He was slumped against the rough gray bark of the tree trunk, his head lolling limply when she gently shook his uninjured shoulder. Beneath what remained of its greasy black covering, his face looked as white as death. But he seemed to be breathing normally, and with her hand pressed to his blood-streaked chest she could feel his heart beating in a steady rhythm. She started to call his name again, to try to shake him back to consciousness, then hesitated, sinking back on her heels. He had to be in considerable pain. There was no sense in waking him just to suffer while she did what she could for his wound.
Slowly Lisa crawled around behind him again, glad that they had gotten far away from the area where the enemy soldiers almost certainly still searched for them before Sam had passed out. With him unconscious, they were both helpless. Swallowing, she glanced askance at the fearsome-looking rifle lying in the leaves by Sam’s leg. She would touch it only if absolutely necessary. Sam’s lessons on the finer points of handling firearms had in no way lessened the horror she felt for the deadly things. If she had to use it, she would, to the best of her ability, but in the meantime she prayed that no one or nothing would stumble across them until Sam was able to protect them again.
Picking up the small gauze pad from where she had let it fall, she poured more antiseptic over it and then pressed it to the wound. She held it there until she judged the liquid had had time to penetrate the blackened hole, then took it away again. For a moment she sat staring rather helplessly at Sam’s slumped back. He needed her, for once, and she hadn’t the slightest notion what to do for him. The wound looked awful, she thought with an inward shudder. Blood still edged sluggishly from the jagged edges of the hole; the flesh around it had swelled and blackened until it resembled a small mountain. His entire left shoulder area was one huge bruise. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Lisa picked up the pad and began painstakingly to clean away the gore surrounding the wound. At the very least she could clean and bandage it for him. Working carefully to remove the dried blood that encrusted the hole, she was very much afraid that the wound was far more serious than Sam had let on.
When she had finished wiping the blood from the bronze silk of his back, Sam was still unconscious. Lisa began to worry more and more. If he didn’t wake by the time she had his wound bandaged, then she would allow herself to panic, she thought. But in the meantime, she forced herself very calmly to make another pad from the diminishing roll of gauze, soak it in antiseptic, and tape it as well as she could over the wound with white surgical tape from the first-aid kit. With her small knowledge of nursing and the limited supplies at hand, it was the best she could do for him. She only hoped it was good enough.
When Sam’s shoulder was at last bandaged to her satisfaction, she crawled around in front of him again. Using water from the canteen at his belt, which she managed to detach with some difficulty, she gently sponged away the streaks of dried blood on his arms and chest. Bathing the strong muscles now so helpless beneath her hands, Lisa was surprised by a sudden surge of something that was almost tenderness for him. Maternal instinct, she supposed wryly, but even that knowledge didn’t make the strange feeling go away. With his eyes closed and his black head, usually so arrogant, resting limply against the tree, he looked younger, and very vulnerable. Lisa grimaced at herself, but her hands, as she reached up to wipe away the remnants of the greasy black camouflage that smeared his face, were almost absurdly gentle.
It was while she was slowly drawing the cool, wet gauze pad over his unshaven cheeks that his eyes flickered once, twice, then opened to regard her rather dazedly.
“What happened?” he asked after a moment. He sounded groggy, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was or who she was.
“You fainted,” she replied matter-of-factly, continuing to draw the cool pad over his face. “You must have lost a lot of blood before we stopped.”
He closed his eyes without answering. When he opened them again, perhaps a minute later, he seemed much more aware. Lisa finished wiping his face, then sank back on her heels, looking at him keenly.
“How long have I been out?” His voice was beginning to sound crisp again, but his face was still very pale beneath its sun bronze.
“Not long—maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Did you get my shoulder bandaged?” Now he was starting to sound arrogant. Lisa, despite her exhaustion and worry, and their predicament, had to smile.
“Yes.” He didn’t like her smile, she could tell. He gave her a hard look from those glittery blue eyes, then to her surprise pushed himself away from the tree.
