by The Witness
Sam rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. "Lau-ren," he croaked.
"Yes, I'm here. What is it, Sam?"
"Love...y-you."
Lauren sucked in a sharp breath and jerked back, her eyes widening. Her heart squeezed painfully. She wanted so much to believe him, and for an instant hope swelled inside her but she quickly battled it down. Don't be an idiot, she ordered. The man has a raging fever. He's delirious. He has no idea what he's saying.
Sam thrashed around and let out a loud groan, and Lauren gave herself a shake. For heaven's sake, quit acting like a lovesick teenager. He needs your help, she silently scolded. This was no time to indulge in hopeless daydreams.
As with almost everything else, Lauren had no nursing experience, but she'd picked up enough information to know that she had to get Sam's fever down. Fast.
She whirled around, ripped the top sheet off the other bed and took it into the bathroom. After soaking it in cold water under the bathtub spigot, she hurried back and wrapped the wet cloth around him.
Within minutes the sheet was warm. She had to resoak it a half dozen times before there was any discernible break in his fever. No sooner had that happened than he was seized with chills and began to shake uncontrollably. Lauren stripped off the clammy sheets and briskly toweled him dry, coaxed aspirin down his throat, covered him with the blankets from both beds and turned up the heat, but still he shivered. Finally she crawled into bed beside him and held him close.
After a while Sam quieted and dropped into a deep slumber—at least Lauren hoped that was what it was. Exhausted, she fell asleep snuggled against his side.
A couple of hours later, Sam's fever spiked again, and she hauled herself out of bed and repeated the entire procedure.
Throughout the remainder of the night and all the next day the pattern repeated itself over and over— Sam's fever yo-yoed up and down and, in between, chills racked his body so hard Lauren could almost hear his bones rattling.
The following morning, when the motel maid knocked on the door, Lauren told the woman her husband wasn't feeling well and took the clean sheets and towels from her and hung out the Do Not Disturb sign. By late afternoon, though she was too tired to be hungry, she was shaky from fatigue and lack of food, and she knew Sam needed nourishment as well. During one of his docile periods, she screwed up her courage and risked a trip to a restaurant and brought back a takeout order.
Coaxing the warm soup down Sam, a teaspoon at a time, was difficult and frustrating, and when she was done she barely had the energy to eat half the sandwich she'd gotten for herself.
Day turned into evening and Lauren grew more concerned. As the cycle of high fever and racking chills went on, Sam grew weaker, and she had no idea what else to do. Almost twenty-four hours after checking into the motel, holding him close as the latest bout of chills subsided, Lauren stared at the ceiling, sick with worry.
"N-number..."
She jerked her head back and stared at Sam's flushed face. She put her hand against his forehead and realized that his fever was rising again. "Sam? Are you awake? Did you say something?"
His eyelids fluttered.
"Oh, Sam! Sam, you are awake!" she cried. "Thank God!"
He frowned and tried to talk, but he couldn't manage more than a raspy whisper.
Lauren put her ear close to his mouth. "What?"
"In my...wa-wallet. My cousin La...Larry's... number. C-call...him."
She drew back, frowning. "Oh, Sam, are you sure? Can we trust him? Sam?" she prodded, but he had already slipped back into unconsciousness.
Lauren found his wallet in the inside zipper pocket of his parka. In it was a folded piece of paper, on which was a typed list of perhaps fifteen names and telephone numbers. The only Larry was a Larry Zah.
Lauren paced back and forth across the room with the list in her hand, agonizing over whether or not to make the call. Did Sam really trust this man? Enough to risk their lives? Or was he merely desperate? He could even have been delirious when he made the request.
She stopped and looked from the list to the telephone, and chewed on her thumbnail. Then her worried gaze went to Sam. He was beginning to flail around again. Lauren sighed. She had no choice. He needed more help than she could give him. She had to chance it.
The telephone rang five times before it was picked up and a sleepy voice mumbled, "Hello."
"Is this Larry Zah?"
"Yeah. Who is this?"
