by DiAnn Mills
“I remember what you said the last time.”
“The war’s become an exchange of blood for oil.”
She raised her shoulders as if to speak, then released a sigh. “I can cook for you. My patient load is down.”
He knew her reasoning was to learn about Rachel, but he didn’t mind. As long as they both recognized her ploy, they’d surely not argue.
“I need the rest,” he said, and indeed he did.
“Who did you lose?”
“Fata.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He had six kids.”
She set her jaw. “I’ll make coffee.”
They walked to the clinic. Not a word passed between them, and for that he was grateful.
“Why don’t you rest while the coffee brews and I cook? You can’t lead your men when you’re exhausted.”
He lay on a cot normally occupied by a patient. “I’m no more tired than they.” Immediately he regretted his harsh response. “Sorry, Larson. It’s not the demands of war.”
“I know.” She knelt beside him. “You’re doing everything you can to bring Rachel back.”
He placed his hands behind his head and avoided her scrutiny. “I nearly killed a slave trader—the one who has the best chance of finding her.” A moment later, he added, “It’s as though she’s disappeared.”
“I keep dreaming about her.”
“Is she safe in your dreams? Has some dirty Arab sliced her face or taken the light from her eyes?”
“No, Ben. She’s always smiling . . . and fine.”
“Coffee sounds good.”
Hours later, after the afternoon rains had lulled his men to sleep, Ben continued to stare outside. Larson had patched up his men and shared food from the FTW provisions. With full stomachs and the villagers hailing them as heroes, they would be ready to pull out in the morning. He needed to sleep—and wanted to—but no matter how heavy his eyelids, rest would not come.
“Do you want to talk?” Larson placed a stool by the cot.
“I’d ramble.” Her nearness affected him in a way he dared not explore.
“I’d listen.”
This was the Larson Ben enjoyed. “I read a report that one of the European oil companies donated funds to construct a huge hospital. Of course the facility would be named after them.”
“How appropriate. Are they painting the hospital red?” she asked.
“My thoughts exactly.” Ben cursed. “The report came out after an investigation cited that the company was behind the ethnic cleansing in the oil-rich regions.”
“What about the United States? Haven’t they been conducting an inquiry?”
“Yes. Their envoy visited twice. Met with Khartoum and the SPLA.”
“Did you talk to him?” Larson asked.
Ben nodded. “And a few of my men. The findings went to their president, but I don’t have much faith in any action on their part.”
“The United States tends to be swayed by their own interests,” Larson said.
“They haven’t pulled much leverage yet.” A weight pressed against his chest.
They sat in silence, just as most of the day had been. He wanted to look at her but feared his own wavering emotions. Why did Larson make him feel vulnerable and unsure of his own name in one breath and invincible and proud of his family heritage in the next?
“Do you want another cup of coffee?” she said.
“I’d like that.” He stole the opportunity to watch her. She possessed the grace of an elegant lady. He imagined her in a silk gown with her light-brown hair flowing from her shoulders and diamonds around her neck. Her delicate features didn’t belong in the midst of war and poverty, nor did the easy sway of her hips. But he didn’t want her anywhere else.
He rose from the cot like a huge cat. Stealing up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her small waist and buried his face in her hair.
“Ben.”
“Please.” The scent of her enveloped his senses. He couldn’t stop himself—and didn’t want to.
“We can’t—”
“Who says we can’t.” He turned her to face him. Her lips were but inches from his.
“Let me go, please. This won’t work.”
“Why?”
She trembled in his embrace. Was it fear or repulsion . . . or desire?
“Why?” he repeated.
“Because I don’t love you.”
“Does that matter?” He tried to mask the anxiety rising in him.
“To me it does. We’re friends, Ben. Don’t ruin it with this.”
He ran his hands up and down her arms while the longing refused to dispel.
“Please, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m used to getting what I want.”
“And I can’t stop you.” Her clouded gaze pleaded with him. “Do you really want me this way?”
A warning sounded in Ben’s brain. His heart had betrayed him. He stepped back. “I . . . I don’t know what came over me.”
She sighed. “It’s Rachel.” She touched his shoulder. “We’re both upset about this.”
He knew his sister had nothing to do with it. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Larson nodded and reached for the cup that held his coffee. Her fingers shook as she offered it to him. Larson knew the truth.
* * *
Nyok stayed close to the fire with Colonel Alier’s soldiers. He enjoyed the talk that mingled with the crackle of a spitting flame, although he’d rather be at the clinic with the colonel and Dr. Kerr. She’d told Nyok that the man needed rest and not a bombardment of questions about the war movement. He didn’t believe her. She wanted him as far away from the colonel as possible. Any talk of enlisting in the rebel army would have caused a quarrel among the three of them. Since Dr. Kerr’s emotions were fragile right now, out of respect for her, Nyok chose to honor her request.
“When are you joining us?” a soldier said.
“Soon.” Nyok felt the attention of the four other soldiers.
“I saw you kill the lion when we were here before,” the same soldier said. “The SPLA needs courageous men.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“A commitment.”
