Dangerous to Hold Page 7

  “Jesus!” he muttered, shifting his eyes back to the canteens.

  “Please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain around the children,” she admonished tartly.

  His answer was a scowl.

  Unsure what had put him in such a foul mood this morning, but sharing his sentiments, Sarah set out the battered tin plates and spoons their reluctant host had provided for them yesterday.

  “Come on, children, you need to eat.”

  While the three youngsters gathered around the crate, Sarah scooped the bananas out of the frying pan. Her taste buds tingled at the delicious aroma. Breaking off an end of one banana, she popped it into her mouth. “Mmm…these are good.”

  Teresa’s accusing black eyes stopped her in midswallow. Oh, hell. She’d forgotten again. Sarah gulped down the sweet, glutinous mass.

  “I was just testing them, Teresa. In case they were too hot for you to eat. But they’re okay. You can say grace now.”

  The little traitor shook her head, then smiled shyly up at the tall man standing beside her. “You say it, Señor Creighton.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure which she enjoyed more—the pained expression that crossed his lean, unshaven face whenever one of them referred to him by that name, or his startled look at the thought of leading a prayer. Good, she thought with malicious satisfaction. Let him struggle with the words for a change. She’d stretched her own skimpy knowledge of Catholic prayers, gleaned from Maria in the past two weeks, about as far as they would go.

  He cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Thanks Lord. Let’s eat.”

  His fervent efficiency won grins of approval from the smaller children. Even Eduard managed a smile.

  Raising a brow, Sarah passed him a plate. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “I’m a little out of practice,” he admitted, showing a flash of strong white teeth against his dark stubble.

  “It’s time you got back into practice,” she pontificated, throwing herself into her role. “You have a lot to ask forgiveness for.”

  The sardonic look that made his eyes shade from misty gray to dark flint passed over his face. “More than you know, Sister Sarah.”

  They didn’t speak during the short meal, except to answer Teresa and Ricci’s seemingly endless stream of questions.

  Yes, Sarah was aware that Teresa’s back tooth was loose.

  Yes, the sun streaming in through the broken shutters made a pattern just like a big striped iguana on the dirt floor.

  No, Ricci shouldn’t add the insect he’d crunched between his fingers with such delight to his mashed bananas.

  “C’mon, big guy.” The mercenary scooped Ricci up under one arm. “Let’s go outside and see if we can find you bigger game. You too, Eduard.”

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind two of her charges. And to think she had laughingly suggested to André one rainy, love-filled afternoon that they make lots of children. Lots of little miniature Frenchmen, with their father’s heart-stopping smile and gallant Maurice Chevalier charm.

  At the memory, the pain that lingered just below the surface of her consciousness seeped into her heart. Why hadn’t she guessed from the way André kissed aside her attempt to picture their future, that he didn’t want children? Not with Sarah, anyway. Why hadn’t she realized he had no intention of leaving the four he already had, or their mother? How could she have been so stupid? So incredibly gauche? How could she ever forgive herself for making another man’s wife try to take her own life?

  “Sarita, will you comb my hair?”

  Sarah nodded, swallowing to relieve her tight throat. She sat on the now-cleared crate and tucked Teresa between her knees. She’d managed to put a measure of her pain behind her when a soft knock sounded on the door.

  Sarah snatched Teresa to her chest. She stared at the door, her heart pounding in painful thumps.

  The gringo—Creighton—wouldn’t knock. Nor would the boys.

  Another soft thump of knuckles sounded against the wood.

  Moistening her lips, Sarah called out, “Yes? Who is it? Quién es?”

  The wooden door slowly inched open. A heavyset woman with thick black braids and a dull expression in her brown eyes stood on the stoop.

  “What do you want? Qué quiere?”

  Her eyes on the little girl, the woman held out a small bundle. “Para la niña,” she mumbled.

  “For Teresa?”

  Sarah scrambled to her feet, trying not to trip over her overlarge pink-and-green skirt. Now she knew who it belonged to. Her unexpected visitor wore a similar one, although its purple-and-blue hues were considerably more faded. Moreover, her stained blouse showed ragged, poorly stitched rips. With a flash of insight, Sarah realized the gringo must have bought or bartered for this woman’s best outfit. Maybe her only other outfit.