“What are you doing?” The question was torn from her. She could tell from the tensing of all his muscles when he moved that the action had caused him considerable pain.
“We’ve got to get a move on.” He looked as if he was going to try to stand up at any minute. Lisa put out a hand to clutch his upper arm, unconsciously noting the steely strength of the muscles bunching beneath her hand as she sought to stay him.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She spoke sharply. “You need to stay still—to rest for a while! As I said, you must have lost a lot of blood, moving around like you have been all day. You can’t mean to just go traipsing off into the wild blue yonder as if nothing’s wrong!”
Sam looked at her steadily, his mouth a harsh, straight line.
“Honey, I don’t think you quite understand the situation we’re facing here,” he said with weary patience. “Those men back there are still looking for us—never doubt it! And they probably have reinforcements in to help them by this time. If they find us—and they want us badly—they’ll kill us. And by the time they get around to it, we’ll probably be begging to die! Do you have any idea what fun they’d have torturing a woman? No, of course you don’t! You probably think you could tell them who you are, and that you had nothing to do with what we had planned, and they’d let you go. Lisa, baby, those animals torture and kill just for fun! They’d love hearing you scream with pain. . . .” He broke off, seeing her face pale at the graphic picture he had painted. Before, she hadn’t really allowed herself to think about what would happen if they were caught.
“Anyway, we can’t stop—not for anything—until we’re safely out of the country,” he finished in a milder tone.
Lisa sat for a moment, nervously chewing her lower lip. More than anything in the world she wanted to be out of this barbaric country. . . .
“But you’re hurt. . . .” With his wound, she didn’t see how they could go anywhere. If he fainted once, he would most likely do so again, unless he had time to rest and replenish his blood. And she certainly couldn’t go anywhere without him. All at once Lisa realized that even if she could go on without him, she wouldn’t want to. He needed her. . . .
“I’ll be a hell of a lot more hurt if those soldiers catch up to us—and so will you,” he responded grimly. “Now come on.”
He heaved himself to his feet on the last words. Lisa stayed on her knees a moment longer, looking worriedly up at him. The lines were very visible in his lean face as he stared harshly back. Finally capitulating to that commanding gaze, Lisa got to her feet without another word of protest.
“Could you hand me my shirt?” Sam gritted, leaning sideways against the tree for support and gesturing to where his shirt lay crumpled on the ground near where they had been sitting. Lisa took one look at the blood-soaked garment and shook her head.
“You can’t mean to put that back on. I mean—look at it!”
Sam raised his eyes skyward.
“I sure can’t go walking through the jungle like this.” He indicated his bare torso with a gesture. “Unless I want to provide a meal for every insect known to man—plus some. Now, don’t argue with me anymore. I’m getting damned tired of it. Just hand me my shirt.”
“Why don’t you wear this jacket instead?” She offered him the flak jacket that she had tied around her waist earlier when the heat had made wearing it more torture than protection.
“I damn well don�
�t want to wear that jacket,” he retorted, glaring angrily at her. The menacing effect was spoiled somewhat by the whiteness of his face and the obvious weakness that had him still leaning against the tree for support. “I want my shirt. Now, are you going to get it, or do I?”
From the uncompromising set of his mouth, Lisa knew better than to argue any further. Besides, it had occurred to her rather forcefully that they were wasting valuable time. If there really were enemy soldiers in pursuit, and if Sam was obstinately determined to press on despite his wound, then it served no purpose to stand around arguing with him—especially over something so trivial as a bloodstained shirt.
“Goddammit!” he roared when she made no immediate move.
Lisa, seeing that he meant to stoop to get his shirt himself and not wanting him to exert himself any more than he had to, bent and picked up the shirt. The cloth was already beginning to stiffen where the blood had dried on it.
