Hot on the Trail

by JoAnn Ross

  His legs were turning to rubber. Leaning back against the wall of the house, Sam slid down to the ground. "Has anyone ever told you that you've got a sharp tongue?" Was the ground tilting or was he? Sam closed his eyes as the dizziness threatened to overcome him.

  Davina pressed the wet cloth she had brought with her against his forehead. "I don't want you to die, Sam."

  When he opened his eyes at that, Davina could have wept at the pain she saw in them. "I'm not wild about the idea myself, honey. But don't worry. You're stuck with me for the duration."

  "Until Naj Taxim," she whispered, unaware of the tears pouring down her cheeks.

  "Until Naj Taxim," he agreed, fighting back the taste in his throat. "Davina?"

  She cradled his head in her lap. "Yes, Sam?"

  "I think I'm going to pass out now."

  With that, Sam quit fighting the inevitable and drifted off on floating waves of pain.

  11

  From the very beginning, Davina had scant faith in Santos's medical skills. After she'd watched him in action, any hope she had managed to cling to, for Sam's sake, had diminished. The priest began his treatment by peering into a zaztun, a small glass sphere that reminded Davina of a psychic's crystal ball. The glass was being used to diagnose Sam's problem, one of the villagers with a modicum of English skills explained quietly.

  "I know his problem," Davina exploded. "His arm was torn open by a jaguar. He needs an antiseptic, and then we have to get him to a hospital as soon as possible!"

  Her frantic words needed no translation. Santos frowned back over his shoulder, an expression echoed by the young woman who stood over Sam, swinging a censer of burning incense. The room was rapidly becoming engulged in a bittersweet cloud of gray smoke. Santos spoke briefly to the man standing beside Davina.

  "Santos assures me that your husband will recover," the villager translated. "You will see. He will sleep while the gods fight the evil spirits. There is an anthill nearby. Tomorrow morning, the first two ants who venture out will take on Sam's pain. When he wakes, the spirits and the pain will be gone."

  Davina didn't believe a word of it, but Sam had insisted that she allow Santos to treat him. And even if she were to go against his wishes, the memory of those rifles kept her from interfering in what she considered a fruitless task. She watched bleakly as Santos smoothed a foul-smelling herbal solution over Sam's arm, then wrapped the wound in wet leaves.

  He spent another hour chanting over the unconscious patient. After that, speaking through the translator, he instructed Davina on how to continue Sam's care throughout the night. Finally, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, he departed, leaving Davina to reapply the noxious herbal mixture to Sam's arm,, changing the wet leaves every half hour as instructed.

  Sometime during the unbearably long night, he had struggled to sit up, his feverish, restless eyes wide open as they stared off into space.

  "Where do you think you're going?" she asked, pressing her hand against his chest.

  "To get a blanket. I'm so cold." He looked at her, his gaze revealing confusion. "Don't understand. It's never cold in the jungle."

  "It's because you're burning up." As weak as he was, Davina's strength proved superior as she coaxed him back onto the reed pallet. "Just rest, Sam. I'll try to break your fever."

  Through the interpreter, Santos had explained that the fever was a very good sign. It meant that the battle within Sam was going well. Davina was not the least bit encouraged.

  For one brief, fleeting moment, his eyes cleared. "Davina? You won't leave?"

  Beads of sweat glistened on the blazing skin of his forehead. Fighting back her tears, Davina pressed her lips against his brow. "I won't leave."

  His hand crept along the mat to cover hers. "Thank you, Davina," he said solemnly. "This is very nice of you." His eyelids drifted shut again.

  All during the night Davina continued applying the herbs to his arm. The deep gashes were still red and angry, but she had to admit that the treatment had stopped the bleeding. Between periods of administering to his arm, she attempted to soothe his feverish body with cool water from a thick stoneware jug.

  But as Sam tossed and turned fitfully on the reed pallet, Davina grew more and more concerned. With the exception of that single brief interlude when he'd asked her to stay with him, it had been hours since he had shown any sign of recognizing her.