“What could be more important than your country?”
He formed his reply carefully. “Colonel Alier has given me a task, and I’m fulfilling it before I ask to serve under him.”
The man gave a thin-lipped smile. “We will welcome you when the time comes.”
Relieved, Nyok rose from the fireside and walked toward the clinic. From the doorway, he heard the colonel approach Dr. Kerr. Nyok held his breath. He dared not interrupt either of them. Irritation pricked at him for the way she refused the colonel. Couldn’t Dr. Kerr see how the colonel felt about her? How could she turn away from such a respected man, a leader among leaders?
Dr. Kerr’s frightened voice alarmed him. If the colonel pursued her against her will, Nyok would have to intercede. He slipped into the shadows beside the clinic. The conversation veered in a different direction. A few moments later, the colonel left the clinic.
Once a proper amount of time had elapsed, Nyok made his way to the doorway. He had to make certain she was not harmed. He wanted the colonel and Dr. Kerr to find mutual love, not a relationship rooted in power and fear. Inside, she was straightening the bandages. She swept a finger beneath both her eyes.
“I wanted to see if you had any chores for me,” Nyok said.
She didn’t turn to greet him. “I think we’re fine.”
“Any news about Rachel?”
“No. The slave traders are looking.”
He maneuvered to her side and saw her tears. “The colonel will find her. He always gets what he wants.”
CHAPTER 15
A week later, the low rumble of an aircraft seized Larson’s attention. She held her breath and listened for the distinct whirl of GOS helicopters. She expected the sharp pop of gun
fire and the cries of the frightened and wounded. The memory of a thousand other bombings paralyzed her body and assaulted her mind.
“Nyok, who is it?” she said.
“Listen, Dr. Kerr. It’s not the GOS.” He hurried outside the clinic.
Larson opened her mouth to call him back, but he knew how to avoid the dangers. The two of them had been up since before dawn tending to an elderly woman and a nine-year-old girl who complained of fever, shaking, chills, and headaches. Their listless bodies now lay in a catatonic state. Shortly after daybreak, a toddler demonstrated the same symptoms. Larson sent the children’s mothers home. They kept falling asleep while cradling their young.
Malaria. The women probably had it too.
Without enough proper medicine, many would die. Some strains were resistant to the inexpensive antimalarials, and many of the people contracted the disease despite taking an antibiotic. Mosquitoes. Larson hated them along with all the other insects bringing disease to the Sudanese.
“It looks like Mr. Farid’s plane,” Nyok said. “I know his crashed, but it looks the same.”
Her heart beat faster. Paul had returned, and she could think of little else. Yet she had expected him to change his mind. It made no sense to ask him to walk barefoot into a viper pit. Guilt mixed with mounting excitement as she watched the plane descend and touch down on the damp earth. With Paul back on the scene, she had everything to gain for Nyok—a chance for education and a ticket out of persecution. What was it about Paul that had captured her senses and kept her remembering their encounters? She knew better than to consider any involvement, romantic or otherwise. It must surely be a link to civilization and their lengthy letters and prior conversations.
If Ben discovered her feelings, no matter how insignificant, he would kill Paul with his bare hands. Another reason to hide her unexplainable attraction to him.
“Go, meet him,” Larson said. “I have things under control.”
“I won’t be long. He may have brought medicine.” Nyok disappeared.
Proper medications would stop the spread of malaria, and she had mentioned it to Paul when he was in Warkou weeks ago.
Earlier she’d administered the last of the chloroquine, so now she could only treat the fever and chills. The disease had attacked many of the villages, depleting what she’d once felt was a generous supply of antibiotics.
The toddler whimpered. Timothy had soiled himself and vomited. The stench permeated the air. She rose to her feet and poured fresh water into a basin. This was only the beginning. These poor people didn’t have a chance. If it wasn’t the GOS, then starvation or disease attacked them.
Had it been only two days ago when she’d laughed with a group of women as they planned a garden? They had seeds, and with those nuggets came hope for fresh vegetables and healthier children. Now this. The laughter should come more often. Some days she forgot its healing powers.
Rachel had often rippled with laughter. If Larson dared to dwell on the memory, Rachel’s sweetness echoed around her.
Timothy cried out. She scooped him up into her arms and drew him to her chest. Bare, hot skin radiated through her T-shirt. The joy of birth, the despair of death, she would never adjust to it. Nineteen months in this world, and Timothy had been reduced to bones, fever, and chills. Now his limp body didn’t have the strength to cling to her.
Several minutes later, Larson sensed Paul’s presence and whirled around to see him standing in the doorway, his arms laden with boxes. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Nyok. Odd, she remembered him much taller.
“Hey. I’m ready to go to work, and I have the medicine you requested.”
The gentle voice echoed in her ears, and she turned away. “This is a messy business.”
“Nyok told me. I have antimalarials—two types since resistance is a problem.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. In the deepest part of her, she realized this was why Paul had found a home in her heart. “Thank you.”
“I thought since I was coming, I might as well stock you up.” He set the boxes in the corner and studied Timothy in her arms. He moved her way with a slight limp. “How bad is he?”