“Give it here.” His voice was milder but still noticeably impatient as he reached for the garment. Lisa handed it over mutely. He pulled it on over his good arm, then tried to shrug it around his shoulders but stopped, wincing. Lisa, biting her lip, hurried over to help. Sam favored her with a long, hard look as she caught the edges of the shirt in both hands, but permitted her to ease the garment around his bandaged shoulder. She would have draped it around his left side like a cape, buttoning it up in front to hold it on, but Sam insisted that the shirt be put on properly.
“I’ll need the use of my arm,” he said. So Lisa, after one look at his whitening face, slipped the shirt back off and started over again, this time inserting his left arm first. Carefully she eased it around his shoulders and helped him get his right arm into the sleeve. Then, when the shirt was finally on, she came around in front of him and started to button it as she would have done for a child. The action was purely instinctive. She wasn’t even thinking about what she was doing. It was only as she did up the last button and happened to look up into his face looming some inches above her that she saw his eyes fastened on her broodingly, an indecipherable expression in their depths.
“I’m not helpless, you know,” he said, almost growling.
Immediately Lisa dropped her hands from where they had been resting lightly against his chest, and took a step back from him. She was more than a little embarrassed at the almost maternal concern she felt for him, which apparently he had sensed.
“Can you get the gear together?” he asked gruffly after a brief pause. He motioned toward the contents of the pack, which she had left strewn over the ground.
Silently, not looking at him, Lisa knelt and began to scoop things back into the pack. Sam bent to pick up his rifle and shoulder holster. Lisa, sneaking a glance up at him as he straightened, saw beads of perspiration break out along his forehead. His mouth was set in a tight line, as though to repress any small sounds of pain, as he stuck the pistol in his belt and handed Lisa the holster to be included with the other gear in the A.L.I.C.E. pack.
When the supplies were once again stowed securely in the combat pack, Lisa stood up. The bag dangled from one hand. It was heavy, but she was devoutly thankful for its presence. Without it, what would they have done? Then she made a wry face at herself. Sam was no doubt well versed in living off the land. He probably could have provided a three-course dinner for them at ten minutes’ notice, if their need was great enough. One thing she had already learned about him: he was a man one could depend on in a crunch. . . .
“Give it to me,” Sam said, breaking into her reverie, stretching out a hand for the combat pack. Lisa stared at him in disbelief, then gathered up the bag so that she was holding it rather awkwardly in both arms.
“I’ll carry it,” she said.
He looked impatient. “Give it to me.”
“For God’s sake!” Lisa was growing thoroughly exasperated. “Let me carry it! You just fainted, you idiot! You’re wounded! You don’t have to prove what a big, strong man you are to me—I already know it! But for once you’re going to have to use a little sense. You’re going to need every scrap of strength you possess just to stay on your feet and keep walking, much less carry this pack!”
Sam looked at her thoughtfully. Lisa felt her cheeks take on faint color under the open speculation she saw in his gaze.
“You’re awfully concerned about me,” he observed finally.
Lisa bit her lower lip. Her motives were too uncertain to bear analysis—especially by Sam. She settled on the safest one.
“What would I do if something happened to you?” Her voice was only a shade defensive. Her eyes met his steadily. She was both relieved and sorry when the speculation died in his eyes.
“True,” was all he said before turning his back and heading out through the trees.
Lisa stared after him for a moment. Then, swinging the heavy pack to her back as well as she could, she hurried to fall into step behind him. When he sensed her presence, he said, over his shoulder without turning, “If it gets too heavy for you, let me know.”
Lisa made no reply.
As the day progressed, Lisa’s respect for Sam, already unwillingly high, became something like awe. He moved doggedly onward, tramping through undergrowth so thick it appeared impassable, hacking a path for them both with the long, crooked knife he carried in his boot. Never at any time did he give any indication that he was in pain. But Lisa, having seen that dreadful hole in his shoulder, knew better. He had to be suffering agonies, to say nothing of feeling weak and light-headed from the loss of so much blood. Sheer strength of will had to be the only thing keeping him on his feet. Watching that broad back in the sweat-soaked, bloodstained shirt as it swung on ahead of her, seeing the paleness of his skin and the perspiration that had his black hair wringing wet and ran down between his shoulder blades in little rivers, Lisa was exasperated and moved at one and the same time. Crazy, too-proud man! Didn’t he realize that he needed to rest—to stop? He wouldn’t even let her help him! Seeing his face whiten as the day progressed, she had made the mistake of offering to let him lean on her as he walked. He hadn’t even bothered with a verbal reply, just a blistering look that told her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her suggestion, and sent her stumbling back behind him again, where he no doubt thought she belonged.