  By the time the morning sky dawned pink and gold, Santos returned to the house, a broad, self-satisfied grin on his dark features. When he beckoned for Davina to follow him, she hesitantly obliged, not knowing what to expect. She had trusted him once, and as far as she could tell, Sam's condition had not improved even the slightest bit. If anything, his delirium had increased in the predawn hours; on more than one occasion he had called out her name, and for a time he had rambled on incoherently about her father.

  He was out of his mind with the fever. During the long, lonely hours of her vigil, Davina had come to the conclusion that the only way Sam stood a chance would be if she could get him back to the raft so they could return to civilization, where he could receive proper medical care. As she followed Santos across the compound, Davina was wondering what her chances were of receiving his help in her mission.

  At the edge of the village, Santos came to a halt in front of a tall anthill covered with thousands of dead insects. Stunned by the outrageous possibility that he could by some chance know what he was doing, Davina lifted skeptical but hopeful eyes to his friendly ones. Nodding vigorously, Santos gave her a broad, reassuring smile. Then, bowing formally as he had last evening, he left Davina to stare in awe at the anthill.

  As she continued to apply the herbal medication on schedule throughout the morning, Davina allowed herself the slightest modicum of optimism. Perhaps it was only her imagination, stimulated by that strange scene at the anthill, but she thought Sam's color might have been a little better than it had been last night. He was still pale, but that frightening, unearthly gray shade was gone. And the swelling around his wound seemed to have diminished ever so slightly.

  "Don't you dare die on me," she warned as she sponged him down for the umpteenth time. "I need you, Sam McGee."

  And for a great many more reasons than your tracking ability, she added mentally. Somehow, when she wasn't looking, Sam McGee had become more important to her than she ever would have imagined possible.

  Sam finally awoke several hours later to find Davina looking down at him with very real concern. She had been going out of her mind as she had been forced to sit by helplessly, watching him drift in and out of consciousness.

  "How are you feeling?"

  He managed a weak smile. "Better. Did you get the license plate number?"

  She ran a cooling cloth over his dry, parched lips. "License plate?"

  "Thanks. Of that truck that ran over me."

  Tears of regret sprang to her misty eyes. "Oh, Sam."

  "Hey," he complained, "it was supposed to be a joke. I'll admit it wasn't a very good one. But you can't expect me to be at my best, under these circumstances."

  Davina appreciated Sam's attempt at levity, but she knew that were it not for her, he'd be back in his cantina in Calderitas, happily drinking his tequila and making love to willing, uncomplicated women who didn't end up getting him nearly killed.

  "Oh, Sam, I'm so very, very sorry."

  He reached out and took hold of her hand, twining their fingers together. "You can't let this little setback discourage you, sweetheart. And for the record, it wasn't your fault."

  "Of course it was," she retorted. "If I had listened to you, we never would have been here in the first place."

  "That's all water under the bridge. I just wish I could improve on my timing a little."

  "What do you mean?" She brushed his damp hair off his forehead. The fever seemed to have lessened considerably.

  "I keep rushing to the rescue after you've already been attacked; it'd be a nice change of pace if I got there before t
he crime."

  Attacked. Even as Davina had nursed Sam around the clock, she had not been able to put the threats on her life out of her mind. The idea that anyone would want to kill her— a staid, proper professor of archaeology from Boston University—was both ludicrous and terrifying at the same time.

  Sam had warned her that the jungle was clever at hiding its secrets. First Naj Taxim. Then her father. And now? Could her assassin be lurking in the dense tropical growth, watching her, waiting, biding his time until his next attack? And if so, why?

  "I don't suppose this latest incident has changed your mind about going home?" Sam asked hopefully.

  Davina shook her head slowly, regretfully. "You know I can't do that, Sam. Not until I find my father."

  His head was splitting. Sam cursed softly as he pressed his hand against his temple. "I'll say this for you, sweetheart," he muttered as he closed his eyes again, "you definitely inherited the Lowell stubbornness."

