Dangerous Pursuit (The Protectors) (16 page)

After putting more wood on the fire, Samantha turned in too. But around midnight her sleep was disturbed. Opening her eyes, she listened.

A moan drifted through the night.

She sat up in her hammock and looked toward Brock. Another moan penetrated the stillness. He pushed his netting off as though he were fighting off an attacker.

Samantha hurried over to replace the netting, which protected them from the numerous insects. His body was drenched in sweat, his forehead was hot. He moaned again and shoved her hand away.

Paralyzed, Samantha stared down at Brock thrashing about in his hammock, a fever raging through his body. She had never felt so helpless in her life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Samantha tried to decide what she could do to help him, Brock’s eyes opened and he stared up at her. A feverish pain was reflected in them, and it tore at her.

Focusing on her, he ran his tongue over parched lips and whispered, “Malaria. Medicine in backpack.”

With trembling hands Samantha rummaged through his backpack until she found the bottle of medicine. She had heard malaria was a common disease in the tropics, but she really knew very little about it except that a mosquito, of which the Amazon had more than its share, transmitted it.

She gave him the bottle and some water left over from dinner. With her assistance he sat up, his hands shaking worse than hers.

“How many tablets?” she asked as she cradled him against her and opened the bottle.

“Two.”

She shook two tablets into her palm and put one after another into his mouth between sips of water. After he’d eased back down, Samantha felt his forehead again. It was even hotter than before. She feared his malaria was progressing rapidly, and again she experienced that overwhelming helplessness.

Using some of the remaining water, she bathed his face but almost immediately he was covered in sweat again. Not knowing if it even helped to cleanse him, she unbuttoned his shirt and washed his chest and neck, feeling his trembling body beneath her hand.

He seemed to be slipping into another world, controlled by the fever, never comfortable in any position for more than a few seconds. As though they were hot pokers, he lashed out at her hands that were touching him.

“Emma! Don’t!” The words, more like a groan, were wrenched from him.

Samantha, shocked by the unfamiliar name, started to straighten away from him, but Brock gripped her hand and held her close.

“We can work it out.”

Work what out? Who was Emma? Samantha wondered as Brock’s fingers bit into her wrist.

Pain glazed his eyes as he stared up at her, not really seeing. Her hand felt numb from his grasp, but she could do nothing to break the manacle about her. Every time she tried to pull away, his fingers tightened even more, until she feared he would break her wrist.

Then suddenly his eyelids closed, his body went slack, and his hand fell to his side. Samantha took a step away, rubbing her wrist to get the blood flowing into her numb hand.

His hallucination, produced by the high fever, opened a whole new avenue of questions for Samantha. Every time she began to think she knew Brock Slader, something else would happen to show her just how little she really did know. That realization was disconcerting, renewing all her previous doubts.

Brock appeared calmer, and Samantha approached his hammock to feel his forehead. He was still very hot and soaking with perspiration. She again bathed his skin, trying to cool him. He didn’t object this time.

When she felt she had done all she could for him, she moved to the fire to add more wood and sit, waiting to see if the medicine helped. Every few minutes she was up to check on Brock and wipe his face and lips with a cool piece of cloth.

Was this a recurring malaria attack or had he contracted it since they had been in the jungle? She knew so little about Brock that she didn’t even know how long he had been in the Amazon or if he had these feverish episodes often.

Her sense of total isolation grew as the minutes passed into hour by slow hour. The eerie darkness about their camp seemed to close in on Samantha, black walls that became menacing as she scanned them for signs of night predators. She added even more wood to the fire until it blazed high. The fire made her feel a little better. That and the prayer she said over and over for Brock’s recovery.

Between her intervals of bathing Brock, she went to his pile of belongings and picked up his machete for protection. The sense that she needed protection arose more from her vivid imagination than from anything the jungle had to offer, but she did feel more secure with it in her hand.

* * *

By the time dawn of the second day of his illness fingered its way through the forest canopy, illuminating the rain forest in a dim light, Brock had finally quieted into a deep sleep. Samantha stood over his hammock, watching him and feeling as if she had gone through the sweating and thrashing with him. Her body ached with exhaustion and fear.

Slipping her hand under the netting, she caressed his face, smoothing a lock of damp hair from his forehead. His skin had cooled in the last hour, but it was still warm with fever.

She glanced at her hammock and thought briefly that she should get some sleep, but there was so much she had to do. She had no idea how long they would be there, and they would need food as well as more firewood and water. This was the first time she felt that she could leave the camp long enough to get those necessities.

As she gathered Brock’s machete and knife, she was thankful that she had insisted on learning something about the jungle. It gave her the confidence she needed to go alone into the thick rain forest to look for food. It was up to her to get them through the next day or so, and that thought both excited and frightened her.

Samantha collected nuts from the buriti palm tree and some vines with water in them. She decided she would make a cold protein-rich soup from nuts, as Brock had taught her the second day in the jungle. He would need as much liquid as she could get him to drink. She feared he would dehydrate if he kept sweating the way he was, and she could store the liquid in the hollowed-out fruit shells that Brock had made into bowls.