Sometime during that interminable afternoon, it began to rain. Not a light, summer drizzle, but a full-fledged downpour. At first the thick jungle foliage protected them from the worst of it, but gradually they ran out of jungle. Walking through fields of tall, golden grass, nearly flattened now by the force of the rain, they were exposed to the full fury of the storm.
At first Lisa, exhausted almost to the point of mindlessness and so hot she felt like a steak on the grill, welcomed the cool drops that trickled down through the sheltering canopy of leaves to fall in a light patter on her head. But when that patter turned into a seemingly endless waterfall, and when there was no escape from it, she was soon more miserable physically than she had ever dreamed she could be. Water soaked her hair so that it dangled in dripping rats’ tails down her back; it sluiced her face and drenched her clothes so that she was chilled to the bone. Even Sam’s jacket—which he stubbornly refused to wear—was no protection. It was soon just as wet as the rest of her. From sweating profusely, she went to shivering so much that her teeth chattered. Her feet made little squelching sounds with each step. Helplessly she looked at Sam through the blinding downpour; he was moving steadily, already some little distance ahead of her. He had to be at least as wet as she was, and she knew that his shoulder must be hurting like hell. But he seemed oblivious to discomfort, and even to the rain that turned the grassy field into a quagmire beneath their feet. As he strode relentlessly on, she wanted to scream at him to stop, if only for a moment or two. Was he out to prove how macho he was—was that it? Lisa glared at his broad back in impotent outrage. She was dead tired—he had to be, too. It only made sense to stop for a rest. Surely their pursuers would have been halted by this storm. No s
ane human being would stay out in it any longer than absolutely necessary.
Finally she could stand it no more. A trio of huge, leafy baobab trees beckoned enticingly some thirty feet away, and she for one was going to take advantage of their shelter. If she didn’t sit down soon, out of this miserable rain, she was afraid she would fall down.
“Sam!” she called, staggering toward the trees. “Sam, stop!”
Out of breath, wiping away the water that streamed down her face with both hands, she reached the trees and sank down beside one gnarled trunk, which was easily thirty feet in diameter, and leaned back against it. For a moment she feared that Sam had not heard, or, having heard, meant to go on, leaving her to her fate. Then, to her overwhelming relief, he turned, plodding toward her. When at last he stood towering over her, shielded from the worst of the rain by the spreading, interlocking branches overhead, she looked up at him with weary defiance. His face was paper white, marked with lines of exhaustion.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, leaning one arm against the tree and letting it bear his weight.
“I have to rest a minute. Please.” Lisa huddled at his feet and looked up at him appealingly. He made her feel incredibly small—and not just physically. He was the one who had been shot. That bullet hole in his shoulder should have laid him flat on his back, but he was carrying on without so much as a murmur of pain—even trying to make things easier for her, for God’s sake. While she was perfectly whole, not hurt a bit, and yet she couldn’t find the strength to move a muscle. It was humiliating, and didn’t say a lot for her powers of endurance, but she couldn’t help it. She had simply had all she could take. Nothing short of an atomic blast could have gotten her to move.
“Okay.” Sam seemed to realize that she was really and truly at the end of her rope. “We’ll take a breather. Ten minutes. No more.”
With a sound that was midway between a sigh and a groan, he sank down beside her, his good shoulder propped against the tree next to her, one long leg drawn up close to his body while the other sprawled its length in the muck.
To Love a Man Page 14