  Concerned as she was about Sam, Davina didn't focus on his words. She could only think how frighteningly close she had come to losing him.

  Sam continued to sleep throughout the remainder of the day and all during the following night. Whenever Santos checked in on his patient, which was often, Davina's heartfelt gratitude contained a newfound esteem. Standing vigil over the sleeping man, the two individuals from such disparate cultures managed to come to a mutual respect and understanding.

  To Davina's vast relief, Sam awoke the following morning with clear eyes, no pain and a ravenous appetite. Santos had blushed a coppery hue when Davina gave him an enthusiastic hug, but he appeared to appreciate the gesture. After a hearty meal of corn tortillas and beans, Sam and Davina said their goodbyes to the villagers and set out once again into the jungle.

  Although Davina insisted that Sam take it easy, at least in the beginning, he refused to coddle himself—his words, not hers. He complained vociferously about the herbal ointment she made him spread on his arm three times a day as Santos had prescribed for the next week, but Davina had become a convert. Whatever the noxious stuff was, it seemed to work. Muttering about her damn hardheadedness, Sam nevertheless obliged her by grudgingly accepting the treatment.

  "So where are we going today?" she asked on their fifteenth morning on the river. It had been a scorching, airless night and the day didn't hold promise of being any cooler.

  Sam stretched, testing the strength of his arm. It was almost as good as new, he thought with satisfaction. For a moment there, when the jaguar had hit, he'd thought for sure he was a goner.

  "I thought we'd try to get as far as Bethel and work our way outward from there."

  They were halfway to Yaxchilan. If they hadn't found Naj Taxim by the time another two weeks had passed, Davina would be forced to admit her map was indeed a fraud. She watched idly as Sam picked up her shoes, opened the tent flap and shook them out. An arch-tail scorpion fell onto the ground and disappeared beneath the rotting foliage.

  "Jungle survival rule number thirty-seven," he said casually. "A prudent explorer shakes his shoes out in the morning."

  "I could learn to hate this place," she muttered in frustration.

  Sam reached out, running his fingers through her short blond curls. During their stay in the village, Davina had given in to the inevitable and cut off her heavy braid with the compact scissors attached to Sam's ever-ready Swiss army knife. To her surprise, once the weight and length were gone, her hair had demonstrated a natural curl. She still wasn't used to the new style, but she had to admit it was several important degrees cooler.

  Sensing her depression, Sam sought to bring a smile to her downcast face. "You look like a pixie this morning." His tawny eyes moved from the top of her head, over her slender body, clad in a green T-shirt and shorts, down to her feet. "A wood nymph." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Peter Pan," he decided.

  Davina understood what he was trying to do and appreciated the effort. But at the moment she was feeling hot, dirty and more than a little discouraged. The humidity in the air made breathing difficult, and when she did draw in a deep breath, she also inhaled the rank smell of decay as fallen limbs and dead trees rotted moistly underfoot.

  "You've no idea how good that makes me feel," she muttered, lacing up her shoes after examining them thoroughly. "To be compared to an adolescent boy."

  Sam fought back a smile as she marched out of the tent, intent on brushing her teeth with water from the canteen. She'd been one hell of a sport, he'd give her that. It had been quite an experience, watching the meticulously neat archaeology professor traipsing through miles of vine-choked jungle.

  Even when her hands had turned into a human pincushion on that escoba palm, Davina hadn't complained. Instead, she'd muttered a particularly pungent series of oaths, before gritting her teeth as she turned to Sam for first aid. Although her cheeks went decidedly pale before it was over, she had not allowed a murmur of protest to escape her lips as he pulled the scores of stinging thorns, one at a time, out of her skin with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

  Not only had she not been the slightest bit condescending to Santos and his people, she had honestly appeared to enjoy their company. She had maintained her calm during that fiasco with the jaguar, and after her fear for his survival had subsided, she had even expressed admiration for Santos's ancient medicinal skills.

