Dressed, she felt marginally warmer. It was gloomy inside the windowless hut, and she thought that perhaps the absence of light might be contributing to Sam’s chill. But there was nothing she could do about it.
Her only source of supplies was the combat pack. Crouching on the floor, she dumped its contents out into the dirt. Besides the first-aid kit there were several cans of C-rations, two packages of the dried beef jerky they had eaten last night, cigarettes, matches, a lighter, maps, a compass, collapsible cups, a cooking pot and eating utensils, and a variety of miscellany.
Lisa looked from the collection of objects at her feet to Sam. He rubbed his head pitifully against the blanket, seemingly searching for a nonexistent pillow. Lisa pondered for a moment, then began to stuff his discarded clothes into the empty pack. It made a lumpy but serviceable pillow; when she put it under Sam’s head, he snuggled into it gratefully.
Sam needed medicine to bring down his fever, Lisa knew. She frowned over the contents of the first-aid kit. Most of the pills and ointments it contained were unfamiliar to her, and their labels—long medical names for the most part—were useless in helping her to identify the purposes for which they were intended. About the only thing she recognized was a bottle of aspirin. Thankfully, she fished it out. Aspirin was good for bringing down a fever—at least she thought it was.
In the bottle, though, the tablets were useless. She had to get him to swallow a couple. Shaking the canteen, she discovered that there was only a little water left—barely enough to help Sam down the aspirin. After those few swallows were gone, she didn’t know what they would do. Then, listening to the rain beating down against the roof and sides of the hut, she shook her head at herself. Lack of water seemed destined to be the least of their problems.
Crossing to kneel beside Sam, she pondered how best to force the aspirin down his throat, and had just concluded that it would be impossible to get an unconscious man to swallow anything, when he rolled onto his side. Then, to her relief, his eyes blinked open.
“Water,” he said with a groan, running his tongue over his parched-looking lips. His blue eyes were glazed with fever; he seemed unaware of her presence.
Lisa’s first impulse was to hold the canteen to his lips, but then she realized that if she gave him the water first he would have none left to wash the aspirin down with. She would have to get him to swallow the tablets first.
“Water,” he repeated in a pleading croak that wrung her heart.
“In a minute,” she promised soothingly, moving so that his head was cradled in her lap. Carefully she lifted it so that it rested higher against her breasts, holding him so that he could swallow without choking. “First I want you to take some medicine. Can you swallow these aspirin for me?”
Almost unconsciously, she was speaking to him as she would have to a sick child. His eyes closed; for a moment she was afraid that he might have drifted off again. But then his eyes flickered open and seemed to focus on her.
“Sam?” she whispered hopefully.
His brow puckered, and he moved his head against her restlessly.
“Beth?” he muttered.
Lisa felt her heart contract at the unfamiliar female name. Who was Beth? she wondered as she forced the aspirin between his lips, then quickly held the canteen to his mouth, tilting water down his throat so that he was forced to swallow. Girl friend, sister, daughter—or wife? With a shock Lisa realized that she didn’t even know if he was married. Until now, it hadn’t seemed to matter. But as she thought about it, it seemed more than likely that he had a wife and several children. He was a devastatingly attractive man—and he could be very charming when he chose to be. It was almost inconceivable that he could have reached his present age—late thirties? forty? she didn’t know that either—without having been snapped up by some eager female. Picturing him with a wife—a plump little homebody with a ready smile and an affinity for the kitchen—and a couple of kids sent a queer little pang shafting through her. Absently smoothing his hair, she realized that, in some strange way, she had begun to consider Sam as hers—her property. Which was ridiculous!
Suddenly becoming aware that she still had his head cradled to her breasts, and that his blue eyes were fastened on her and gave the appearance at least of being aware, she quickly lowered his head to rest on the makeshift pillow.
“Sam?” she queried again, but this time her tone was brisk.
“Water,” was his reply, uttered in a dry, pleading voice. “Please, water.”
