by Olivia Gates
It must be internal, then, all this anxiety. That figured. Now she thought about it, Luis was probably wrong, had most likely mistaken Javier’s new warmth for desire. And there was another sobering interpretation for that warmth.
Javier might be complying with her plea for ease and openness between them, probably in compassion for her insecurities and vulnerabilities. A reward for all her efforts to win his approval, too. But he was disregarding the implicit physical side of her proposition.
Stop it. Work with the assumption that Luis isn’t wrong.
His vision had to be clearer than hers. Her mind sure wasn’t operating at optimum, being exposed to the new Javier. The tender, spontaneous Javier, so different from the blazing lover or the disapproving, hard-hitting professional!
There was one way to find out. By going for it, unafraid of being beaten back again. And there was no time like the present—since he was rushing towards her.
Her lips spread on the first full smile she’d given him since that first day she’d made him laugh. Since then she’d made him laugh constantly, lapped up every considerate, lovely gesture he lavished on her, but couldn’t relax enough to reciprocate the spontaneity. Now she let go, her heart expanding with the freedom of showing him her true self.
His running progress faltered. Not the reaction she’d hoped for.
She got up and hurried to meet him halfway on the soft meadow of their camp, imagining how her lips would open on his, her tongue driving between his stubborn lips, one hand fisting in his hair, the other kneading and fondling him, until he pulled her down, took her there in the tall grass…
Those velvet cocoa eyes flared in answering sensual ferocity. Or was he just anxious? Yes, he was!
He gestured for her to hurry after him, then turned and ran back to the MSU. Oh, God, something bad had happened! Very bad. She flew after him.
He disappeared around the MSU. Her momentum slowed as she saw the boy standing by its opening. Juan! Coming to say goodbye? The lovely boy had come every day they’d been there, bearing gifts of his latest artwork and chontaduros, the plum-sized bright red and yellow fruit of the only palm trees in Cundinamarca. Her heart leapt with pleasure at the sight, then almost burst when he turned. The side of his head was covered in blood.
“Juan!” The boy hurled himself into her arms, smearing her neck and chest with his blood.
Her frantic fingers tried to pry his arms from around her, to see his injury. No! How bad was it? “Where are you hurt? How did you get hurt?” Only rising sobs answered her. Her frantic eyes searched for Javier. He jumped out of the MSU carrying their largest emergency bag, with Alonso and Miguel running in his wake, carrying more. “Javier!”
Javier handed his bag to Esteban, turned to her, applied an occlusive dressing to Juan’s wound, stemming his bleeding, then almost carried her with the clinging Juan to his Jeep.
Once they screeched away with her still plastered to his side, Juan and all, he enlightened her. “It’s Juan’s older brother. He’s been shot.”
One huge wail tore out of Juan, before he collapsed back into his incessant sobbing. Savannah’s vision swam. She heard her own choking whisper from afar. “How bad? Why?”
“Bad. The resident guerrilla army was out recruiting.”
“Recruiting? But José can’t be a day older than fifteen!”
Javier was silent for a minute as he maneuvered the rough descending road with his left hand, his right arm still clamping her and Juan. When he turned his eyes to her, they were full of rage and grief and that tenderness that ate her to the bone. “They take them younger than that. Seems he refused to give up school, to leave his family. Juan threw rocks at them and they shoved him to the ground and he cut his scalp.”
“He may have also bumped his head, no telling how hard!”
“He ran all the way here, so we have to assume he’s OK. For now. We’ll check him later.”
They fell silent. What more was there to say?
Suddenly he talked. His voice frightened her, terrible, torn. “This is how Bibiana died.”
“Bibiana?”
“My oldest sister.”
He’d never told her. “Oh, Javier!” She surged into him, buried her face in his neck. Her arms burned to contain him, to ward off the mutilating memories, but couldn’t. She was still holding Juan. The following silence was filled by her snatched sobs, Juan’s whimpers and Javier’s labored breathing. Javier still tried to soothe her and Juan, his powerful hand trembling over them both. What he must be feeling!
