For a moment, sweating, he feared she wasn’t able to understand. Then her hand came up to clutch at his shirt front. He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.
“No!” she whimpered.
He shook her again, but less forcefully. Bullets were singing in the air above their heads; the crashing sounds behind them told Sam that the enemy were getting dangerously close.
“Then crawl!” he ordered. “Come on, get up and crawl. We’re going to have to hide!”
She blinked once, twice. Then slowly, too slowly for Sam’s taste, she got shakily up on her hands and knees. Sam was already looking desperately around them, his eyes seeking the best shelter. A pink-flowered chopinchuna bush thickly covered with a deep green hanging vine seemed to offer the best place to hide. Quickly he scooped leaves and mulch over the telltale blood from his wound, grabbed his rifle and the A.L.I.C.E. pack, then pushed Lisa toward the bush.
“Get under there!” He held aside the trailing vine so that she could crawl beneath the bush’s sheltering branches. When she was safely hidden, Sam quickly found a small branch and brushed it over the ground they had disturbed. If this was going to work, they mustn’t leave any sign. . . .
He threw the branch away and rolled under the bush himself, pulling the vine down so that it completely hid them—he hoped and prayed—from view. It was dark and cool inside, like a cave. . . .
Lisa was staring at him, her face white with shock and fear. He felt a twinge of impatient pity for her. Poor girl, she must be scared to death. Then he thought a trifle grimly that if it came down to it, he was scared to death himself.
“Sam,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on him like those of a small, terrified animal. Whatever she had been going to say was lost as she saw for the first time the blood that covered his chest and shoulder like scarlet paint.
“You’re bleeding!”
“Shut up,” he said brutally, pushing her down so that she was lying on her belly in the thick leaves. “If you want to live to talk about it, don’t make a sound. If they find us, we’re dead meat!”
She shut up. Sam pushed her head down into the leaves, then rolled on top of her. It was an altruistic gesture, and a damned stupid one, Sam thought grimly, but if the guys chasing them had any notion that they’d holed up, they were sure to pepper the area with bullets. He’d already taken one bullet—what were a few more? Then he grinned ironically to himself. The truth of the matter was, he couldn’t stand the idea of this damned dumb helpless female getting shot. Chivalry was not dead.
Sam’s wounded shoulder ached agonizingly. He thought longingly of the bottle of whiskey that was part of the A.L.I.C.E. pack’s standard gear. What he would give for just one swallow . . . Then he ceased to think, ceased even to breathe. Soldiers were running past them; feet thudded into the ground just inches from where they lay hidden. Silently he readied his rifle. If they were discovered, he was prepared to roll away from Lisa and open fire. Beneath him, Sam felt Lisa jerk spasmodically. Swiftly he pressed her face into the dirt and leaves covering the ground. All it would take was one sound, a single whimper, and they would be discovered. And killed.
They lay there for what seemed like hours, listening to the soldiers beat the jungle in search of them, hearing them call back and forth in what Sam had identified as the Matahele dialect. Time and again they passed so close to the bush that Sam could have reached out a hand and caught one by the ankle. Beneath him, Lisa was shaking; long shudders of fear racked her body. Sam buried his face in the curve between her shoulder and neck, hoping to comfort her by his proximity. After all, she wasn’t much more than a child—and she was a female. Considering that, he thought she was taking this whole ordeal marginally well.
Women, in his experience, were pretty, useless creatures with little or nothing between their ears. Oh, they were necessary—about twice a month. Other times, he could live quite happily without them. Beth, his ex-wife, had given him a distaste for the whole female sex. They’d been married only two years—and, God, he’d loved her, like the naïve young fool he’d been. He was willing to bet that during that time she’d bedded half his company. When he’d found out at last—tipped off by an embarrassed friend—he hadn’t believed it at first. Until he’d confronted her with what he was sure were lies, and she’d laughed and admitted everything. Worse, she’d told him details—names and places and dates; he had stared at her dumbly, not wanting to believe. He hadn’t even had the gumption to kick her out. He would have forgiven her—he still burned when he remembered that. But she hadn’t wanted to be forgiven. She was glad he’d found out, she’d said: it would save her the trouble of telling him the score. He was boring, both in bed and out. She’d been crazy to marry him in the first place: he was nothing but a kid, and she wanted a man.
