To Love a Man (20 page)

Lisa shuddered at the picture this conjured up. A boomslang, as Sam had told her some days previously, was a large green tree snake three times as poisonous as the king cobra. Ever since he had described it to her, with loving detail, she had felt shivers run up and down her spine whenever she walked under overhanging branches. Grinning, he had said that it just dropped down on you, without any kind of warning. . . . Lisa was still shuddering as Sam moved off toward the huts, his .45 at the ready in his hand.

While he was gone, between glancing nervously around and shifting the pistol from hand to hand, Lisa did some serious thinking. All right, maybe Sam was a cold-blooded killer—but weren’t all soldiers, really? What was the difference between murdering one enemy for money and murdering dozens on the battlefield? Was there a difference? So far, Sam had shown no disposition to harm her in any way—in fact, he’d been extremely kind and patient, under the circumstances. And he had saved her life more than once. She’d been unconscious after the jeep turned over, and she realized that Sam must have carried her to safety at considerable cost to himself. He had even been wounded while doing it. And without him, now, she would be as good as dead. For her own sake, if for no other reason, she would be well advised to save any moral judgments about him until they reached civilization. If they ever did.

“For God’s sake, are you deaf? I’ve been calling you for five minutes!” Sam’s voice hissing in her ear made Lisa jump a good two feet in the air. She came back to earth with a jolt to find him already heading back toward the village, his movements rather jerky. With a small shake of her head to clear it, she followed him.

The hut he led her to was not the larger one as she had expected, but one of the smaller rondavels on the periphery of the village. Anyone looking for them would undoubtedly check the larger hut first, he explained when she asked him; by the time they got around to this particular hut, he and she would be long gone. He hoped.

Once inside the surprisingly sturdy structure, Sam pulled a flashlight from the A.L.I.C.E. pack, which he had taken from her and dropped to the floor. By its light, Lisa could see that the hut was no more than twelve feet across and perfectly round. The walls were made of mud and wattle and were as solid as brick. The roof was thatched, supported by interwoven, thin poles. The floor was of tightly packed dirt overlaid with a few dusty rushes. There were no windows, and the single small door was made from the same material as the walls. Sam had closed it behind them and bolted it with a large stripped branch wedged through woven loops at either side of the opening. The whole place smelled musty. As Sam pointed the flashlight upward, its beam arcing over walls and roof, Lisa screamed instinctively at the enormous spider that sat regarding them from its intricate web in the cone of the roof. Sam laughed unfeelingly at her choked-off cry.

“What’s the matter?” he taunted, knowing perfectly well.

Lisa shuddered. “I hate spiders.”

“You hate spiders, you hate guns, you hate soldiers—what the hell are you doing here? You should have stayed at home in Granddaddy’s mansion where you belong.”

Lisa was taken aback at the unexpected venom in his voice. She stared at him, trying vainly to see his expression through the gloom. Even as she peered at him, the flashlight beam cut an arcing swath through the darkness as he used the flashlight to brush down the spider web.

“Thank you,” she said in a subdued voice. He made no reply, but Lisa could almost feel his silent jeer.

Sam handed Lisa the flashlight. “Here, go find yourself a spot where there aren’t any spiders and I’ll open up our supper. Then we can grab a couple hours’ sleep.”

Lisa accepted the flashlight silently, turning to do as he’d directed. Then she remembered his wound, and her conscience smote her.

“I’ll open up the cans. You go sit down. You must be exhausted.”

Lisa could feel him staring at her through the darkness. She knew it was a measure of his tiredness that he did as she suggested.

Shining the flashlight on the contents, Lisa rummaged through the pack. There were a few cans of C-rations and a few more packets of the dried beef and other items—enough perhaps to last them a week if they ate sparingly. She extracted a can of pork and beans from the pack and then searched vainly for a can opener.

“What am I supposed to open this can with? My teeth?” she turned to demand irritably of Sam. Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and she could see him sprawled on the floor nearby, his head resting back against the wall and his long legs bent slightly at the knees as they stretched in front of him. His eyes were closed; he appeared not to have heard her.

“Sam!” she demanded impatiently, raising her voice. Still no reply, by word or gesture. With an exasperated snort, she crossed to lean over him.

