Dangerous to Hold

by Merline Lovelace

  “I take it Eleanora is the woman who gave Teresa her red dress?” he managed, in a more moderate tone. “The one whose husband sold me those clothes for you?”

  It was a pretty safe guess. The only other female in camp was Che’s comrade cum mistress, who was with him on his little trek to the patrón’s hacienda right now. So much, he thought, for keeping Sarah and the kids away from the camp’s other female residents.

  Sarah nodded. “She offered to share her lunch with us. It was delicious. Some kind of fresh meat I didn’t recognize, with nuts and rice, all mixed together.”

  Jake had a pretty good idea what the meat was. Except for wild pigs and small, bear-like kinkajous, few mammals inhabited the wet floor of the rain forest. Eleanora had probably cooked up a nice lizard or snake casserole. Before he could tell Sarah so, however, Teresa stepped forward to tug on Jake’s pant leg.

  “Look, Señor Creighton.” Her face regained the excitement it had held before the momentary fright the gun had given her. “Eleanora gave me a dress for the doll you made for me. Look. Look!”

  Jake hunkered down and looked. The mango root he’d found beside the stream earlier this morning and carved into a somewhat squash-faced baby now sported a frilly little skirt and kerchief. After duly admiring the root’s new wardrobe, Jake straightened. Teresa and Ricci scampered off. Eduard followed more slowly.

  Sarah tilted her head, eyeing him thoughtfully. “It was kind of you to make Teresa that doll.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just a root.”

  “You’re very good with the children.” She hesitated. “Do you have a family waiting for you at home? A daughter Teresa’s age, perhaps?”

  Jake thought of the series of empty, echoing apartments, sparsely filled with rented furniture, that he’d called home since his divorce so many years ago. He hadn’t needed or wanted anything more, hadn’t had time for anything more.

  “No, there’s no one waiting,” he answered with a shrug. “And it’s easy to be good with these kids. They expect so little of life that they’re grateful for whatever crumbs fall their way.”

  She nibbled on her lower lip for a minute, processing the bits of information he’d given her. “You’re a man of many talents, Señor Creighton.”

  “Look,” he said with a tight smile, “if I’m going to call you Sarah, you have to stop laying that Señor Creighton bit on me.”

  “Then what shall I call you…other than gringo?”

  “Try Jack.”

  “Jack.” She rolled it around on her tongue experimentally. “Jack. It suits you. Is that your real name?”

  His smile eased into a grin. “No, but it’s close enough.”

  “Someday I’m going to find out just who you are.”

  She’d said it lightly, in jest, but the words seemed to hang between them. A troubled expression crossed her expressive face, as though she’d belatedly realized that knowing too much about him might not be too wise. A man on the wrong side of the law in at least two countries wouldn’t want many people walking around who knew his identity.

  “Why don’t you show me what medical supplies the camp has on hand?” she said quietly, turning away. “And tell me what I can expect to encounter when the patrol returns.”

  All in all, Sarah thought later that night, she’d handled her first face-to-face encounter with the scruffy band of guerrillas pretty well. She’d kept her head down, her eyes on her work, and her conversation to a minimum. Jack had augmented her sketchy Spanish, translating for her when she couldn’t fully grasp the explanation of the symptoms. Luckily, she hadn’t been presented with any scabrous sores or debilitating injuries. She didn’t have anything more serious than a severe case of warm-water foot immersion to deal with.

  Despite its innocuous name, warm-water foot immersion was a potentially dangerous disease. It occurred frequently in areas with a lot of streams or creeks to cross. Sarah had been briefed on it during the first aid course she took as part of her Peace Corps training. Since so much of Cartoza was covered by soggy rain forest, Sister Maria had been particularly knowledgeable about the condition. If left untreated, it was painful and could eventually lead to permanent crippling. But if the sufferer’s white, wrinkled, bleeding feet were kept dry and dusted with powder regularly, the condition would soon clear up. Sarah passed her instructions through Jack to her patient, a thin, stoop-shouldered rebel named Xavier, who seemed more interested in her blue eyes than her medical skills.