Javier let out a long, shuddering breath then started to talk. “Bibiana was a teacher. She left the relative safety of our home in Neiva to go to Putumayo, one of the southern departments in Colombia, which has been until very recently almost completely ignored by the rest of the country. Hundreds of thousands of displaced people fled there.
“Bibiana believed passionately in bettering the lot of young people through education, especially kids in displaced communities who are recruiting targets of both the guerrillas and paramilitary troops. They don’t want education, they want students trained to use firearms. They force ‘volunteers’ to join their army, mostly teenage kids in conditions of absolute poverty. Usually, the threat of violence and the promise of more money and privileges get them their ‘men’. Armed men on all sides terrorize students and assassinate teachers…”
“Those bastards didn’t think education was so useless when they ran to us educated types with their every ailment!”
His arms tightened around her. Her whole body convulsed, trying to touch any part of him to absorb his pain and loss and rage. He went on. “Bibiana was working towards an accord declaring schools neutral territories protected from the conflict. She was just one of one hundred and twenty-five assassinated teachers in Putumayo. Three hundred and sixty more have been displaced.”
And was he following in his sister’s footsteps? In his chosen field?
It was all so clear now—his limitless drive, his unwavering focus. No wonder. And no wonder he’d thought her such a flake.
They stopped in front of San Carlos school, jumped out of their Jeeps, grabbed their gear and raced inside. On their way in, she saw the walls riddled by bulletholes, desks and chairs destroyed and large portions of the school burned to the ground.
Savannah’s pain-hazed brain tried to stimulate a response at the sight—more pain, more hatred. There was no more. She’d reached her limit. Now she went numb, moved on autopilot. Take care of Juan. Get to José. Rant and weep later.
José was lying in the lap of one of his teachers on the floor, his blood pooled around them. They swooped down on him. Javier reached him first, his fingers going to José’s carotid pulse.
He barked, “He’s alive. Snap to it, people. Ready blood and blood constituents for transfusion. Everyone take a chore. Expose, determine site and extent of injury, announce your findings.”
Miguel snapped open the emergency bags, produced the O-negative blood, the universal blood type indispensable for blind transfusion. They’d collected it from their three crew members who had the type, and from other healthy individuals from Cundinamarca, even a few of the guerillas.
Caridad panted her procedures and findings. “Monitors hooked up. BP 55 over 30. Pulse 190 and thready. He’s in deep shock.”
Savannah’s lips twisted on her report. “Abdominal injuries. I can see three entry wounds. High-caliber bullets, judging by the size of the wounds and laceration of surrounding skin. Close-range, contact firing even, judging by the burn marks. The high-energy transfer from the bullets will mean unpredictable and massive intra-abdominal injuries.”
“Nasogastric tube to decompress the stomach before intubation yielded blood. Probable gastric injury. Foley’s catheter in, yielding blood, too. Must be urogenital injuries.” Alonso snapped his eyes to Caridad. “Keep an eye on urine output to monitor resuscitation efficiency.”
Caridad nodded and Javier added to his directions. “I’ve gained hig
h central venous access and double large bore peripheral access, too. No saline resuscitation. Number one priority is to keep his coagulation up, and saline would dilute his blood and coagulation factors. Start with four units of blood and the packed platelets, pass through the high-flow warmers first. Counteracting his hypothermia is as important. Find an electric outlet and place him on the electric blanket.”
After everything had been implemented, Miguel said, “I don’t think we have time to transfer him to the MSU, Javier. We have to perform damage control surgery here, get him stabilized and warmed first.”
Miguel’s verdict in this situation was paramount. Javier gave a sharp nod, and they all burst into action. In minutes they’d arranged desks into a makeshift operating table, had José on it, on top of the electric blanket, with warming devices applied to his head and upper extremities.
