by Gayle Wilson
Then he put his hand under her arm again, acutely conscious of the smoothness of her bare skin against the callused flesh of his palm. Ignoring the sensation, he turned her elbow so that for the first time he could see the full extent of the injury.
Her description had grossly minimized the damage. Long and irregular, the gash was far deeper than he’d anticipated. And it had begun to bleed anew as soon as he’d ripped the shirt away.
“What do you think?”
He looked up to find that she was trying to see the now-exposed cut, although the angle she was looking at it from was awkward.
“I think it needs stitches.” Her eyes came up quickly in response to that. “And a good doctor to put them in.”
“I thought you were about to claim that as another of your skills. I’d always heard Cabot’s team was self-sufficient.”
“That didn’t extend to doing our own surgery.”
“Frankly, I find that a relief.”
Her tone seemed almost normal. Which was a good thing, considering that trying to get the gash on her arm clean and relatively sterile wasn’t going to be pleasant. Not for either of them.
“Without stitches, this will leave a scar,” he warned.
“If it does, no one will ever see it.”
He wasn’t sure if that was a challenge or a promise. Or maybe neither.
He hadn’t wanted to consider the possibility that Grace had had other lovers in the years they’d been apart. He knew how ridiculous it was to believe she hadn’t. Especially ridiculous, since he, maybe more than anyone else, knew how sensual she was.
“I’m going to wash this out first. And I should warn you before I start…”
“What?”
“I need to make sure there are no bits of fabric or fragments of the metal still inside. I’m afraid that process is going to be—”
“Painful,” she finished before he could.
“Feel free to scream,” he suggested, deliberately lightening his voice. “There’s nobody to hear you.”
“Sorry. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Why the hell would you think I’d get satisfaction from hurting you?”
She laughed, the sound abrupt. Without any trace of amusement. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? We can debate your sadistic tendencies another time.”
He refused to rise to the bait. “There’s some bottled water in there,” he said, jerking his head toward the bed of the truck. “It’s probably safer to use than what we’ve been drinking.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
Without responding, he freed her arm. Before he climbed up into the truck, he automatically scanned the area surrounding it once more.
There was still no traffic on the road. And no sound but the ever-present wind.
It felt as if the two of them were the only people on the planet. As if time had ground to a halt, giving them another chance to do what they should have done seven years ago. A chance he might have been willing to take had Grace not made it so obvious she wasn’t interested.
He jumped onto the truck bed again. Because of the low canvas ceiling, he was forced to crouch as he made his way to the front where he’d seen the opened carton of water. He grabbed two of the plastic bottles, taking a final look around for anything else that might be useful in cleansing the wound.
He had already turned to head back to the tailgate when he realized that, although he could see Grace, he would be hidden in the shadows at the back of the cab. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to study her while she was unaware of it.
She was holding the cloth over the reopened gash in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood, but she had turned to look back in the direction from which they’d come. Tendrils of her hair, caught by the desert wind, blew across her cheek. She bent her head, using her shoulder to brush them away from her face.
As she did, she turned, looking into the back of the lorry. Her eyes, surrounded by the newly tanned skin, appeared more blue, clearer somehow, than they’d ever been before. Although he was sure she couldn’t see him crouching in the darkness, the fact that he was watching her made him feel like a voyeur.
“Did you find it?”
He started forward, a bottle of water in each hand. “I was looking around for something to use as a scrub.”
“Like…a cloth, you mean?”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing clean enough in here,” he said as he reached the tailgate.
Unthinkingly, he held out the bottles of water to her. She shook her head, lifting the injured arm slightly to indicate she couldn’t take it. He put them down, once more jumping to the ground.
“Other than this…” she began, holding up the cloth he’d originally tied over the wound.
It was the remains of the scarf he’d bought for her in that Pakistani village. While usable as a tourniquet, it could hardly be considered sterile. Nothing either of them had on would meet that qualification. The closest thing—
“What about your shirt?”
She had washed out her clothing a couple of times while they’d been cooped up at Reynolds’s headquarters, wearing the garments he’d supplied for their trek across the mountain while the others dried. Although the silk blouse was dusty, it was cleaner than anything else.
“There should be gauze in the kit,” she suggested.
If they were lucky. But he’d planned to use that to fashion a dressing. Before he argued the point, however, it would probably be smart to see how much of it there was.
He pulled the metal box toward him, opened the rusted snap and then raised the lid. The contents looked old enough to have been left over from World War II.
There were a few gauze pads, thankfully still enclosed in cellophane packets. Under them was a bottle of Mercurochrome. As he rummaged through the remaining items, he discovered a half-empty tube of what might be the antibiotic salve he’d been expecting, but its label was so worn it was unreadable.
There were no pills. No suturing needle or thread. No roll of gauze. No tape.