Clearly, he was out of his head. Lisa felt a hard knot of worry lodge in her throat as she took the cooking pot out into the rain to catch more water.
Sam was delirious all day. Lisa sat beside him, sponging his hot body with the cool rain water when he fretfully threw off the blanket, climbing into the pallet beside him and gathering him in her arms when he switched to shivering with chills. Lisa imagined bitterly that he supposed she was the absent Beth. Her jealousy of this woman—whoever she was, whatever she meant to Sam—grew like a weed in a flower garden, despite her refusal to acknowledge it for what it was. Mechanically she fed him aspirin and sips of water. When he woke up, saying bluntly that he had to pee, she even helped him with that. And all the time she felt—unreasonably, she knew—as if he’d dealt her body a blow that went straight through to her heart.
Finally his shivering fits became so violent that she felt she had to risk starting a fire. Judiciously she gathered some of the reeds from the floor into a pile—just enough to make a small fire. She didn’t want to burn the hut down. She built the tiny blaze as close to Sam as she dared, praying that there was enough ventilation in the hut that the smoke wouldn’t do them any harm. She was afraid to open the door for air. Anything—man or beast—could be outside. Although she tried not to think about it, it was quite possible that the soldiers searching for them could be in the vicinity. She certainly didn’t want to draw them to the hut by the flickering, unmistakable beacon of a fire.
She left Sam only to eat or to relieve herself. With a vague recollection of “feed a fever, starve a cold,” she tried feeding Sam, but the C-ration version of pork and beans obviously didn’t agree with him. He obediently swallowed a couple of mouthfuls in response to her repeated proddings of his lips with a spoon, but no sooner had it gone down than it came back up. After that, she decided to limit his menu to water and aspirin.
By the time night fell, Lisa was beginning to despair. Sam was certainly no better; it was even possible that he was getting worse. She didn’t know enough to judge.
Long tremors racked his body at closer and closer intervals. When that happened, his teeth chattered as loudly as busy typewriter keys. Not knowing what else to do for him, Lisa finally undressed and slid in naked beside him, her arms wrapping around his waist as she pulled him close in an attempt to warm him. He was muttering incoherently, making small restless movements with his arms and legs, and Lisa was afraid that he would injure his wounded shoulder. To keep him still, she turned and lay flat on her back, then drew his head down so that it was pillowed on her breasts. Curling her arms around his head, she stroked his hair, his bristly cheek, the back of his neck, whatever she could reach. Instinctively she began to croon to him, murmuring senseless cajolery, finally beginning to hum a lullaby into his hair. It was one she had often sung to Jennifer—but she wasn’t thinking of Jennifer now. After a few minutes she was rewarded when Sam quieted. But she continued to sing to him until at last she had sung them both to sleep.
It must have been very early when she awoke, because the hut was just starting to change from pitch blackness to a lighter gray. She ached all over, she thought, carefully stretching her cramped limbs, moving stealthily so as not to disturb Sam. He still lay in the same position in which he had fallen asleep, his face nuzzling into the warm valley between her breasts and his right arm curled around her waist. He felt very big and solid lying against her. She thought it was absurd that she, so slight compared with his strength, should be in the positi
on of protecting and caring for him. However much she had fought with him, and hated him, he had been a rock for her to lean on ever since he had first found her in the jungle. He had bullied her, yes, and made her mad enough that she could willingly have brained him more than once, but always she had known, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, that however much he might torment her himself, he would permit no one else to do so. He would protect her with every atom of his considerable strength, she knew. Now the tables were turned, however, and it was up to her to look after him.
His skin didn’t feel quite so hot, she thought, making a feather-light inspection of his face with her fingertips. Maybe he was getting better. Even as she thought it, she felt his arm tighten around her. Then he opened his eyes.
That was nothing unusual. Many times the day before he had stared straight at her and not recognized her—but at least he had not called her Beth again. Lisa thought with a wry twist to her mouth that she should be thankful for small favors. But this time, as his eyes traveled over the soft roundness of a breast that was directly in his line of vision, lingering there for just an instant before moving up to her face, she could swear that he was fully aware. . . .