He hated to remember that he’d cried when she left. Twenty-three years old, a sergeant in the marines, and he’d cried like a baby. His only excuse was that after years of being shuttled from one foster home to another, of knowing that he belonged to no one and no one belonged to him, he had craved a family desperately. His wife and his baby son had been his whole world. Sam grimaced a little, wryly, as he thought back to the dumb kid he had been seventeen years ago. He had since learned that he was sufficient unto himself: he didn’t need anybody, and he didn’t want anyone but his kid needing him.
After Beth had left, he had volunteered for combat duty and been sent to Vietnam, where he had worked off his bitter rage by blowing away any gooks who were unfortunate enough to get in his way. He had taken a perverted kind of joy in killing—in watching bodies jerk as his bullets smacked into them, seeing blood and guts fly. It had helped him to exorcise his hatred. . . .
He had come back to the States a different man, older and infinitely wiser. The first thing he’d done was retrieve his kid from Beth, who was tired of having a five-year-old hanging on her skirts anyway. She told him frankly, when he had come demanding his son, that she would be glad to get rid of the kid: he was cramping her style. Sam had come away feeling nothing but a cold contempt for her. She was no good, a tramp. He couldn’t believe that he’d ever been in love with her.
There had been some rough times in the twelve years since, but he and Jay had managed to get by. A high-school dropout himself, he had insisted that Jay go to school every day, do his homework, and bring home good grades. Sam felt a surge of pride whenever he recalled that Jay would be graduating next May at the top of his class. The kid was smart, no doubt about it. And he would see to it that the boy went on to college, had opportunities that he himself had never had.
He had supported the two of them by hiring out as a mercenary, fighting in nearly every corner of the globe. Soldiering was all he knew, all he was equipped for. And the pay was good. Since he was out of the country so much, he had had to send Jay to a boarding school. But now—now he was getting tired of killing. All he wanted was a place to call home, maybe a few hundred acres of land, some stock, and peace. This job had been meant to assure that; even with only half the money, added to what he already had saved, it would give him a start—if they got out of here alive.
Beyond the bush, the jungle seemed quiet. Sam could no longer hear the soldiers crashing about. Maybe they’d gone—or maybe not. Maybe they were waiting, hoping the silence would lure them out.
Lisa was squirming uncomfortably beneath him. Very quietly, he eased off her, giving her shoulder a warning shake to tell her to be quiet. She turned to look at him; her face was streaked with dirt and leaves, and her blond hair tumbled into her eyes. Her hand, when she raised it to brush back her hair, was shaking slightly.
“Are they gone?” she whispered, the words barely audible.
“I don’t know. I think so, but maybe not. We’ll have to stay under here a little while longer. Are you hurt anywhere?” Sam’s voice was as quiet as hers. His eyes swept her body, probing for injury. There was blood on the back of her jacket, but it was probably his. . . .
“N-no. I don’t think so. E
xcept my head hurts a little.”
Sam eased the M-16 to the ground and ran his hand over her skull beneath the thick fall of her hair. There was a large bump at the back of her head; she winced when he touched it.
“You must have hit your head when the jeep rolled,” he said softly. “I don’t think it’s serious.”
She inclined her head in silent acknowledgment. Then, her eyes sweeping over his chest as he lay on his side facing her, she frowned.
“You’re covered with blood. Are you shot?” She sounded both frightened and concerned.
Sam grimaced. “I caught a bullet in the back of my shoulder. I don’t think it hit anything vital. I’ll live.”
“But you’re bleeding so much. Shouldn’t we bandage it or something?”
“Later. When we’re someplace safer. For now we need to stay very quiet. They might not be gone.”
