“So was my radio, but I lost it and my CAR 16 in the river. Use the gauze. It won’t be sterile, but it’s better than letting flies lay eggs in my leg.”
She bit her lip. “There’s this plant…the villagers I worked with called it bálsamo de Maria. Mary’s balm. I think it’s a mild antibiotic. I don’t see any nearby, but if I could find some, we could make a pad of the leaves.”
“We don’t have time to look for leaves.” He grabbed the first aid kit, pulled out the gauze and began winding it around his leg. His mouth was tight, bracketed by pain lines.
“Here, let me.”
Those dark eyes flicked to her. He handed her the roll of gauze.
His boots were on, and his pants were bunched up around his ankles. He should have looked silly. That he didn’t might have had something to do with his briefs, which were undoubtedly white when they weren’t soaked. At the moment they were more skin-toned. As she wound the gauze around his thigh, she could feel the heat from his body—and a slow, insidious heat in her own.
It was embarrassing but only natural, she told herself. She was a healthy woman with normal instincts. And he was so very male. “I think that will hold.” She tied off the gauze and hoped she didn’t sound breathless. “I’ll check out the back of your legs now. If you could stretch out on your side…?”
He was remarkably obedient, moving as she’d suggested. The gleam in his eyes suggested he’d picked up on her discomfort, though. And the reason for it.
Oh, he knew he was beautiful. “Peacock,” she muttered under her breath, and set herself to her task.
His legs were muscular, the hair dark and coarse. No cuts marred his calves, or the tender pocket behind his knees, or the stretch of skin over the strong muscles of his thighs. She did her best not to notice the curve of his buttocks, so poorly hidden by his shirttail and the wet cotton of his briefs.
Dan’s thighs had been thicker than this, she thought, the muscles more bunchy, not as sleek. Hairier, too. Oh, he’d been hairy all over, her big, red giant of a man. And his calves had been freckled from the days when he’d worn shorts and let the sun scatter spots on his pale Irish skin, not dark like this man’s was….
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Enjoying yourself?”
She jerked back. “I’m finished. No cuts.”
He rolled into a sitting position. Levering his hips off the ground, he pulled his pants up. If the movement hurt, it didn’t show. “Lighten up, Rev. I told you, you don’t have to worry about me jumping you.”
“I’m not.” Automatically reaching for comfort, she started to touch her cross. But it, like Dan, was gone.
His fingers unfastened the many-pocketed vest. His eyes stayed on her face. “Something’s wrong.”
“Nothing that concerns you.” Annoyed—with him for noticing, with herself for tripping once more over the past—she blinked back the dampness and the memories. “Do you have any idea what we do next?”
“Start walking.” He tossed the vest aside and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I scraped my shoulder. You’d better have a look.”
He was sleek all over. Not slim—his shoulders were broad, the skin a darker copper than on his legs—but sleek, like an otter or a cat. His stomach was a work of art, all washboard ripples, and his chest was smooth, the nipples very dark. Her mouth went dry.
She moved behind him. There was a scrape along his left shoulder blade, and in spite of the protection of his shirt, the skin was broken. “I’ll have to use some ointment.” She squeezed some onto her fingers. “Where do we walk?”
“Over the mountains, I’m afraid. To Honduras.”
“Honduras?” She frowned as she touched her fingertips to his lacerated skin, applying the ointment as gently as possible. “I haven’t known where I was since they took me and Sister Maria Elena out of La Paloma, but I thought we were closer to the coast.”
“The river we just body-surfed down is the Tampuru. I’m guessing we’re about forty miles upstream of the point where it joins the Rio Maño.”
She wasn’t as familiar with the mountainous middle and north of the country as she was with the south. Still… “Shouldn’t we follow the river downstream, then? The government is in control of the lowlands, and Santo Pedro is on the Rio Maño.” Santo Pedro was a district capital, so it must be a fair-sized city. Telephones, she thought. Water you didn’t have to boil. And doctors, for his wound.
“Too much risk of running into El Jefe’s troops. Last I heard, there was fighting around Santo Pedro. If the government is successful—and I think it will be—the rebels will be pushed back. They’re likely to retreat this way.”
She shivered. “And if the government isn’t successful, we can’t wander into Santo Pedro looking for help.” At least she couldn’t. He might be able to, though. “You could probably pass for a native. None of the soldiers saw your face, and from what I heard, your Spanish is good.”
“Wrong accent.” He shrugged back into his wet shirt. “As soon as I opened my mouth I’d blend in about as well as an Aussie in Alabama. We’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
She sighed. “I’m sure we’ll run across a village sooner or later. This area is primitive but not uninhabited.”
“We probably will, but we can’t stop at any of them.”
“But we don’t have any food! No tent, no blankets—nothing!”
“We’ll eat. Not well, but I can keep us from starving. We can’t risk being seen. Some villagers will be loyal to El Jefe. Most are afraid of him. Someone might carry word of our presence to him.”
“Even if they did, why would he care? He has better things to do than chase us. Especially if his campaign is going badly.”
“If it is, he and his ragtag army may be headed this way. And he won’t be in a good mood. Do you want to risk having him punish a whole village for helping us?”
That silenced her.
“Your turn. Take off your shirt, Rev.”
Her lips tightened. “If you want me to follow orders like a good little soldier, you’re going to have to call me by name. And my name is not Rev.”
Unexpectedly, he grinned—a crooked, very human grin that broke the beautiful symmetry of his face into something less perfect. And a good deal more dangerous. “Stubborn, aren’t you? All right, A.J. Strip.”
There was a path away from the river. It wasn’t much, just an animal trail, and not meant to accommodate six feet of human male, but it was the only way into the dense growth near the river. Michael found a sturdy branch he could use as a walking stick—and to knock bugs or snakes from overhanging greenery.
At first, neither of them spoke. It took too much energy to shove their way through the brush and branches. Soon they were moving slowly up a steep, tangled slope.
A machete would have been nice, Michael thought