“Lisa?” he asked in a husky voice.
Lisa’s eyes widened. Her arms tightened convulsively around his head, and she hugged him to her. She could have wept with relief.
“Oh, Sam, thank God!” Her response was heartfelt. “I’ve been so worried about you!”
Suddenly aware that she was tenderly caressing his face and hair, she dropped her hands self-consciously to her sides.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured, his lips warm against her skin. “Please.” Shy but obedient, Lisa resumed her gentle stroking of his hair. He sighed, resting against her with his eyes closed.
“How do you feel?” she asked after a little while. He nuzzled his face deeper into the satiny skin between her breasts before replying.
“Dead tired—and my shoulder’s sore as hell. Did you get the bullet out? I can’t seem to remember. . . .”
“Yes. But that was night before last. You’ve been so sick. . . .”
“The fever.” He sounded resigned as he continued to lie against her with his eyes closed.
Lisa’s finger feathered his bristly cheek as she realized that he was indeed, as he had said, dead tired. Then something about what he had said made her hands pause briefly before resuming their soothing task.
“It was a fever—yes. How did you know? You were out of your head. . . .”
“I’ve had it before.” She thought he was going to leave it there, but after a moment he continued, “It’s something I picked up in ’Nam. It comes back every once in a while. I haven’t had an attack in—oh, three years. I thought maybe this time it was gone for good.”
“What is it?” Lisa was worried that he had to suffer like that periodically. Surely, with modern medicine, anything could be cured. . . .
“At the V.A. hospital they gave it some long, fancy name I never can remember. Generally it’s called jungle fever. They can’t cure it,” he said, anticipating her next question. “But it’s not life-threatening or anything. I manage to live with it without too much problem. Usually I feel an attack coming on, but this time I didn’t. And, God, what a hell of a time for it!”
“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” Her voice caught in her throat.
Sam’s eyes opened, and he slanted a considering look up at her. For an instant he hesitated, as though debating whether to tell her the truth.
“Most likely,” he said at last. Lisa was both glad and sorry that he had chosen not to lie to her; she had known the answer in her bones anyway. “But they won’t get a lot done in this downpour. The ground’s like quicksand and their jeeps will get mired up if they get off the roads. I think we’re pretty safe here—at least until the rain stops.”
Closing her eyes, Lisa said a silent prayer of thanks for the deluge she had been cursing just minutes before.
“The fever—does it always come and go like that? So fast?” She spoke almost at random, wanting to distract her thoughts from the mental image of soldiers bursting in on them, guns at the ready.
“The worst of it.” He paused, then went on reluctantly, “But I’ll probably go off a couple of times today—not as bad as yesterday, but the fever takes a while to run down. Then I’m generally weak as a kitten for another day or two.”
Lisa met his eyes worriedly. If he was going to “go off” again, she had better find out what to do for him.
“Do you have some medicine with you that you usually take? I’ve been giving you aspirin because I didn’t know what the rest of the pills in the first-aid kit were.”
“Aspirin’s as good as anything. There’s really not much that helps with this thing. Except time. It always goes away by itself in a few days.”
His arm slid from around her waist, and his hand came up to cup her breast in a warm, intimate gesture. The blanket was around his shoulders, which brought it down to the middle of her rib cage. Lisa was suddenly overwhelmingly aware of her nakedness—and his. To her embarrassment, a little tingle of wanting ran clear down to her toes.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful tits?” he murmured against her skin, his fingers gently stroking a soft peak. Lisa felt herself color hotly, although she knew it was silly to do so.
“Did they?” he persisted, shooting her an indecipherable look. His fingers continued with their distracting task.
“No,” she admitted truthfully, wriggling a little as she tried to get free. Despite his illness and his injury, he held her easily.
“Not even your husband—what’s his name?” His voice was very low; he shot her that odd look again.