  Now, after sharing another meal with Eleanora, Sarah had cleansed Eduard’s cut, rebandaged it, and settled her charges for the night. Shielded by the stack of crates, she’d changed out of the sweaty habit and once more wore the loose cotton blouse and skirt. She sat on her bedroll, knees drawn up, and plucked at the bright pink-and-green material of her skirt.

  “Did you see the bruises on Eleanora’s arms?” she asked quietly.

  Jack’s hand stilled momentarily on the shiny nickel-plated revolver he was cleaning. His eyes were shadowed as he sent her a glance across the dim hut, which was lit only by the tiny flame dancing over the Sterno can beside him.

  “I saw them,” he said.

  Sarah crossed her arms on her knees and rested her chin on them. “I don’t think that evil little man she’s with is really her husband. She doesn’t speak much, except to Teresa, but from something she let slip, I think her father sold her, sold her, to him when she was just thirteen or fourteen.”

  “From your work with the church, you must know that it happens a lot down here, especially in the interior. Crops fail, a family has too many children to feed—”

  “Knowing about it doesn’t make it any more acceptable!”

  He refused to be drawn into that argument.

  “Eleanora seems so desperate to touch Teresa.” Sarah nibbled on her lower lip for a moment. “I think she must have lost a child of her own.”

  Setting the pistol aside, Jack leaned forward and regarded her intently. “Listen to me, lady. You’ve got enough problems of your own right now without taking on Eleanora’s. We both do.”

  Sarah lifted her chin from her knees. “Maybe it’s time we talked about those problems. I know mine, but I’m not sure I understand yours, or where you’re coming from. Why are you protecting me and the children? What’s in it for you, Jack?”

  She hadn’t meant to sound accusing or disdainful, but the contempt she couldn’t suppress crept into her voice. He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged and retreated behind the shuttered screen of his eyes.

  “Maybe you didn’t understand the little discussion Che and I had when we hauled you into camp. The government forces are putting enough pressure on his little band of cutthroats as it is. If I’d allowed the trigger-happy bastards to kill you the night of the raid, the public outcry over a nun’s murder would have tripled the intensity of the air patrols. I wasn’t eager to have the federales descend on this camp, guns blazing, until I’d hightailed it out of here.”

  Sarah’s heart turned over in her chest. “Just when do you plan to do that—hightail it out of here?”

  “When my business is done.”

  “What happens to me and the children when you leave?”

  Across the dim, shadowed interior their eyes locked. Silence dragged out between them until Sarah felt it in every pore, every nerve.

  “I don’t know yet,” he finally replied. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Trust you…” She stared at him, unspeaking, for moments longer. Then she turned away and reached for the rolled-up mosquito net. It fell between them, a filmy curtain that shut out his face and shut Sarah in with her doubts and fears.

  Jake slid the .45 back into its holster, his throat tight. He wanted to tell her. Christ, his gut ached with the need to tell her. But he didn’t dare. Not yet. As he doused the Sterno “candle” and slid into the bedroll beside hers, however, Jake swore that he’d erase that faint, lingering contempt in her eyes if it was the last thing he ever did.

  H
e lay awake in the darkness, one arm crooked under his head, wondering just why it was so important to him.

  The children’s steady breathing joined the chorus of night songs from the jungle outside. Sarah shifted on her pallet, her hips twisting this way and that as she sought a comfortable position. After a while, her soft, breathy sighs told Jake she’d slipped into slumber.

  She was some restless sleeper.

  He smiled in the darkness as she mumbled incoherently into the bedroll and twitched her hips once more. But the smile froze on his face when Sarah flopped over on her back. She flung out an arm, touching him as she had the first night in the hut. Only this time her hand didn’t just rest on his arm. This time she clutched at him in an unconscious, reflexive reaction to the contact, then followed the touch of her hand with a snuggle. There was no other word for it. She twisted across the space between their bedrolls and snuggled up against his side. Her breast pressed against the wall of his chest. Her cheek rubbed against his shoulder, seeking a comfortable position.