Lisa shuddered visibly, then lay back down, hiding her face in her arms. Sam continued to lie on his side next to her, breathing in a long, steady rhythm as he fought to control the pain in a way he had learned from experience was roughly effective. Every ounce of his being was concentrated on listening to what went on beyond the confines of their makeshift shelter.
After about an hour of silence, Sam touched Lisa softly on the shoulder.
“I’m going to look around. You stay here and be quiet, no matter what.”
Lisa lifted her head to look at him. Silently he handed her his pistol. Her hand shook as she took it.
“For God’s sake, don’t shoot me by mistake,” he warned with grim humor. Then he was gone.
When he came back, she was sitting up. Her eyes met his fearfully as he crawled beneath the bush to join her. Unspeaking, he held out his hand for the pistol. She was only too glad to relinquish it.
“All clear—I think. Come on, let’s get going.”
“But—your shoulder. Shouldn’t we do something for it? At least bandage it?” She frowned at him worriedly. What she could see of his face was white beneath the black camouflage that still streaked it; blood covered him from shoulder to waist in long smears. When he turned his back to her, she saw that the whole back of his shirt was dark with blood.
“Later,” he said impatiently, as he had before. “Come on, I want to get out of here before they come back.”
Lisa swallowed. She needed no more urging to crawl out after him.
Once outside, she got to her feet, then almost fell down again. Her knees were shaky, and she was afraid they wouldn’t support her weight. Sam saw her difficulty and frowned at her.
“Just stand there for a minute,” he directed. “Take a couple of deep breaths. I know your head probably hurts like hell, and you’re scared and wobbly, but we’re going to have to walk out of here.”
Looking at him, seeing his left arm hanging limply at his side, his paleness, and the blood that covered him, Lisa saw also that he was standing stiffly erect, his expression alert, his muscles tense. He looked ready for action—and he was hurt far worse than she. She felt a twinge of shame. All that ailed her were nerves and a slight headache. If he could walk out of here, then so could she. Straightening her spine, she nodded.
“I’m okay.”
“Good.” He knelt and reached back under the bush for the A.L.I.C.E. pack.
“Let’s go.”
He stood up, swinging the pack to the uninjured side of his back and hefting the rifle in his right hand. With a glance back over his shoulder at Lisa to make sure she was following, he headed out.
They walked for hours, until long after the sun had risen and the interior of the jungle had lightened to a filtered kind of brightness. It was hard going: the underbrush was thick and tough. Sometimes Sam had to use the knife he kept in his boot to hack a path for them. Sometimes he simply let his body forge an opening. Despite his wound, he seemed tireless. Lisa, trailing limply in his wake, was soon so exhausted that she wasn’t even frightened. All she could think about was putting one foot in front of the other one more time.
The jungle teemed with life around them. Mosquitoes buzzed around their ears, lighting on every exposed inch of flesh, threatening to eat them alive. Sam stopped and extracted a can of insect repellent from the A.L.I.C.E. pack, spraying first Lisa and then himself. After that, it was a little better. The deep green canopy overhead allowed only an occasional sunbeam to slant through to the steamy forest floor, piercing the virescent darkness with a sliver of shimmering light. Vines as thick as Sam’s waist twisted down from huge teak, red syringa, and mopani trees; birds and small animals were everywhere. Lisa barely registered the cries of the birds and monkeys overhead and the rustlings and flutterings as they flew from one tree to another; she was equally oblivious to the movement of the ground-level foliage as the denizens of the jungle scurried this way and that. Sam told her over his shoulder that she should be thankful that the larger jungle dwellers—the lions and cheetahs—had apparently caught their man smell and were staying out of the way. And Lisa was, indeed, profoundly thankful, but that didn’t stop her from glancing nervously over her shoulder every few minutes.
As the day wore on, the humidity combined with the indescribable smell of the jungle made her feel faintly nauseated. Hot and sweet, the smell was composed of decaying plants and animals. The moisture-laden air made her hair curl damply around her face. Sweat poured over her body. By the time Sam finally stopped, she was swaying on her feet. With a little groan, she dropped to her knees.