They prepped him from the thigh to the neck, leaving his chest exposed in case they needed to perform a thoracotomy to extend their exploration of his injuries.
“Set up the cell saver, Savannah, Javier. It’s in the van.”
Miguel’s barked order sent Savannah’s head up. “What about abdominal contamination?”
The cell saver was a machine that recovered blood lost from trauma and during surgery. It spun, washed, filtered and replaced the patient’s red blood cells back in the body, providing an endless blood supply and avoiding costly, risky or unavailable transfusions. They’d been using it all through, but she’d never used it in intestinal trauma, when blood was bound to be contaminated by spilled intestinal contents.
Alonso looked across at her. “It’s safe. The blood will be auto-transfused after washing, with massive antibiotics on board.” As their anesthesiologist he was the most qualified to judge that.
She and Javier ran to the van, pulled out the components of their emergency cell salvage device. They returned to find Alonso had started IV anesthesia, making do with the less sophisticated monitors and ventilatory support equipment they had with them.
“He’s deteriorating, people. Hurry!”
Alonso’s desperate urging doubled their speed. Miguel performed the first midline incision into José’s abdomen, beginning their emergency laparotomy. Javier and Savannah were ready for the critical moment, expecting significant blood loss, prepared to draw the blood into the cell saver.
The blood loss was horrifying. Javier and Savannah struggled to get most of it, and get it back into José, while Miguel entered the abdominal cavity, performed four-quadrant packing with pads to press on all sources of hemorrhage, occluding them. When it didn’t work, he had to apply manual compression of the subdiaphragmatic aorta in an attempt to control the bleeding.
“Madre de Dios—nothing’s working. The boy’s injuries—I never saw such widespread damage, such catastrophic bleeding…”
“He’s gone.”
Alonso’s declaration hung in the sounds of desperation and grief filling the room, the harsh, choppy breathing of their team, the heartrending weeping of José’s family and friends.
Savannah’s eyes reached for Javier’s, found a dreadful sheen to their rich depths echoing her streaming tears, reached for his bloody gloved hand with her own, clung. “If we shock him…?”
She knew the answer. Nothing would happen. José was beyond help. He had been from the start. They’d all known it. Yet they’d had to try. Had to add another failure, another futility, another scar.
She’d lectured them about making a difference. Doing the best job. Hoping for the best. Did she really think she had convictions—or answers? Had she thought she was up to this, that she’d grown enough in self and stamina to handle it all? To survive it? Perhaps Javier had been right all along. Perhaps she’d only pass her personal test, reach her limit, then run back to her cocoon of safety and luxury. Without purpose again. Without Javier…
So what? Whatever happened, at least she had choices, and it seemed she was the only one around who did. Choices. The ultimate luxury. The ultimate test.
She took one last look at José’s unblemished young face and realized. He hadn’t had choices, so he’d made them, real ones, and had paid the ultimate price for them. But he’d taught everyone a lot while he’d done it.
Yes, José, I understand now. And I will go on…
“Going on isn’t an option at the moment!”
Javier couldn’t believe he was saying this. He couldn’t believe he was the one petitioning for taking it easy, stopping to catch a breath. Savannah not only wanted to continue their mission after all that had happened, but she wanted to continue it at once.
“Why not?” Her hands rested on the slight curve of her hips.
She’d slimmed down a lot. It suited her, made her even more arousing. Oh, all right—anything suited her, and aroused him.
He couldn’t believe that either. They were still in the school, still surrounded by devastation and echoes of desperation and death. Yet all he wanted was to close that classroom door and take her against it.
He exhaled. “The team is exhausted, on all counts. Going directly south all the way to San Vicente del Caguán, without a stop on the way, a few real meals and some uninterrupted sleep, is bound to break them down. The last four weeks have been nothing like they’d expected, and that’s saying too much.”
She came to stand almost between his thighs, insisted, “But our schedule is shot to pieces! We have to try and catch up, not take days off!”