Still, it was better than nothing. Unless whatever was in the tube turned out to be something other than what he was hoping it was.
“There’s gauze.”
He hadn’t realized Grace was looking over his shoulder. He turned, finding her eyes on his face.
“Not much.”
“Enough,” she said. “You make it be enough. I’m not taking off my shirt.”
He had once known the contours of her body as well as he knew his own. Had kissed every millimeter of her silken skin. Had tasted it.
He’d made love to her in every way he could conceive of. There had been no part of her that he hadn’t been intimately—delightfully—familiar with. And now…
Her eyes changed as something of what he was thinking must have been reflected in his expression. He said nothing, simply looking down into her face. While he watched, a tinge of color spread under the bronze of her cheeks.
“Whatever you say, Gracie.”
He forced his lips into a smile he hoped would appear to mock her reluctance to undress in front of him. Then he twisted the top off one of the bottles of water, setting the cap down on the tailgate.
He poured the water over one of his hands and then the other. Although he was doing little more than rinsing off the surface dirt, it was better than nothing.
When he’d finished, he picked up one of the cellophane packets and ripped it open with his teeth. He pulled out the gauze, careful to touch only one corner, and laid it out on the paper he’d removed it from before he picked up the bottle of water he’d used to wash his hands.
Grace had stepped back, putting more distance between them. When he was facing her again, he could tell by the rise and fall of her breasts, visible under the thin silk blouse, that her breathing had increased.
A dread of the procedure he’d described? Or was she a victim of the same unwanted memories he’d just experienced.
“Ready?”
&
nbsp; “Whenever you are.”
She lifted the bandage away from the wound, which was still seeping blood. Her eyes, when she raised them to his, reflected none of the nervousness he might have expected to find there.
Steeling himself, he took her arm again, gripping it more tightly than he had before. He held it up so that he had a good view of the injury, and then he poured a stream of water over the gash.
As he’d anticipated, the clotted blood was affected very little by the liquid. The new bleeding, however, seemed to increase as the water flowed over the wound.
“Use the gauze,” she said.
There really was no other option. Not if he wanted to even make an attempt to clean out the injury.
He released her arm, reaching for the pad he’d already laid out. He soaked it with the water before he set the bottle down on the tailgate. When he turned back, she was holding her arm out for him.
“Do whatever you have to, Landon. And don’t worry about how much it hurts. I saw what happened to Mike.”
Obviously she was still haunted by the pilot’s unnecessary death, but that sounded as if she believed him about its cause.
“Even if I don’t get this perfectly clean, we’ll make contact with our guys before anything can go wrong.”
“Famous last words,” she said, glancing up at him through her lashes.
He was relieved to see a teasing glint in her eyes. “Trust me, Gracie.”
She laughed at that mocking reassurance. Before the sound had faded, he began to dab at dried blood on the edges of the gash.
There had been another sharp intake of breath, quickly controlled. He didn’t look up, continuing to work steadily until he’d removed most of the old blood.
He tossed the gauze back on the cellophane and picked up the water bottle again. Holding the cut open by applying pressure with his forefinger and thumb positioned on either side of it, he allowed new blood to run out for a few seconds. Then he poured a steady stream of water directly into the gaping wound.
As he did, he again looked up to gauge her reaction. Her head was turned, but he could see that her teeth were set in her bottom lip.
“You okay?”
She nodded without speaking. Unwilling to waste any of the precious water, he looked back down, allowing the stream to flush the gash once more.
When he’d used the last of it, he tossed the empty into the bed of the truck. Then once more he put his hand under her arm, holding it up to the bright sunlight. He couldn’t see any of the debris he’d feared might contaminate the wound, but he knew that was no guarantee it wasn’t there.
“I’m going to wipe it with a clean piece of gauze,” he said. “That’s probably going to be less pleasant than the water.”
“Got it,” she said, her voice slightly muffled.
“Want me to give you a minute?”
“I want you to get this over with. Despite my crack about your sadistic tendencies, I’d really appreciate that very much.”
He ripped open another of the cellophane packets, wetting the pad it contained with water from the second bottle. “Here we go.”
“Thanks for the play-by-play, Landon, but…just do it. Okay?”
Again he spread the gash open, this time rubbing the gauze along its length. Beneath his fingers he could feel a slight vibration that seemed to run throughout her entire body. He didn’t let it deter him, however, knowing that if he was going to put her through this, then he’d damn well better do it right.
When he finished, he poured the rest of the water over the injury, which was now bleeding profusely. Which was a good thing, he told himself.
And exactly who are you trying to convince?
Mercurochrome or the nameless salve? At least the first was a known element. He held the mangled tube up to the light, trying to read the label.
Having no more success than before, he opened the cap and squeezed a thin thread of it out on his finger, being careful not to let the tip touch his own skin.