“Jeff. And, no, be didn’t.” As if Jeff would tell her that her breasts were beautiful—or had ever even thought so.
“He must be crazy—or blind.” Sam was probing—oh, so casually—for information. Lisa felt her heart speed up; she was afraid he could hear it pounding under his ear. He almost sounded jealous—which was wishful thinking on her part, Lisa admitted with an inward grimace. Then the thought occurred to her: Why should she wish him to be jealous?
“Are you hungry?” She was determined to banish her wayward thoughts before they were irrevocably set on paths that were better avoided. Sam rested against her silently for a moment, and Lisa feared that he was not going to allow the subject to drop. Then he removed his hand from her breast, and looked up at her again with those soul-destroying blue eyes.
“Yeah. But I’ve got a problem that’s a little more urgent—I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh.” After caring for him as she had, Lisa knew that it was ridiculous to feel embarrassed—but she did. After all, ministering to the needs of a man who was out of his head with fever was a very different matter from helping a man who was very much awake and aware. A man she found far too attractive for her peace of mind.
“If you’ll let me up, I’ll—I’ll get the pan.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” he asked with a grimace of distaste. “No, thanks. I think I can manage to walk outside.”
“I doubt if you can even stand up,” Lisa protested, appalled at the idea of him standing and walking—and probably falling—after the debilitating events of the last few days.
“Really, I don’t mind—about the pan.” Lisa said this in a diffident tone, in case—as unlikely as it seemed—he was embarrassed about having her attend to his needs.
“Well, I do,” he answered firmly.
Then, before Lisa could argue with him further, he rolled off her and got rather shakily to his feet. He was obviously very weak and swayed alarmingly as he stood towering next to her. Immediately she ran around to prop herself under his good arm. To her surprise, he accepted her help—as far as the door. From there he insisted on going on by himself. Taking a single look at his grimly determined face, Lisa didn’t argue. She was in a fever of worry, until, after about ten
minutes of nail biting, he came back around the corner of the hut, his hand braced against the surprisingly solid wall for support. For just an instant she registered the sheer physical splendor of his naked body before hurrying forward to help him. He shrugged away from her touch, clearly intending to walk the few feet into the hut under his own steam. She paced herself anxiously beside him, trying not to feel hurt at his rejection of her assistance. But once inside, with the door shut and bolted behind them, he seemed only too glad to let her help him ease back down onto the blanket.
“You got wet,” she accused as he lay back, exhausted. Small droplets sparkled in his hair and a few more rolled waywardly down his face and chest.
“That overhang is damned narrow,” he said, grunting.
Lisa, clucking like an anxious hen, pulled his shirt out of the combat pack and used it to wipe him dry.
“Now, what about that food?” He sounded weaker. Lisa was afraid that his little journey out into the rain had done him no good at all. Silently, she went to open a can.
Lisa had to help him eat. When he had swallowed several mouthfuls, he began to shiver and pushed the food away.
“I’m cold,” he said, and his shivers grew more violent.
Lisa set the food aside and came under the blanket with him, cradling him in her arms as tremors shook him. She hadn’t bothered to undress, but his head twisted restlessly against the roughness of her shirt until at last she unbuttoned it and pulled his head down onto her breasts. Then at last he lay quietly. Lisa thought he was either asleep or unconscious. She was surprised when he looked up at her, his hands clutching her waist beneath her opened shirt.
“Sing to me,” he muttered. “That song you were singing last night. I like it.”
Fighting a wave of fierce tenderness for him that seemed determined to engulf her despite her best efforts, Lisa began to hum the Brahms lullaby that had been Jennifer’s favorite. Gradually she added words; after a while he sighed heavily and seemed to sleep.
He lapsed in and out of sleep for most of that day. Awake or asleep, he wanted her near him, his hands clutching her close with an almost desperate strength. It didn’t seem to matter whether he was burning with fever or shaking with chills—either way, he clung to her as if he was afraid that she would vanish if he relaxed his grip.
To Love a Man Page 18