Images mushroomed in his head. Just pull her down, take her lips, her breasts. Settle her down on you. You can still discuss this as she rides you…
And she wanted to. He’d seen it. She’d hit him between the eyes with it when he’d gone to call her to José’s crisis. She’d taken him on a roller-coaster ride inside her fantasies. It had brought him to his knees, inside his own, worshipping her, feasting, sating her and himself.
So what had changed? What had turned her on again? She’d seemed to turn off, to lose interest in him, that same day he’d realized how deeply she was embedded in his heart. Ever since, he’d been telling himself to be grateful for the agony of loving her, to show her all his respect, his admiration, his gratitude, the tender part of his love, and to just bask in her nearness, the only thing he’d have of her.
Then she’d suddenly turned on again. Or had she been turned on, period? Had this explicit invitation been for him, or had she just been hungry, frustrated? Had that scene with Luis had anything to do with her state?
Dios, was this how men had heart attacks?
Jealousy. He’d thought he’d known it before, imagining Savannah with Mark, with other men, since he’d walked out of her life. Acrid, warping, destructive. Preying on his stamina and sanity.
He’d known nothing.
But he had no claim on her and jealousy wasn’t his right, or his luxury. Yet—what if she wanted him again? Would he take what he could? Four weeks with her. He no longer simply wanted or craved her. He was suffocating for her. It was no longer sustenance to have her, it was survival.
Didn’t it follow that walking away from her would be fatal this time?
“Hel-lo! Javier? Did you get that last part?”
“Of course, I did!” How could he not, when his focus on her was total? “And I hope we won’t fight over this decision, Savannah. Let me have this say uncontested. It’s for the best, for everyone.”
“A rest is all well and good, but we should have been to San Vicente del Caguán and gone by now. Going any more off course…”
“We won’t be off course. Stopping at Neiva is right on our way. Tell you what—if, after a couple of days, everyone is up to moving on again, we’ll set out. There’s no use having an overworked, overwrought team on the road, Savannah. You know we’d be liable to cause more harm than good that way.”
Her heavenly eyes fixed him, filling with—what? Would he ever figure her out? Her sigh of agreement emptied his own lungs. “All right. Oh, you’re right. Of course you are. I’m just—I don’t…” It
was clear what filled her eyes now. Tears. Would they ever hurt him any less? “I—I wanted to get busy, move on, be of use. Resting, you get to think, to dwell on stuff…”
Four weeks ago he would have never believed this day would come, that Savannah would stand there, sharing his drive, echoing his objectives, seeking solace through work, through service. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. Couldn’t afford to love her any deeper!
But he could give her comfort. He knew just how, every lick and caress and stroke as he took her, from herself and into delirium, into ecstasy…
He watched her eyes clearing, filling with answering awareness, then suddenly with realization, excitement. “We’ll be stopping in Neiva? Your hometown? Oh, Javier, will you stay with your family? Will you take me to visit them?”
Take her to his family home? Show her once and for all exactly why she should never give him any serious consideration?
He shook his head. “I’ve already phoned ahead and booked you all into one of the city’s better hotels.”
“So! You’d already taken the decision to go to Neiva and carried it out, notwithstanding your co-leader’s opinion!”
That wasn’t irritation—she was bordering on humor as far as she could in their current mood and situation. But it seemed it had distracted her from the family visit issue. Relief boosted his own mood a bit. “Sí, I took matters into my own hands. Are you going to punish me?”
She bent and pushed her face closer to his, gave him a magnified view of her beauty. Like that first day, when her antics had taken him by storm, forced his laughter and started rewriting her character in his mind. “You bet. And you won’t even know how or when. You’ll just live on, sweating it!”
Look away. You’ve got no fight left. You’re half a breath away from total insanity.
Looking away only took his drugged gaze from her eyes to her breasts.
Her voice was husky. “So you got accommodation sorted out. What does that have to do with visiting your family? I would still like to meet them, Javier. I’d love to see your home.”