"I...you are Sam Rawlins's cousin, right?"
There was a short pause, and when the man spoke again his voice had changed from drowsy to alert. "That's right. What about it?"
"Sam is with me, and he, uh...he needs your help. He's been shot."
"Shot?"
"Yes, and he's in bad shape."
He did not hesitate. "Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you."
Uneasily Lauren told him their location and the name of the motel and the room number.
"I'll be right there."
During the hour and ten minutes it took for Sam's cousin to arrive, Lauren swung back and forth, sure one minute that she'd done the right thing and just as sure the next that she had made a grave error.
When she heard the pickup pull up outside the room she stood in the dark by the window, waiting, Sam's service automatic in her hand. If this Larry person had led Carlo Giovessi's assassins to them, she wouldn't be a lamb to the slaughter.
She twitched the curtain open a crack and saw a big, barrel-chested man get out of the battered pickup. He wore jeans, a plaid shirt, a leather, sheep-skin lined jacket and a domed-crown felt hat with a silver hatband. His straight black hair hung to his waist like an ebony waterfall. Lauren's gaze scanned the parking area. There appeared to be no one else around.
He tapped on the door.
"Who is it?" Lauren called in a low-pitched voice. "Larry."
Holding the gun behind her back, she unlatched the chain and let him in. He barely spared Lauren a glance. Once at the bed, he picked up Sam's parka and put it on him, then scooped his cousin up in his arms. Sam was a big man, but Larry Zah carried him as though he weighed no more than a child. "Get your things. We're getting outta here."
While waiting for him, Lauren had put a fresh bandage and shirt on Sam and returned their belonging to the duffle bag. Surreptitiously she dropped the gun into her purse, grabbed the duffle bag, Sam's moccasins and the first-aid kit and scurried after him.
"That yours?" he said, nodding toward the pickup.
"No. We borrowed it from Sam's father."
"We'll leave it here. I'll call Augustus tomorrow and tell him where to pick it up."
The man was so terse, if it hadn't been for his appearance, Lauren would have thought he was a Rawlins instead of one of Sam's Navajo relatives.
Within seconds they were out of the parking lot and speeding south. Sam lay slumped against Lauren, and she held him tight.
"My name is Lauren Brownley, by the way," she said into the silence.
"I figured." Larry Zah sent her an unreadable look. "We get TV on the reservation, too, you know."
"I...I see," Lauren said uneasily. She slipped her hand inside her purse and closed it around the gun. "Then you've heard the news reports."
"Yeah."
"They're not true."
"I figured. Sam's a straight-arrow."
She released the gun and put her arm back around Sam. "Where are you taking us?" she asked after another long stretch of silence.
"To the reservation. We have a doctor there."
"Oh, but—"
"Relax. He's Navajo, and we'll be on Navajo land. He won't report this."
Lauren closed her eyes and sagged with relief. "Thank you."
Larry grunted, but he seemed disinclined to talk, so Lauren settled Sam and herself into a more comfortable position and leaned her head back.
An hour later she was jostled awake and found they were creeping down a sharp incline on the roughest dirt road she'd ever seen
. For miles the road wound through massive sandstone formations as tall as multistoried buildings, standing like eerie sentinels in the moonlight.
"This must be Monument Valley," Lauren said in an awed voice.
"Um. But not the part the tourists see. That's only a few acres. The rest of the reservation is for Navajos only."
Lauren started to ask, "What about me? I'm not Navajo," but she thought better of it.
They drove for miles across vast expanses, deep into the interior of the reservation. Dotted here and there were modest houses, all with dome-shaped hogans out back. Sam grew restless, and moaned at the constant jostling. Lauren felt his forehead, discovered that his fever was rising again.
Finally they arrived at a small cluster of dwellings, a small frame house and two mobile homes about a hundred feet apart. "This is my place," Larry said, pulling up in front of one of the mobile homes.