“We’ll rest here for a while,” he said tersely, sinking to the ground beside her and resting his right side gingerly against a gnarled teak tree. With a stab of compunction, Lisa remembered his wound. She had been so caught up in her own misery that she had almost forgotten about it.
“Let me look at your shoulder,” she roused herself to say. Sam looked at her briefly, then shrugged his acquiescence. Barely able to summon the energy to move, Lisa crawled around behind him.
The back of his shirt was stiff and black with dried blood, except for a small spot that was still moistly red just above the jutting edge of his shoulder blade.
“Can you take off your shirt?” Lisa asked faintly. She was hoping against hope that the wound wouldn’t look nearly so bad once the blood-soaked shirt was out of the way.
Sam didn’t reply but began to unbutton his shirt. When it was unfastened, he rather gingerly started to peel it off. The cloth was stuck to the wound. He tugged at it gently for a moment, then when it didn’t budge Lisa heard him take a deep breath. With a quick movement, he jerked the material free. As the shirt dropped from his back, Sam’s hand moved around to the buckle of his shoulder holster. When that too was off, his breath expelled in a low, whistling groan.
Lisa’s own breath caught as she looked at his shoulder. When he had pulled the shirt free of the wound, it had started to bleed more freely again. Thick red rivulets oozed from a black hole about the size of a dime. The flesh around it was raised and looked black and swollen beneath its covering of blood. Blood, both fresh and dried, was smeared thickly over the hard planes of his back. Staring, Lisa felt sick.
“Well?” he grunted when she didn’t say anything immediately.
“It looks awful.”
“It can’t look any worse than it feels. It hurts like hell.”
“I’m sorry.” Lisa’s voice expressed heartfelt sympathy. In truth, she couldn’t imagine how he had managed to walk so far with such a dreadful-looking injury. Her respect for him, already considerable, went up a hundredfold. If she had had such a hole in her back, she was sure she would have died on the spot.
“Is it still bleeding?” He sounded only faintly interested.
Lisa swallowed before she answered, “A little.”
“You’d better bandage it up, then. There should be first-aid supplies in the pack.”
“Yes. All right.”
Swallowing again, Lisa crawled around to where Sam had dropped the pack and, opening it, rummaged through the contents. After a moment she withdrew
a small square black box marked with the universal symbol of a red cross.
“That’s it.” Sam confirmed what she had already deduced. Box in hand, she crawled back around behind him, positioning herself on her knees with her weight resting back on her heels. Then, opening the box, she stared blankly at its contents. She hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next.
“What—what do you want me to do?”
Sam sighed. “There’s a brown plastic bottle in there—see it?”
Lisa located the bottle and nodded. Then, remembering that he couldn’t see her, she said, “Yes.”
“It’s antiseptic. Soak a pad in it and press it over the hole.”
Obediently Lisa extracted gauze and a small pair of scissors from the box, cutting off enough gauze to form a small pad. She poured antiseptic onto the pad until it was soaking wet. Then, as she was about to press it to the wound, a thought occurred to her.
“Sam,” she said faintly, staring at his back as if mesmerized. “What happened to the bullet?”
He snorted irritably. “What do you think happened to it? It’s still in there.”
Lisa closed her eyes briefly.
“Shouldn’t—shouldn’t we try to get it out?”
“With you performing emergency surgery? Not a chance. It’ll just have to stay where it is until we get out of here.”
“Will you be able to get about? To walk, I mean?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I?” He sounded increasingly exasperated. “Now, will you please get on with it?”
Lisa took a firm grip on her lower lip with her teeth, and leaned forward to press the pad to the wound. As the fiery liquid penetrated he stiffened; a little groan escaped through his clenched lips. Then suddenly he slumped limply against the tree. His name on her lips, Lisa rocked back on her heels. Her eyes were wide with alarm as she realized that he had passed out.
IX
SAM!”
He didn’t move, didn’t respond in any way. Lisa crawled around in front of him, praying that he had merely fainted. If something happened to Sam, what on earth would she do?
To Love a Man Page 13
