Tom didn't sleep well despite the orgasm. After a couple of fitful hours, he lay awake and struggled with a brain gone wild. Soon it would be dawn, and they'd have to leave the cave or risk being found by the killers.
How far would they get in their condition? Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Willow was acting a little off center.
The softness of her body had its own distracting appeal. Tom's train of thought derailed as she cuddled against him like a security blanket. Her sleep appeared undisturbed by their predicament. Encircling arms squeezed him tight, as if to verify his existence. A delicate hand slipped down to rest on his cock, probably a learned reaction by someone accustomed to male companionship. A mystery without many clues, her sexual aggressiveness and secret identity created suspicion about her innocence in this whole ordeal. And yet, her fear seemed real. Turmoil must be a constant companion in her life, and she'd developed carnal coping skills.
When the cave entrance materialized as a gray stain on a black wall, Tom decided it was time to move. "Willow," he whispered, "The sun's coming up and we have to go."
A soft groan of annoyance and then a playful hand on his awakened penis was her initial response. In a husky morning voice, she said, "Something else is coming up too." Lips grinned against his neck.
Tom said, "There's no time for that. We need to scoot."
"Scoot? Did your grandma raise you? Nobody under 70 say's scoot," she declared, as her body stiffened in a morning stretch. It felt good to both of them.
"If we don't scoot we may not live long enough to be grandparents."
She giggled and, while cupping his balls, said, "Was that some kind of marriage proposal?"
"C'mon let's go," he said, unzipping the bag and pulling free.
"Okay, okay."
"Shh, we need to be quiet."
Obediently, Willow remained silent as they dressed by flashlight. Tom gave her pants and two pairs of socks to wear with the flannel shirt from the night before. He erased their footprints as best he could and grabbed the oak walking stick on the way out.
The sky was clear. A few stars still twinkled in the west. The ground was cold and damp.
At the cliff's edge, Tom turned uphill instead of down. Willow followed without question, gripping the waistband of the borrowed jeans with both hands to keep them up. After a hundred yards, they walked into the forest. Tom glanced down, from time to time, to check their location.
When the crash site became visible below, they settled behind a bush to wait. Willow closed her eyes and rested her head on Tom's shoulder. As time passed, she curled up and laid her head in his lap. His attention was divided between watching for murdering thieves and ogling Willow as she napped. The baggy clothes did little to hide her sensuality. He knew what was underneath. A crusty patch of dried semen adorned the flannel shirt. 'Must be the cloth she cleaned up with last night.'
The sun rose warm in their faces. Willow nonchalantly loosened the two top buttons for ventilation, the act so innocent and yet so seductive.
Movement below focused his attention on more serious matters. Two men on horseback had entered the clearing. They dismounted, and silently began a search. A few minutes later, the bags of money were tied behind saddles. From another direction, a third rider entered the field of view. Muffled words were exchanged. The men and horses moved toward the plane's tail section. Soon, metallic squeaks echoed up the mountain.
Willow bolted upright.
Tom gave her the finger-across-the-lips shush sign, and pointed.
They watched the horses pull on ropes attached to the suspended debris until it fell to the ground. After a brief inspection, the riders wandered away in different directions and out of sight.
Without making eye contact, Willow laid her head back on Tom's lap and remained silent.
"Did any of them look familiar?" he asked.
"They were too far away."
A short time later, she asked, "Can we go down there? I have an overnight bag in the back."
"Let's wait an hour and then I'll go down, alone."
Unbuttoning the heavy shirt, Willow said, "It's gonna be a hot one." She fluttered the fabric to cool her damp breasts and then left it open. "I think I'll catch some rays. You don't mind do you? I mean, it's nothing you haven't seen already."
Tom wanted to act cool. "Those scratches look like they're healing up."
She just grinned, closed her eyes and stroked her braid a few times, before asking, "Do we have any food? I'm hungry."
From an outside pocket of the backpack, Tom removed a zip lock bag filled with trail mix. "This is it. I wasn't planning on company."
After a few mouthfuls, she said, "There's some snacks in the plane's left rear compartment."
The direct sun became unbearable. 'If she doesn't mind, why should I,' thought Tom, and removed his shirt.
The voice from his lap said, "You're a good looking guy. Why aren't you hooked up with some nice girl?"
"I'm not the hookable kind," answered Tom. Yet this question cut to the very heart of his vision quest, why couldn't he be hooked on one woman and settle down. Leave it to a hooker to ask him the hard questions. 'Hooker, is that what she is?' The idea seemed like a revelation, but the evidence was as plain to see as her breasts. 'Why hadn't I figured it out before?'
