An Officer and a Gentleman

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An Officer and a Gentleman Page 33

by Rachel Lee

Maggie’s eyes twinkled. “You always worry, no matter who goes in. You can rest easy this time, though. I’ll be in and out of there before you know it. I’m guessing this little operation will be over within twenty-four hours—two or three days at the most.”

  Chapter 5

  “Aaaarrrooo—ooo—gaaahhh!”

  The distant, raucous roar brought Jake to instant awareness. He lay still in the predawn darkness as eerie, deep-throated answering calls echoed through the surrounding hills. A troop of howler monkeys were staking out their feeding area for the day, their deep bass wails warning other troops away from their territory.

  Listening to the dominant male who lead the gravelly chorus, Jake felt a decided kinship with the shaggy-maned, bearded animal. He’d done everything but howl himself in the past twenty-four hours to keep the other men in camp away from his territory.

  The big, pig-eyed lieutenant had wanted to put the blue-eyed médica to work on the fungal diseases and chafed skin common to men who traveled through the wet jungles. Jake had managed to convince him that the complaints could wait. She wouldn’t be much use to anyone, as exhausted as she was. He’d won her a day, two at the most, he figured.

  Not that Sister Sarah seemed to appreciate his efforts on her behalf.

  After two days in this sweatbox, anyone else would’ve lost some of their starch. Not her. Although she’d exchanged her habit for the baggy cotton clothes he’d procured for her, she was as stiff-backed and prickly as ever. It still rankled when he remembered how she’d snatched the little three year old away last night. The boy had tugged on Jake’s pant leg, asking if he really shooted people. Those damned beryl eyes of hers had flashed with scorn as she shushed the child and told him not to bother Señor Creighton.

  Creighton, for crissakes.

  Jake would have stalked out of the hut then, but a rumble of hoarse laughter outside had told him the men had decided to take advantage of Che’s absence to hit the tequila. He wasn’t particularly interested in watching the games they’d soon indulge in, nor did he dare leave the sister unprotected long enough to slip into the jungle and retrieve his backup transmitter. He’d have to try tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. Maggie wouldn’t, couldn’t, give him much longer than that.

  Twenty-four more hours, Jake told himself. Forty-eight at the most. That was all he had. With luck, that was all he’d need. Che ought to have the new drop set up by then. As soon as Jake got word—and managed to retrieve his backup transmitter!—he’d tell Maggie to have an extraction team stand by. They’d swoop in and pick up the sister and the children the minute Jake led the patrol out of camp en route to the drop site. The extraction teams OMEGA used were good, a composite of elite special forces from the U.S. and the host country. The team would execute the entire rescue in radio silence, using silenced weapons and a swift, harmless gas that effectively precluded resistance. No one outside the immediate area would have any idea of what was going down. By the time Jake was a mile down the trail, the little nun beside him would be safely on her way back to her convent.

  The thought made him frown in the darkness.

  He lifted the net tent and rolled off the thin, lumpy mat. Dawn would come shortly, with its usual sudden swiftness. He might as well see about breakfast for his little extended family.

  An hour later, Jake dropped a battered frying pan onto the crate that did double duty as a table.

  “Here, I fried up some bananas.”

  An aroma of cinnamon and glazed sugar drifted across the already hot and humid air. The big cooking bananas, sliced lengthwise and fried to a crisp, would make a filling, nutritious breakfast.

  Sister Sarah glanced up in surprise, and Jake struggled to contain his involuntary start. Even after a day and a night in the woman’s company, he still wasn’t used to the sight of her scrubbed, delicate face without the white wimple and black veil framing it. Or to the long blond hair she’d pulled back and tied with a narrow strip torn from the hem of her habit. Jake had never thought of himself as particularly conservative, but at this moment he wasn’t sure he agreed with Pope Whoever’s Vatican Council. Hair like that ought to be worn short, he decided irritably. Short and straight, in a style that didn’t add several degrees of attraction to an already stunning face.

  “I’ll take the boys outside after they eat,” he announced, in a tone that warned her not to object. He was in no mood for arguments after his long, hot, nearly sleepless night. And he sure as blazes wasn’t about to offer up his boot again. The transmitter might be beyond repair, but rubber boots could save the life of someone tramping through the soggy, rotting vegetation that layered the rain-forest floor.

  The primitive latrine Jake had rigged would suffice for her and the little girl, but the boys could darn well use the stream. Besides, they needed exercise. He needed exercise. He felt restless and edgy and caged. He wasn’t used to sharing his quarters with a woman whose every move seemed to snag his gaze and whose breath fluttered softly in the darkness. Nor with three kids, two of whom, at least, appeared to be recovering from the terror of the raid. He turned away to dig out some water-purifier tablets for the canteens he’d just refilled.

  Sarah bristled at the gringo’s—at Creighton’s—curt tone, but decided not to challenge his assumption of authority over the boys. Actually, it sent a spurt of secret relief rushing through her. After a day and a night with three small children, she was feeling an accumulation of stress that had nothing to do with their uncertain position in the rebel camp. Didn’t kids ever run out of energy? Or questions?

  Struggling to her feet in the overlarge, if blessedly cool, cotton skirt she’d donned yesterday, Sarah moved toward the makeshift table. The mercenary stepped back, but not quite far enough. Her bare arm brushed his. The feel of his warm, taut flesh, liberally sprinkled with wiry dark hair, made Sarah suck in a quick breath. She sent him a wide, startled look.

  “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 hair-dresser’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 sweat-tangled 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-nun-like 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 st
ricken 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.”

 

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