  Common sense told Jake to slide his shoulder out from under her head and turn his back to her. Or at least nudge Sarah back over onto her own thin mattress. He didn’t do either, however. Instead, he lay still, feeling the wash of her breath against his neck. Hearing the little smacking noise she made as she settled once more into sleep. Reminding himself that she was off-limits. The scent of her surrounded him, all sun-warmed, musky female.

  Despite every reminder, despite every stern warning to control himself, Jake felt his senses flicker, then ignite. His groin tightened, slowly, painfully. It took every ounce of discipline he possessed, but Jake resisted the fierce need to curl his arm about her shoulder and press her even more firmly against him. He lay still and unmoving, cursing the tattered remnants of a conscience that wouldn’t allow him to roll over and cover her soft body with his own.

  He was still wide awake when a booted foot slammed against the door to the hut.

  “Hey, gringo!”

  Jake had rolled out from under the net and was on his feet before the second kick banged against the wood.

  “Che wants to speak with you!” Enrique shouted unsteadily through the door. “Hey, americano!”

  A third kick sent the door crashing back on its hinges. Enrique stumbled inside, his flashlight waving wildly. Its sharp, powerful beam caught the startled, frightened faces of the children clutching at their hammock edges. It swept over the bedrolls, then jerked back to pin Sarah in its piercing glare. Her silvery blond hair tumbled over her shoulders as she sat up and raised a hand to shield her eyes. Jake stifled a groan at the sight of her high, firm breasts clearly silhouetted against the thin cotton blouse.

  Enrique didn’t make any attempt to stifle his reaction. He gaped, openmouthed, for several seconds. Then a slow, hoarse chuckle sounded deep in his throat. “So this is why you’ve not joined us to drink tequila and exchange war stories these past nights, gringo. Your médica has been tending to your aches privately, eh?”

  His thick, slurred phrasing told Jake there wasn’t a hope in hell of them talking their way out of this.

  “I, too, have such an ache, gringo.” Enrique held the flashlight on Sarah with one hand while he fumbled at his belt buckle with the other. “You go talk to Che, and I will see that my pain is treated, eh?”

  Jake had only one option.

  He took Enrique down.

  Chapter 7

  A single, swift chop to the neck, and Enrique’s knees buckled. Before he hit the dirt, Jake bent and caught the big man’s weight across his shoulders. It happened so fast, so quietly, that the only evidence of any struggle was the flashlight bouncing on the dirt floor.

  “Get that,” Jake grunted, staggering back a step under the weight of the unconscious man.

  Sarah scrambled to the end of the bedroll and caught the spinning metal cylinder. Her hands shaking wildly, she directed the beam at Jake. He winced and turned his head away from the blinding light.

  “Point it at the ground, for God’s sake, then hand it to me.”

  When she’d complied, he tried to give her and the children assurances he was far from feeling himself. “Don’t worry, we’re going to bluff our way through this.”

  “Bluff?” The word came out in a strangled squeak. “How?”

  “I’m guessing Che wants to talk to me because this dumb son of a b—because Pig-face here is too drunk to understand the specifics on the drop. Che’s probably furious with him and wouldn’t object too strenuously if I put him out of action for a while.” Jake smiled grimly. “You may get the chance to practice a few of your medical skills on this goon when he wakes up. If he wakes up.”

  Sarah’s blunt-tipped fingers dug into his arm as he swung away. “Be…be careful.”

  “I always am. But it probably wouldn’t hurt if you say a couple of prayers in the next few minutes.”

  In fact, Jake thought, it wouldn’t hurt if she said a whole basketful of them. Using the flashlight to guide him, he made his way across the clearing to the shack Che had designated as his headquarters, kicked open the door and strode inside. Half a dozen startled faces turned at his entrance. With a twist of his shoulders, Jake dumped Enrique’s inert bulk on the floor. His compatriots gaped at the sprawled body. Ignoring them, Jake crossed to a rack of portable communications equipment arrayed on a rickety table.

  “Get Che for me,” Jake rapped out to the man seated on a stool before the radio. “Now.”

  “He’s…he’s standing by.”