"Well, I just might try to catch you myself, Thomas DuBois. It's not everyday a lady gets rescued by a handsome stranger."
He knew it was a joke, but the hooded eyes and sultry voice still made him tingle. The question, 'How does she define the word 'lady'?' popped into his head, but the timing was wrong for such an inflammatory question.
At least one appetite needed to be satisfied. In frustrated compensation (at least on Tom's part), they emptied the baggy. Willow ate less than half. "You're carrying the pack and you're bigger. You should eat more." With a wink, she added, "You're going to need your strength."
A guy can only be teased so much before he has to do something, anything. Tom stood up in a crouch, and said, "Okay, it's been long enough. I'm going down."
"I was wondering if you'd ever get around to it," answered Willow, spreading her pant legs. "I should really wash up first."
The sexual innuendo briefly paralyzed Tom with graphic images. Shaking his head, he wondered aloud, "What am I supposed to do with you?"
She just continued to smile and sway her feet in a 'whatever you want', bare breasted pose.
Finally able to break away, Tom heard a faint, "Be careful."
Naked from the waist up, with wild hair flowing down past his shoulders, and brandishing the walking stick like a spear, Tom became an Indian warrior slinking through the forest. The possibility of sudden death hidden behind every tree created a heightened awareness, an intense excitement, as he swiftly collected Willow's carryon and two grocery bags of food from the wreckage. Several times he looked uphill to check on her. Barely visible through the brush, she gave the thumbs up signal.
The packages were too cumbersome to drag back through the undergrowth, so Tom turned and jogged toward the cliff path. When he rounded the last bend, thinking he was home free, one of the gunman stood urinating over the rock ledge. The rustling sound of the grocery bags startled him and he whirled around.
Instantly, Tom dropped the bundles for a quick getaway. But the rifle tucked under the pisser's arm immediately pointed at him, along with a limp dick, so there was nothing left to do but raise his hands in surrender.
Tom was a dead man gawking.
Pisser assessed the situation, while packing away his main drain. "Where's the woman that goes with that bag?"
"Woman?" Tom shrugged, "I don't know anything about a woman. I'm just looting the wreck. And I hit the jackpot -- Doritos. You can have 'em." He said smiling, trying to make a new friend.
Pisser must've been Homophobic. Getting caught with his dick hung out in the wind made him mad. The metallic click of the rifle trigger becoming unlocked reached Tom's ears. "Last chance."
"Hey, Boys!" yelled Willow from a ledge ten feet above the pisser-killer.
Both Tom and Pisser looked up. Their breath caught, as they admired the almost naked woman. Her nubile breasts jutted out, perky and luminous in the bright sun. The baggy pants had fallen to her knees, allowing her ebony pubic hair to become the spot on an unblemished surface that ultimately draws the eye.
"Hi ya doin' Mike?"
Tom said, "Mike? You know this guy?"
Pisser just stared, and said, "My name ain't Mike."
"Sure it is, Sweetheart. Everyone knows a Mike Crowdick when they see one." Neither man noticed what she held in her right hand until Pisser got beaned with a rock.
"You fuckin' Bitch!" he yelled, as the rifle swung to change targets.
Willow ducked.
With no time to think, Tom hoisted his trusty oak stick and threw it.
The flight of his lightening rod was straight, but not true. The aim was off to the left. Tom felt the agony of defeat clutch the pit of his stomach when the errant missile struck Pisser's horse in the rump instead of Pisser's head. Then something unexpected, yet totally understandable, happened. As if stung by a mammoth hornet, the startled horse kicked. Her right hoof connected with Pisser's ribs and launched him over the brink.
Time became cartoon frozen. Nothing moved, until Tom's adrenaline burned off and he was able to walk to the edge and look over.
Willow met him there. They both looked.
It was a long way down.
Then they looked at the horse -- once again waiting calmly.
Then they looked at each other and smiled.
Tom wrapped his arms around Willow and, in a moment of impulsive euphoria, kissed her. "You saved my life!"
The look on her face changed from shock to joy and then softened to embarrassment. "And you saved mine… again. Can't I ever even the score with you?" It must've been a rhetorical question. Before Tom could respond, she covered his mouth with hers in a long, deep kiss. Their sweat slick torsos rubbed pleasantly together. When they broke for air she picked up her pants.
Tom announced, "I've met my Spirit Guide," and patted the flank of the docile mare. "My Indian name will be 'Kicking Horse'."
Willow smiled, and said, "Too bad she wasn't a donkey. Then you'd be 'Kicking Ass'.
The remark caused an outbreak of laughter that bordered on hysterical. Realizing they might be overheard and danger was still very real, they lowered their voices and picked up the packages.