  And now she was offering something for Teresa. Perhaps a clean shift to replace the sweat-stained one the child wore. Or, better yet, some underpants. Sarah had washed the youngsters’ underwear last night. The items refused to dry in the humid, muggy heat. Even chubby, smiling little Ricci had protested at putting the damp things on again.

  Sarah gave the little girl a gentle push. “Go ahead, honey. Take it.”

  Teresa hesitated, then stepped forward. She lifted the bundle out of the woman’s hand and scuttled back to Sarah’s side. Her nimble fingers made short work of the string wrapped around it.

  “Oooh! Look, Sarita! Look!”

  Eyes shining in delight, Teresa shook out a dress in bright red cotton. Ruffles embroidered with colorful flowers and birds decorated the neckline and the full skirt. A sash of sunshine yellow looped around the waist, its long, dangling ends also embroidered in gay colors.

  Teresa took a few dancing steps around the hut, the dress held up against her thin body. Excitement and the unguarded joy of a little girl shone in her face.

  Sarah smiled and turned to thank the silent woman. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of…of something in the woman’s eyes as they rested on Teresa, but as soon as Sarah spoke they immediately became flat and dull.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you. Muchas gracias, señora.”

  The woman stood silent.

  Teresa overcame her shyness and went forward, chattering in rapid-fire Spanish. She put out a small and rather grubby hand and laid it on the woman’s arm.

  Sarah’s keen eye caught the convulsive way the woman’s fingers folded over Teresa’s, as if she wanted to impress the feel of the girl’s small hand in her flesh. Then she whirled and was gone.

  Teresa shrugged off her sudden departure with the cheerful unconcern of youth. “I will wear this dress now,” she announced, prancing around the hut. “To show Señor Creighton how pretty I am.”

  Señor Creighton again!

  “You’ll be a lot prettier if you let me wash you first.”

  Teresa’s wide smile faltered at the bite in Sarah’s voice. Ashamed of herself, Sarah gathered the girl into her arms.

  “I’m sorry, niña. It’s…it’s the heat.”

  The little girl sniffed.

  “Come,” Sarah coaxed, “slip out of that old dress, while I get the canteen and a cloth of some sort. I’ll wash you, then we’ll see if we can find something pretty to tie in your hair, okay?”

  Showing her gap-toothed smile once more, the little girl complied. Sarah dug through the backpack she now had no compunctions about raiding and pulled out a pair of the white cotton briefs. With a small smile, she reached for a canteen.

  She soon had the girl as clean as possible under the circumstances. The red dress was a little loose on Teresa’s small body, so Sarah wrapped the sash twice around her waist and tied it with a big bow. The girl played with the flounces on the full skirt while Sarah worked the comb through her thick black hair, then parted one section of the crown and tied it with a strip torn from the mosquito netting to form a jaunty ponytail.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Sarah told her, patting her fanny. “You’
re done. You look very pretty.”

  Her hands holding out the sides of her skirt, Teresa twirled around once or twice.

  “Okay, Sarita,” she said after a moment, unconsciously imitating Sarah’s slang. “Now you. Your hair needs the comb, also.”

  It needed a whole lot more than a comb, Sarah thought ruefully. Her lips twisted in a wry smile as she imagined her hairdresser’s reaction if he were to see her now. Jonathan would no doubt take it as a personal affront that she’d let the shining mane he labored over with such devotion get into this condition.

  She reached up and untied the strip of cloth binding her hair. Wincing, she began to work the comb through the sweattangled mess. At last the pointed plastic teeth glided smoothly. Sarah reached up and slid both hands behind her neck, then lifted the heavy weight high up on her head. She arched her back in a slow, luxurious stretch.

  The door to the hut crashed open, freezing Sarah in mid-stretch. Shirtless, his broad chest streaked with blood, the mercenary strode in. He held Eduard’s thin body high in his arms. Ricci stumbled in behind them, his lips puckered and trembling.