  With a jerk of his head, Jake motioned for the man to vacate his seat. Picking up the hand-held mike, he pressed the transmit button. “This is the gringo. What have you got?”

  “Arrangements have been made for another shipment. Our supplier will deliver it personally. He was most unhappy that the last shipment was diverted. There will be no mistakes with this one.”

  Che’s voice bore the sharp edge of anger and frustration. Poor bastard, Jake thought cynically. He had to choose between a lieutenant he couldn’t rely on and an americano he despised.

  “It will arrive at approximately 1100 hours on the twenty-seventh,” the rebel announced.

  The twenty-seventh! Jake swore viciously under his breath. That was three days from today. He had to make it through three more days in this camp. Three more days of keeping Sarah and the kids safe. Two more nights of lying beside her.

  “Give me the coordinates.”

  “Enrique has them,” Che said coldly.

  “Enrique may not survive the night,” Jake drawled. “He’s starting to annoy me, big-time.”

  Che drew in a swift, sharp breath, audible even over the radio. “Enrique will survive long enough to lead you to the drop site. After you show us how to operate the missiles, I don’t care which one of you puts a bullet in the other’s head.”

  “That’s what I like about you, pal. You’re such a warm, caring son of a bitch. So tell me, what did you find out about the federale presence in our sector?”

  Jake smiled to himself at the frustration that almost sizzled through the receiver. “It appears it was an unannounced exercise. A stupid scheduling mistake by some staff officer at the headquarters. The patrón is most displeased.”

  “Just tell him to make sure it doesn’t happen on the twenty-seventh. One more screwup and even your patrón won’t be able to afford my fees.”

  The radio went dead. Jake tossed the mike onto the tabletop and swung around on the stool to survey the occupants of the room. They stared back at him with varying degrees of anger, wariness and interest on their faces. Pig-face lay sprawled in the dirt before them, like one of the huge, hoglike tapirs he resembled.

  “Is that tequila?” Jake asked, nodding to the cloudy bottle standing on the table amid a litter of grease-stained cards and half-full glasses.

  “Sí,” one of the men answered cautiously.

  Jake rose and stepped over Enrique’s bulk. “Pour me a drink. It may be a while before your friend here wakes up and we sett
le matters between us.”

  A thin, slumping man who’d been one of Sarah’s patients picked up the bottle. He sloshed tequila into a dirty glass, shoved it toward Jake, then jerked his chin toward Enrique. “Why do you fight with that one?”

  “His ugliness annoys me.”

  A ripple of laughter greeted the sardonic response. By the time Enrique began grunting and twitching, the men at the table didn’t make any effort to hide their amusement at his graceless return to consciousness. Jake concealed his satisfaction behind an impassive face. He’d spent half his life leading men. He knew that few soldiers would respect or follow someone who’d been made to look ridiculous in their eyes. And the picture Enrique presented when he finally sat up, slack-faced and drooling spittle, inspired very little respect.

  “So, Enrique,” Xavier called out, “the gringo says your face offends him. I can see why.”

  The bellows of laughter that accompanied this sally sent a wave of mottled red across the face under discussion. “Perhaps you won’t laugh so much when I tell you that I saw the little religiosa in his bed,” Enrique snarled. “While we make do with Pablo’s slut of a wife, this one has been plowing between those tender white thighs.”

  The sideways glances the men sent Jake contained surprise, suspicion and a faint hint of disapproval, followed swiftly by hot, avid interest.

  Jake didn’t entertain much hope of convincing the big, red-faced man that he’d been hallucinating, but he figured it was worth the try. “You’re a pig, Enrique. And you’re drunk. You let your filthy mind run away with you. You frightened the woman and disgusted me.”

  Enrique lumbered to his feet. “I know what I saw. You thought to keep her to yourself, eh, gringo? No more. After tonight, we all share her. Except you, of course. Tonight you die.”

  He fumbled for the pistol in his holster.

  Jake didn’t alter his loose-limbed sprawl. One hand toyed with the tequila glass, the other rested negligently in his pants pocket.

  “You cannot kill him, Enrique,” a short, frowning rebel protested. “Che has said he must be at the drop site in three days.”