The door was opened by a Native American woman in her mid-thirties wearing a robe and slippers. Lauren assumed she was Larry's wife, though he didn't bother with introductions. As he carried Sam inside the woman clucked and fussed, her attention riveted on him to the exclusion of everything else. When she happened to notice Lauren, shock flashed across her face. She looked as though she was about to object, but her husband cut her off.
"Is a bed ready?"
"Yes. I thought it would be better if we put him in the boys' room, so I moved them out here," she replied, motioning toward the two teenage boys sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room. She bustled ahead of her husband, leading the way down a narrow hallway. Lauren followed at Larry's heels.
The small bedroom contained twin beds. Larry gently placed his cousin on the one closest to the door. An agonized sound came from Sam, and Lauren hurried to his side and placed her hand on his forehead. "His fever is worse," she said to Larry over her shoulder.
"I'll go call the doc."
The woman followed him, and though she tried to keep her voice low, Lauren heard her. "Larry, that woman cannot stay here," she insisted. "She is not one of us."
"She will be our guest."
"But others will not like having a white woman here. It is not allo—"
"Hush, Zeta. She is Sam's woman. She stays."
Sam's woman? A thrill shimmered through Lauren at the thought. She sat down on the side of the bed beside him and took his hand. If only that were true.
To Sam, she was an assignment. Oh sure, he desired her. He may even have developed a mild affection for her in the past few days, but no matter how she might wish otherwise, she was hardly "his woman."
Lauren knew full well that if they got out of this mess alive and she testified against Carlo, then she and Sam would part. He would return to his job, or perhaps to his father's ranch, and she would be given a new identity, a new life.
And she'd never see Sam again.
Tears threatened, and Lauren gave herself a shake. In the meantime, though, if his Native American relatives wanted to believe that she was his woman, she wasn't about to tell them otherwise.
The Zahs returned a short while later with a slender Navajo man in his thirties carrying a doctor's bag. With him was one of the loveliest young women Lauren had ever seen. In her early twenties, she had delicate features, magnificent big brown eyes and the shy demeanor of a wild doe.
The instant the girl spotted Sam she rushed to his side, opposite Lauren, and began to stroke the back of his neck. She gazed at him adoringly, oblivious to everyone else in the room. "Oh, Sam," she whispered. "Dearest Sam. What has happened to you?"
Lauren's heart sank. This beautiful Native American girl was in love with Sam!
Stunned and heartsick, she stepped back from the bed to give the doctor room. As he began removing Sam's shirt and bandage he spared her a glance. "You must be Lauren Brownley. I'm Dr. Sard, and this is my sister, Willow."
Lauren acknowledged the introduction with a nod. She didn't have to ask how the doctor knew who she was.
"How long ago did this happen?"
"About...twenty-seven hours ago," she told him after glancing at the bedside clock. "I did what I could, but the bullet is still inside him."
"Mmm. It would have been better if I could have treated him immediately. However, you did an excellent job. The wound doesn't look infected.
"I'll have to remove the bullet. Ideally I should take him to the clinic and X ray his shoulder before I operate, but I don't think Sam would want to risk that. The clinic is in an unrestricted area of the reservation. The people looking for you would have access if they managed to track you this far."
"Do it here, doc," Larry urged.
The doctor probed the wound, and Sam bucked and cried out. Willow stroked his back and murmured soothing words, but he continued to thrash.
"Lau-Lauren? Where is...Lauren?"
Willow looked as though she'd been slapped. Her head came up and her hurt gaze sought Lauren, who was already moving. Quickly skirting the end of the bed, she elbowed the doctor's sister away and took Sam's hand in both of hers. "I'm here, Sam. I'm here."
"Sam? Can you hear me?" Dr. Sani asked.
His patient made an unintelligible sound, which could have been a yes, and the doctor went on. "I'm going to remove a bullet from your back. I'm going to inject a local anesthetic, but you'll feel some pain. I'm afraid that's the best I can do here. I want you to lie as still as you can, okay?"
"O...kay," Sam gasped.
The doctor looked around at the others. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you all to leave—everyone but Willow. She'll assist me."
Sam's hand tightened on Lauren's. "S-stay. D-don't...go."