  Openmouthed, Sarah stared at them. Creighton’s eyes narrowed as he took in her uplifted arms and less-than-nunlike pose, but he didn’t slow his stride.

  “Shut the damn door,” he growled. “Then come over here. Eduard sliced open his arm.”

  “What?” Sarah let her hair fall and jumped up. Slapping her palm against the door, she rushed to the man’s side. “How? How did he cut himself?”

  He laid the boy gently in the hammock. “The machete slipped.”

  “You allowed a child to play with a machete! A machete?” Sarah’s voice rose incredulously as she shoved him aside.

  “He wasn’t playing. He was clearing some overgrowth from the stream behind the hut. The damned vines tripped him up.”

  Sarah gasped at the bright red that stained the khaki shirt wrapped around Eduard’s forearm.

  “I don’t think he sliced through any muscle. The cut’s deep, though. You’ll have to suture it.”

  He turned away, missing Sarah’s sudden stricken expression. The hand she’d reached out toward the bloodstained khaki shirt trembled violently.

  “I have some disinfectant powder in my backpack,” he called over his shoulder. “But no sewing kit. I’ll have to see if I can round up a needle and some thick thread for you to stitch it with.”

  Sarah gulped down the lump lodged in her throat. She’d probably only threaded a needle once or twice in her entire life. She’d certainly never sutured anything or anyone. Nor had Sister Maria in the two short weeks Sarah assisted her in the clinic. Sarah had watched her set a broken leg, administer a good number of inoculations and sit up two days and nights tending a new mother stricken with postpartum fever. But the nursing sister hadn’t stitched anything.

  Sarah met Eduard’s wide, unblinking stare and bit down on her lower lip, hard. There was no way she was going to fumble around and inflict unnecessary pain on this child. A man like the gringo, whose life depended on his resourcefulness, would have far more skill at stitching wounds than she did. Regardless of the consequences, she had to tell him that she wasn’t a medical sister.

  Sarah turned around, only to blink as he shoved a plastic bottle into her hands.

  “Here, dust him down while I go find a needle.” He spun on his heel and was gone before she could force out the admission trembling on her lips.

  Unwrapping the bloody shirt with shaky fingers, Sarah gasped at the sight of the long slash running almost the entire the length of Eduard’s forearm. Another inch or two more, and he would’ve sliced through the veins at his wrist. Bright red blood welled up from the laceration and trickled down his arm to splash against his chest.

  “Madre de Dios,” Teresa whispered, standing on tiptoe beside Sarah to peer at the wound.

  “Does Eduardo die, Sarita?” Ricci’s wobbling, childish treble galvanized Sarah into action.

  “No. No, of course he won’t die. Teresa, get me that wash rag we just used. Be sure to wring it out in clean water first.”

  She wrestled with the top to the plastic bottle of disinfectant powder. The blasted thing was childproof, of course. She finally got it open, then set the cap back on loosely while she dabbed at the seeping blood with the damp briefs. To her untutored eyes, the edges of the wound gaped hideously, exposing a layer of glistening muscle underneath. She pressed the edges together with trembling fingers, holding them with one hand while she dusted the whole area with the other.

  Blood welled sluggishly through her spread fingers, smearing the power. Jaws tight, Sarah wiped it away, clamped the wound together again, then sprinkled more dust. Sweat beaded on her brow and trickled down her cheek. Sarah leaned back, afraid it might drip into the wound, yet kept her tight hold on Eduard’s arm. The awkward position made her back strain.

  It seemed like hours before the gringo returned.

  “Where have you been?” Sarah snapped.

  “The only needle in the entire camp is so rusty I wouldn’t use it on my boot.” He flashed her a sardonic look. “Of course, you have different standards when it comes to the care and maintenance of boots.”

  Sarah started to tell him indignantly that this was no time to start with his selfish possessiveness again, but he forestalled her.

  “You’ll have to do it the native way.”

  “What native way?”

  He lifted his hand, and for the first time Sarah noticed the short length of bamboolike stalk he held. Both ends were stuffed tight with leaves.

  “You’ll have to use ants.”