  All in all, Sam considered, Davina Lowell had turned out to be one delightful surprise after another. Despite the fact that the Usumacinta was an inauspicious location for a romance, with its sweltering heat, ever-present insects and inhospitable tribesmen camped along its banks, he found himself not at all eager for the expedition to end.

  "Feeling better?" he asked in a bland, friendly manner when she returned to the campsite.

  With her teeth cleaned, and after a sponge bath—which she knew was a waste of water but which she refused to give up—Davina did indeed feel a great deal more human. She smiled her thanks as she took the drink he handed her. Although in the beginning it had been difficult to give up her morning coffee, she had come to appreciate the horchata, a cooling drink made from almonds and rice.

  "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

  Sam cupped her hips in his hands as he drew her closer. "You had a perfect right. After all, this isn't at all what you're used to. You're hot, tired—"

  "So are you." Her eyes held his as she hooked her free arm around his neck. "And you aren't yelling at me."

  Sam ran a finger casually down her side. "I got all my yelling out of the way back in Calderitas."

  Davina's sleep had been restless; she had awakened that morning already tired. Nights of tossing and turning on the hard ground and days of stomping through the tangled jungle had made her aware of muscles she had not even known she possessed. But she knew that her exhaustion had nothing to do with the weakness infusing itself into her bones.

  "And Chichen Itza," she said with a breathless little laugh as his palms skimmed the sides of her breasts. "You practically roared at me back there."

  His tongue slid moistly down her neck, loitering at the soft hollow where her pulse skipped a beat. "You deserved it. Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw you go over the side of that damn well?"

  At the time, Davina had believed Sam's reaction to be merely another display of his ill temper. Now she realized that he had felt as helpless, as suddenly bereft, as she would feel were she to lose him. As terrified as she had been the night after the jaguar's attack. That thought brought up the unhappy but inescapable fact that day by day, hour by hour, their time together was inexorably sifting away.

  "I know," she said before crushing her mouth to his. "I know how you felt." Passion erupted to steamroller over desperation. "Make love with me, Sam. I need you. Now."

  It did not occur to Davina that she was begging. She only knew that somehow, when she wasn't looking, Sam McGee had become the most important thing in her life. The power of her feeling for him was so strong, so all-encompassing, that it bordered on obsession.


  How should he handle this? Sam wondered, even as his hands didn't hesitate to move over her, returning her almost frantic touch. He could drag her back inside the tent, where they could spend the entire day making love in this sweltering hellhole. Or he could maintain some vestige of control and continue downstream—where a cool and inviting pool waited beyond the bend of the river.

  He caught her skimming hands and lifted them to his lips, where he kissed each trembling fingertip, one by one.

  "It's not that I wouldn't love to take you up on your offer, sweetheart," he said, "but if I allow you to seduce me now, you'll ruin the surprise."

  She lifted a delicate blond brow. "You've been nothing but one surprise after another, McGee. What makes this one so special?"

  Sam decided that resisting the silent appeal of her slender body as it brushed lightly, teasingly against his was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

  "You'll have to wait and see."

  "Can't you give me one teensy, tiny little hint?" she murmured beguilingly, her mouth a whisper from his.

  He caught her bottom lip between his teeth. "Has anyone ever told you that you could probably be arrested for the thoughts you inspire?"

  "Really?" She ran her palms down his chest.

  "Really." He caught her nimble fingers just as they reached his belt buckle. "In fact, a few of the more entertaining fantasies I've been having are probably illegal in forty-nine states—not to mention the District of Columbia and various territories."

  Tossing back her head she laughed—a low, rich, satisfied feminine laugh. "Only forty-nine?"

  "Californians are allowed to be a little kinky," he said with an easy smile, "since they wouldn't know how to be anything else."

  "Good." She tugged his shirt. "Let's pretend we're in California."

  Sam could feel reason slipping away. "Later," he promised, escaping her hands as he backed away.

  "Spoilsport."

  "Believe me, Davina, you'll thank me for this later."