“Sam!” Ordinarily she would have let him sleep—he must have been even more exhausted than she had realized to just drop off like that—but she was starving and he had to know some way of opening the blasted can.

“Sam!” He didn’t move. She reached down to nudge his good shoulder. When she did so, to her horror, he slumped sideways to the floor. Quickly she dropped to her knees beside him, her heart in her throat. Clearly, he had passed out again. Her hands went over him frantically, checking to make sure he still breathed. As she pressed one hand against his wounded shoulder, her breath caught. The back of his shirt was soaking wet—and not just from the rain. This wet was sticky as well. . . . She pulled back her hand and stared down at the palm. Even through the darkness, she could see that it was black with blood.

X

L
ISA
turned the flashlight on him. By its strong light she saw that his face was very pale, his lips almost bloodless. Holding her breath, she turned the beam on his back. As she had suspected, fresh blood soaked the whole left side of his rain-wet shirt. Lisa bit down on her lower lip so hard that she could taste blood as it seeped into her mouth. He must have been bleeding for hours. . . . Propping the flashlight on the ground to give herself some light to work by while still leaving her hands free, she began to unbutton Sam’s shirt with fingers that shook. She had to try to bandage up that wound again. Left like this, he could bleed to death.

Sam came around almost as suddenly as he had fainted. One moment he was lying on his side on the dirt floor, his big body limp and still, and the next his eyes were flickering open and he was trying to heave himself into a sitting position.

“Stay still.” Lisa’s hands on his waist beseeched him. He looked up at her owlishly for just a moment, then groaned and subsided. Once she was sure he would not try again to get up, she resumed unbuttoning his shirt.

“God, did I faint again?” His voice was weak.

“Yes.” Lisa continued to work his shirt buttons loose until the garment was open to the waist. With businesslike efficiency, she pulled the tails from his waistband, baring his chest. Then she gently began to ease his left arm, which was uppermost, out of its sleeve.

“I don’t need your help to take off my shirt.” His tone was almost hostile. Lisa glanced down at his face to find his eyes glittering up at her resentfully. It was a measure of his weakness, she realized, that he was making no physical attempt to stop her ministrations, instead making do with barbed words.

“Yes, you do,” she replied with what patience she could muster. Had no one ever shown him any tenderness, taken care of him in any way? she wondered. Clearly he was not accustomed to needing or accepting help from anyone—not even when he was ill.

“No, I don’t,” he insisted stubbornly. His voice was stronger now, and he made a move as if to lever himself up on one elbow. Only Lisa’s hand on the side of his neck kept him prone.

“Listen,” she said between her teeth, her patience having suddenly deserted her. As she spoke she lowered her face so that it was just inches from his. “Your wound has opened up again and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. You must have known it! But like a stubborn, mule-headed fool you just had to keep going, didn’t you? But now you’re going to lie still and let me bandage that bullet wound up again, or I swear I’ll—I’ll take the butt end of that pistol to your head! Do you understand me?”

Lisa was almost spitting with temper by the time she had finished speaking. Sam said nothing, only stared at her bemusedly for a moment. Then, to her surprise and relief, a slight smile crooked the corners of his mouth.

“You’re scaring me to death,” he murmured mockingly. “You wouldn’t really hit me over the head with something, would you?”

Lisa relaxed a little. Maybe he wasn’t going to be difficult after all. But there was still a trace of belligerence in her voice as she answered.

“Yes, I would. So you’d better behave!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. Lisa gave him a stern look, suspecting him of making fun of her. His answering look was bland. With a disdainful sniff, she went back to easing his shirt off his injured shoulder. The bandage, she saw, was dangling by a single piece of tape, apparently a casualty of the rain. The white gauze was stained dark brown in places from blood. Dark crimson ooze crept from the wound to cover most of the left side of his back.

“How bad does it look?” he asked, sounding not terribly interested.

“Awful,” she answered in a choked voice. She had no thought of sparing him the gory details. He would have to know the worst in order to tell her what to do for him. Surely he knew more about how to treat bullet wounds than she did. He certainly couldn’t know less!