The stuff could be anything, he decided. And as old as the rest of the supplies appeared to be, even if this had once been some kind of antibiotic, he couldn’t believe it would still be potent. Besides, he had no way to tell if the last person to use the tube had been as careful about keeping the applicator clean as he’d been.
There was really no other option, he decided, putting down the tube and picking up the small brown bottle. He couldn’t remember from his own childhood whether it had been Mercurochrome that had stung so badly or iodine. His mom had been a firm believer in one or the other. Not that it mattered at this point.
“This is going to sting,” he announced before he remembered Grace’s reaction the last time he’d tried to warn her.
Without waiting for a response, he gripped her arm again, widening the gash once more before he poured the red liquid over it. This time, with another gasp followed by a word he’d never heard her use before, Grace tried to pull her arm free. He’d been expecting it, holding on tightly until he’d emptied the contents of the bottle.
“What the hell was that?” Her mouth was slightly open, and she was breathing through it.
“Mercurochrome.”
“You’re kidding. I didn’t think they made that anymore.”
“They probably don’t.”
He tossed the bottle back into the metal box. Then he opened the last two packages of gauze, laying the first over the raw wound. He folded the second, to make it thicker, before he put it on top.
“You still have that strip of the scarf?”
She turned, holding the cloth out to him in her free hand. “All done?”
“Other than tying this in place.”
“So what do you think?”
“I didn’t see anything to be concerned about,” he said, hoping that was the case. “I think it should be okay. When we make contact with the Special Forces, we’ll get the medic to look at it.”
“You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“What does that mean?”
Another gibe about him enjoying her pain? If so, he’d taken about enough of that kind of crap.
“That you managed to get this clean with nothing but that.” She nodded toward the rusted first-aid box.
“In addition to being self-sufficient, we were also resourceful. And accustomed to working with what’s at hand.”
“Thank you.”
“You would have done the same for me.”
“You bet your sweet ass I would. And I would have enjoyed it just as much.”
It was so obviously a promise of payback that he couldn’t even be angered by it. After all, what he’d done to her had hurt like hell, and he knew it. She deserved to get in her licks, even if they were only verbal.
“I’ll remember that.”
He began to gather up the things he’d used, deciding that he might as well put the trash back into the metal box. There was nothing left in there that would be of any use to anyone in the future.
As he looked around for the second of the empty water bottles, a flash from the ridge on the far side of the road caught his eye. Despite the lifting of hair on the back of his neck, he continued the motion he’d begun, grabbing the bottle and sticking it into the box.
Then, as unobtrusively as possible, he pretended to look for anything else that should be stowed away while his gaze searched the rocks where the flash had originated.
After a few seconds his vigilance was rewarded. The glimmer came again from the area where he’d seen it before. He made a show of closing the lid of the metal box, snapping the latch and then sliding it toward the back of the truck while he considered what he’d just seen.
He couldn’t think of anything that occurred naturally out here that would produce that effect. It would have to be something that reflected sunlight. Something like the lens of a pair of binoculars. Or the scope on a rifle.
Chapter Thirteen
“Get back in the truck,” Landon said, as he shoved the first-a
id kit farther back into its bed.
Grace turned to look at him, still holding the elbow of her injured arm. She couldn’t imagine why his tone was so brusque. Granted, her suggestion that she would enjoy causing him pain at some future date might be interpreted as bitchy, but Landon had seemed to take it in the spirit in which it was meant.
“Get in the damn truck, Grace.” This time he had turned to look at her, his expression grim.
“Why?”
“Because somebody’s watching us from the ridge to the south.”
She automatically glanced in the direction he’d indicated, but the rocky slope appeared deserted. “How can you possibly know that?”
Without answering, Landon began walking toward the front of the truck. He had already opened the door on the driver’s side and was climbing into the cab by the time she reached the opposite one.
“I saw the sun reflecting off a lens up in those rocks,” he said, looking at her through the open window on her side.
A lens? For a second or two she couldn’t think what that might mean. “Like…binoculars?”
Or a scope, she realized belatedly. Despite being one-handed, she managed to get her door open. Although Landon was already turning the key in the ignition, she hesitated, unsure how she was going to be able to climb into the high cab. She couldn’t imagine trying to use her still-throbbing arm to haul herself up.
“Here,” Landon said.
She reached out and grasped the hand he held out to her. With the help of her foot planted on the running board, Landon was able to pull her up as if she weighed nothing.
She settled into the seat, putting her hand back under the elbow of her injured arm in an attempt to cradle it. As Landon shifted into drive, he examined the ridge where he’d noticed the reflection.
Whatever he believed that to be, he didn’t floor the accelerator, as she’d expected from his sense of urgency. Instead, he steadily got the truck up to the speed he’d maintained before they stopped and kept it there.
“You think it could be Reynolds’s men?” she asked.
“Wrong direction.”