"I won't. I promise," she murmured. "I'll be here as long as you need me."
She looked at Dr. Sani. "I'm staying."
He studied her implacable stare for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."
At first Sam bore the probing stoically, gritting his teeth and squeezing Lauren's hand so tight her bones nearly snapped, but when the doctor began to dig deep it took the combined strength of Lauren and Willow to hold him down. Mercifully, after only a few seconds, he passed out again.
After removing the bullet and closing the wound, Dr. Sani gave Sam a massive injection of antibiotic and another of painkiller. After writing instructions and leaving orders to call him if Sam's condition worsened, the doctor left at dawn, promising to return later that afternoon.
Damn. His right shoulder hurt like hell. Emerging from the drug-induced sleep, Sam forced his heavy eyelids open. The first thing he saw was Lauren. She sat in a chair beside his bed, bent forward with her upper body resting on the mattress beside him, sound asleep.
As always, her beauty struck him like a runaway freight train. She lay with her face turned toward him, her auburn hair spread out on the blanket, her eyelashes like tiny fans against her skin.
Gradually it occurred to him that she looked exhausted. Her flawless skin was paler than usual and there were circles under her eyes again. And what was she doing sleeping sitting in a chair?
Sam cast a quick glance around, and he knew at once that he was in the boys' room at his cousin Larry's house.
Then bits and pieces came back to him—the chase, being shot, Lauren driving the pickup like an Indy driver, staggering into a motel room. After that it was all pretty much a feverish blur of pain and disjointed images and sounds.
He looked at Lauren again, and his chest tightened with so much emotion it was painful. Somehow, she'd managed to get them here. And apparently she had watched over him during the night, as well.
Sam picked up a handful of Lauren's hair. He rubbed the silky strands between his thumb and fingers, let it slither between them and puddle on the blanket again. Without conscious thought, he trailed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek.
Lauren's eyes fluttered and opened. "Sam." She blinked and smiled sleepily then jerked upright. "Sam! You're awake!"
"Yeah," he replied in a husky voice.
"How do you feel? Ar
e you in much pain? The doctor left some pain relievers in case you needed them."
"I'm okay."
"Can I get you something? A glass of water? Something to eat? You must be starving by now. I'll just go get—"
Lauren started to rise, but Sam manacled her wrist with his fingers and held her back, ignoring the stab of pain the movement brought to his shoulder. "Take it easy. I'm okay."
She didn't look convinced, and before he could stop her she placed her palm against his forehead. "Your fever does seem to have broken."
Sam reached up and removed her hand but he did not release it. "Will you relax? I told you, I'm okay."
He studied her intently, his gaze running over her pale face, the sleep marks on her left cheek, the inviting softness of her mouth. Her hair framed her face in artful disarray.
Rubbing his thumb in a slow circle over the back of her hand, he looked into her eyes. "Every day, you amaze me more," he said quietly. "You have from the start."
Lauren gave an uneasy chuckle. "Now I know you're still feverish."
"I'm serious. All your life you were wrapped in cotton and insulated from life's day-to-day struggles. Yet, now that you're on your own, you stick out that delicate little chin and stand up to whatever life throws at you, tackle any problem, any obstacle. I've never known a woman with that kind of grit and determination."
A rueful half smile twisted his mouth. "Even when I thought you were Carlo's mistress I was amazed at your strength."
A flush crept over her face, and she dropped her gaze to their joined hands. "Don't give me too much credit. I didn't have much choice."
"Sure you did. There are always choices. We all make them every day. Lauren, listen to me." Sam crooked his forefinger beneath her chin and tipped her head up until her gaze met his again. "You're a special woman." His thumb caressed her jaw. "A very special woman."
"Sam, I—"
"And just who is this special woman you have brought onto our land?" a strange voice snapped.
Lauren jumped up guiltily and twisted around, backing away from the bed. A plump, gray-haired Native American woman stood in the doorway, her brown, lined face as hard as the sandstone formations that dominated the arid landscape outside the window.
