted pony.
He reached into his pocket and extracted a white handkerchief. As he lifted his hand, as if to wipe the mud from her face, she saw handsome stitching on the corner of the cloth, a tedious task contributed by some caring female. Judging from his youthful appearance, the embroiderer was probably his mother, or maybe a spinster sister.
Recognizing hers was not a kind thought, Savannah pulled her face away from the young man’s hovering cloth, and wondered at her merciless judgment. When had she become so cynical? Before Daddy duped the family into joining his unorthodox and so-called mission to Central America, or after she discovered it was the prospect of making money that had motivated the dear man?
History was of no consequence. The task at hand had nothing to do with dear Daddy and everything to do with finding a means to stay in this place. She couldn’t go back home. Not now. Hopefully, not ever.

Order Now!

<< Go Back