“What is ‘awful’?” he questioned patiently, turning his head as if to see the wound for himself. It was impossible, of course, no matter how he craned his neck.

“It’s all swollen, and there’s a huge black and yellow bruise over the whole upper part of your shoulder and down almost to the middle of your back on the left. Plus the wound itself is bleeding—not too badly, but the blood looks kind of thick and it’s coming in little spurts. It must hurt like crazy. Can you move your arm at all?”

Sam tried, and managed to move his left arm forward and then back. As he did, his face turned even whiter than before and he sucked in his breath sharply. Lisa, watching blood spurt with fresh enthusiasm from the hole in his back, cried out to him to stop. He did. His eyes closed, and sweat popped out along his forehead. For a moment, Lisa was afraid that he might have fainted again.

“Sam?”

“I’m okay.”

It was obvious from the strained quality of his voice that he wasn’t. Lisa looked down at him anxiously. He was such a big man, so muscular and strong, and yet he looked so helpless curled on his side, his face resting against the dusty rushes covering the floor.

“What should I do?” she asked humbly, hovering over him. “Do you want me to bandage it up again?”

“How steady are your hands?”

Lisa blinked down at him uncomprehendingly, then looked down at her long, slim fingers resting lightly against the bare skin at the back of his waist. They had been shaking earlier, when she had unbuttoned his shirt.

“Not—not too steady,” she admitted. He made an impatient sound. His eyes were still closed, and he was as white as a marble statue.

“Then you’ll have to do something to steady them. Look in the bottom of the pack. There should be a bottle of whiskey. Take a swig, and then pass it to me.”

“Why?” Lisa asked faintly, horror in her face and in her voice. She was very much afraid that she already knew. . . .

“Because you’re going to have to cut that bullet out of me and then sew the hole up. There’ll be a needle and thread in the pack, too.”

Lisa was appalled.

“I—I can’t,” she stammered, sinking back on her heels and staring aghast at his broad back.

“You have to,” he said. “My arm’s stiffening up. By tomorrow I won’t be able to use it at all. I can feel the damned thing in there, rubbing against the bone. Every time I move, it hurts like hell. It’s got to come out, and you’ve got to do it. There’s no one else.”

“No . . .” Lisa said faintly.

Sam went on, his voice inexorable. “After you get the bullet out—it shouldn’t be too hard to find, just follow the tunnel it made going in—I want you to pour disinfectant in the wound, then sew the edges together, just like you would a piece of cloth. Just be sure to soak everything you use, including the thread, in antiseptic first. I’d hate to end up with my shoulder infected—I’d be in worse shape than I’m in now. Got it?”

Lisa sat frozen, staring down at him. She couldn’t do it. . . . The mere sight of blood had always been enough to make her sick to her stomach. And yet she had cleaned away the gore from that awful hole earlier, and then bandaged it up, without turning a hair.

“Sam, are you sure you want me to do this?” she asked finally, feeling numb. “What if I—hurt you?”

He rolled onto his stomach, cradling his head in his good arm. His face was turned away from her, but she thought she saw a faint, wry smile tilt his mouth.

“Don’t worry, honey, there’s nothing vital in the immediate vicinity—you couldn’t kill me if you tried. And if you don’t try, I’m not going to be able to move my arm at all, and then we’ll have a hell of a time getting out of here. Go on, do like I said—get the whiskey. After that, I’ll tell you what to do next.”

Reluctantly obedient, Lisa crawled across to where she had left the combat pack earlier. Rummaging through it, she found a nearly full bottle of whiskey. Her hand shook as she pulled it out. The more she thought about what Sam wanted her to do, the more certain she felt that she couldn’t do it.

Instead of trying to find what she would need right then, she dragged the combat pack with her as she crawled back to Sam’s side. Looking at him as he lay on his stomach in the shadows, with only the flashlight she held in her hand to light a tiny area of his back, she felt a quiver of hope.

“I can’t do it—there’s not enough light. We’ll have to at least wait until morning.”

“There’s some rope in the pack—string it up over one of those poles supporting the roof and tie the flashlight to the end. That should do it. I don’t want to wait until morning—the sooner we get it done, the sooner we can be on our way.”