“Malaria.”
He was instantly at her side on bended knee. “What can I do to help?
“Be here,” she whispered. “I’ve given him all the medicine his little body can tolerate for now.”
“I could bathe him.”
“Paul, you don’t need to do that.”
“I want to. Let me unload the rest of the boxes, then I’ll take care of him. Can you spare Nyok to help me?”
“Sure.” She glanced beyond Paul and nodded to the boy.
“We’ll hurry,” Paul said.
She didn’t say it might be too late with the precious medicine. She doubted little Timothy would survive the disease tearing through his tiny body. The villagers expected her to cure everything—and she couldn’t.
While Nyok and Paul delivered the various supplies, she scanned the boxes’ contents until she found the one she needed. She calculated enough antibiotics to help other villages suffering from malaria. Always something threatened them—either some form of sleeping sickness or cholera, hepatitis, meningitis, yellow fever . . . The list of diseases was long.
The toddler in her arms calmed and closed his eyes. Larson boosted him onto her shoulder and held his little body against her as she sank into a chair. So hot. His ragged breathing sounded of death. She hated for babies to die in her arms. No matter how many children played at her doorstep, flashed their smiles, and enveloped her in dirty hugs, the ones who didn’t make it stayed fixed in her mind.
“Ready for me to take him?” Paul reached for Timothy, and she relinquished her hold.
They were so close that his warm breath tickled her neck while he studied the ill toddler’s face. She shivered. Ben had been this close when he approached her the other day. He’d frightened her. Her mind had rippled with pity for the emotions he tried to hide. Later she’d wished she could conjure up feelings for him, at the least stop the arguing that erupted most of the times when they were together.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Relief eased the tension in her back and shoulders. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and thank him for coming, but a doctor had responsibilities and a duty to her patients. She could reveal gratitude. Anything else would be foolish and inappropriate. Worse yet, Ben would learn about it. His gaze captured hers, and she saw in those dark pools of mystery what she felt.
Her thoughts trailed back to yesteryear when life’s cares centered on friends and parties. Closing her eyes, Larson allowed college days to shower her with sweet memories—fall leaves in scarlet and gold that ushered in football games and parties with hangovers the next morning, all-night study sessions with gallons of coffee and piles of milk chocolate bars. She remembered the sound of snow crunching under her feet and the first warm days of spring that heralded the lazy days of summer. She loved the taste of watermelon, buttery corn on the cob, and juicy hamburgers on the grill—the thrill of convertible sports cars and the wind weaving through her hair. Mmm . . . Dairy Queens and ice cream trucks.
“Where are you?” Paul said.
His quiet words broke the indulging spell. Oh, well, she didn’t need to be lingering in the past anyway. The present was what gave her purpose and walled off the bitterness from days gone by. This suffering toddler, the child, and the woman needed her attention.
“I was thinking about college days,” Larson said as she rose to her feet, “instead of administering antibiotics to my other patients. I feel stupid, selfish.”
“No need to. Don’t you ever take a few weeks off to rest?”
Given other circumstances, she would have laughed. “I took three days off two years ago. I’m always afraid of what will happen in my absence.”
“Life goes on with us or without us.” He touched the toddler’s head. “He’s burning up. I�
��ll bathe him outside.”
Reality snaked up her spine. “I’ve had malaria outbreaks in other villages.”
“I can help.”
The emotion in Paul’s words touched her, but she refused to let them ensnare her heart. “Okay, since you offered, I’ll put you to work.” She wanted the conversation back where it stood before, light and teasing. Perhaps weariness had tugged at her long enough.
Hours later, when the afternoon rains had gently lulled the infant to sleep, Larson eased down to sit on the floor beside Nyok. She could easily nap but fought it. Patient charts and reports sat unfinished.
Nyok was reading an astronomy book that Paul had brought him. He sighed, lost in a world not his own. Good, her dear boy needed to challenge his mind.
Paul was writing in a thick book. Now and then he lifted his head and looked about.
“A journal?” she said.
He nodded. “I don’t keep it up every day, but whenever I think of things I don’t want to forget.”
“I used to keep a journal, but then I noticed my entries were all depressing.”
“Me too. Now I make it a point to include the good things too.”
She tilted her head and blinked to hold the sleepiness at bay. “Paul, I believe you’re an optimist, one of those ‘the glass is half-full’ types.”
He stuck the pen behind his ear and closed the journal. “I’m a Christian. I believe in hope rather than despair, victory more than failure.” He paused. “I once heard a journalist who said a pessimist is an optimist with experience. I don’t intend to ever soak up a rotten attitude. I serve a mighty God who promises life.”
Like Rachel. What was it with these Christians?
Nyok lifted his head, and an unspoken word passed between her and the young man. She sucked back a remark. A little more time in southern Sudan, and Paul would realize how foolhardy his beliefs were. He might be an Arab Christian, and a native Sudanese, but he had no idea of the suffering in this part of the country.
“Do you feel up to discussing Rachel?” Paul shoved his journal and pen into his backpack.