  “Ants? Are you crazy?”

  His eyes narrowed. “How long have you been down here, anyway?”

  “Not…not long.”

  “Not long enough, obviously. When you’ve spent as much time in the jungle as I have, you’ll learn not to dismiss native customs with such contempt.”

  “But…ants?”

  “The Maya used soldier ants more than two thousand years ago to close wounds. Lots of folks around here still follow their example. A buddy of mine says African tribes do the same with driver ants. Now, do you think you can set aside your modern medical prejudices long enough to hold the edges of the skin together while I work?”

  Sarah shot him a venomous look, forgetting her decision of a few moments before to confess all and throw herself on this man’s mercy. It appeared that her lack of medical knowledge was totally irrelevant, anyway.

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.” She bit the words out, her hands still clamped around the boy’s arm. “My concern is for Eduard. I have been down here long enough to know that those ants you’re talking about sting. Badly. They can kill small animals, and even the occasional human.”

  His gray eyes slanted toward the silent boy. “Eduard’s man enough to handle the sting. Aren’t you?”

  The boy met his steady look and nodded slowly.

  What was this? Sarah wondered, astounded. Some kind of macho male bonding? Since she didn’t have any better option to offer, however, she kept her mouth shut and watched the tall, sweaty, shirtless man next to her.

  He pulled the leafy plug out of one end of the tube and tapped it on his palm. Sarah’s eyes widened at the sight of the huge ant that fell out. It was as big as one of her native North Carolina’s crickets. And far more fearsome.

  “Here, plug this back up.” He shoved the tube into Teresa’s hands and turned to Eduard. “Ready?”

  The boy nodded once more.

  Grasping the ant between his thumb and forefinger, the gringo held its head against Eduard’s flesh, on either side of the cut. The big, sickle-shaped mandibles bit into the skin. When the jaws clamped shut, they drew the flesh together. Eduard jerked, but made no sound.

  Leaving the head in place, the mercenary pinched off the ant’s body and tossed it aside. He reached for the tube once more and swiftly, competently, repeated the procedure. Sarah moved her hands up Eduard’s arm as he worked, clamping th
e skin together while man and insect closed it. Within moments, a neat track of black “sutures” traced up Eduard’s wound.

  Sarah straightened her aching back. She stared down at the wan, sweating boy, her heart aching for him. She’d been bitten by a soldier ant only once since her arrival in Cartoza, but she remembered how long and how fiercely it had stung.

  “When the bleeding stops completely, we’ll pat mud around the bites to draw out some of the sting.”

  Sarah looked up at the man beside her. “More ancient Mayan remedies?”

  His cheeks creased. “No, this one’s from Field Manual 90-5. The army’s handy-dandy guide to jungle operations.”

  Sarah glanced over at the crates stenciled with U.S. markings. “How convenient. The weapons you and your friends steal come complete with a set of manuals.”

  She regretted the tart words almost as soon as they were out. They sounded petty after what he’d just done for Eduard. Then she reminded herself that Eduard wouldn’t be here in the first place if it wasn’t for this steel-eyed mercenary. She had to remember that the man frowning down at her sold his technical knowledge for cold cash to murdering rebels. Lifting her chin, she returned his scowl.

  Jake fought the urge to tell her that he wouldn’t need to steal the manual. He knew it by heart. Every word. Hell, he’d written most of it. He used to teach it, along with his hard-earned survival skills, at the army’s special forces school. A lifetime ago. Before he’d lost his wife to his career, then his career to his own impatience with the inflexibility of a peacetime army. Before OMEGA had lured him into the dark, dangerous, lonely world of clandestine operations.

  Did he dare trust her? Should he tell her now that he wasn’t the man she thought he was? Jake opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. No, it was safer for her, for the children, for all of them, if he didn’t. Not yet.

  Jake knew he couldn’t keep her confined in this little hut much longer. She needed out—for her own health, if not that of the men who grumbled about their various aches and pains. He’d have enough on his hands trying to minimize Sister Sarah’s impact on the gorillas out there without worrying whether she might inadvertently let slip that Jake wasn’t the man they thought he was.