When she returned to camp, Brock was still asleep. After feeling his face to make sure his fever wasn’t out of control again, she prepared the soup and had some while she waited to see if Brock would awaken. When he didn’t, she decided to get some rest before collecting the firewood.

She had spent the last thirty-six hours pacing their small clearing, her nerves taut, her emotions on hold as she waited out the fever. If she didn’t take care of herself, she would end up as weak as Brock. The jungle was harsh on a person’s body, and she had better remember that.

She fell asleep almost instantly and didn’t awaken until she felt her hammock swing. When she opened her eyes, she discovered Brock, looking like death warmed over, standing over her, his hand gripping the edge of the hammock. She took in his dull eyes, his unruly hair, his sweat-drenched clothes, and decided she had never beheld a more wonderful sight. He was standing over her on his own two feet, a bit shaky, but at least upright.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she finally asked as she hurriedly climbed from her hammock, slipping her arm about him to help support his weight.

“When you didn’t answer me, I began to worry.” He swayed into her and clutched her arm to keep his balance.

Samantha staggered back under his weight, but she managed to steady both of them. “It’s not me you need to worry about. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“I’m fine now. I just had to sweat the fever out.”

“Oh, so you think it’s time to push on?”

“We have to.”

“Brock Slader, I’m not about to start out and have you collapse on me when we don’t have the luxuries of this camp. I won’t leave before tomorrow—if then. Now, let’s get you back to bed and no more talk about leaving. I don’t take kindly to mutiny.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, but Brock leaned heavily on her and allowed her to escort him back to his hammock. “You would have been a perfect drill sergeant. If you ever want to give up your bookstore, I’m sure the army could use you.”

“Give up my bookstore? Never! I saved for years so I could buy it. I’m my own boss and I deal in something I love, books. I call that a perfect job.”

“A perfect life.”

Samantha looked sharply at Brock, for beneath his words she heard a sarcastic edge. “I don’t have any complaints about my life in New Orleans.”

“How about your life in the Amazon?” Brock eased back onto the hammock, a silver gleam lightening his dull eyes.

“This,” her arm swept wide to indicate the campsite, “might appear in
Better Homes and Gardens
on the ten worst list if they had one.”

“I don’t know. Our garden is one of nature’s finest. Probably something like the Garden of Eden, wild and lush, with anything a man could want.”

She felt his intense gaze on her. “I made some soup. I’ll get you some.”

Samantha purposely avoided eye contact with him because she knew that teasing tone in his voice. He was definitely on the road to recovery, she decided as she poured him some soup. She suspected nothing got him down for long—not even malaria.

She returned to his hammock and helped him sit up, even though he gave her a look that said he could do it himself.

“Have you had malaria before?” she asked.

“Yes. Every once and a while I’m fortunate enough to have a recurring bout. I always carry my medicine, so it usually isn’t too bad.”

“Isn’t too bad? You scared me to death. I wasn’t sure if you’d make it. I’ve never seen a fever like that.”

“Nothing like the first time. I almost died.” 

Her heart skipped a beat, then began to pound against her ribcage. She wouldn’t let herself think about the possibility of Brock’s dying. She hadn’t while he was feverish, and she wouldn’t now. She turned away and busied herself with gathering some wood. When she was through and had restarted a fire, she finally approached him.

“Did you need anything else?” Her eyes locked with his.

“Some water.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re probably dying of thirst.”

“Actually, I want to shave.”

Samantha blushed, remembering when he had told her why he was shaving. “I’ll get some at the river.”

“No. Just help me to the river. I’ll shave there and wash up.”

She stared at him suspiciously. Help him to the river? With him acting helpless, she knew he was definitely up to something.

“Sam, it will be getting dark soon. We’d better hurry.”

When he stood, she placed her arm about his waist and he put his arm about hers. The distance to the river was no more than a hundred feet, but the whole way there Brock’s body was plastered against hers, making her alarmingly aware of his male presence.

At the river he removed his damp shirt and had started to take off his pants when Samantha exclaimed, “What are you doing?”

“Going for a swim.”

“You’re too weak. I can’t swim.”

He grinned. “What’s that got to do with it?” 

“If you faint or something, I can’t save you.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life. If it will make you feel better, I’ll only go a few feet from shore where I can stand up. But I feel grimy and this water looks great. Care to join me?”

“No,” she answered quickly, wanting to glance away from Brock as he stripped down to his navy blue underwear—much like a man’s bathing suit—and yet not about to look away. She told herself the reason she was staying to watch was in case he did become lightheaded, but she wasn’t really kidding herself. She was transfixed by the muscled prowess of his body as he moved toward the water. His well-proportioned build held a masculine grace that was hypnotic to watch.

“It really is nice, Sam. I have a T-shirt in my backpack you can use,” Brock said before he dipped his whole body into the water.

Samantha had to acknowledge that it looked heavenly and she felt as grimy as he did. Even with the daily rain showers, the perspiration always made her feel she wasn’t quite clean. If she stripped down to her underwear, she would still be decent, especially with his T-shirt on. She looked around as though she expected someone to be hiding in the bushes.

Then, before she had time to debate the wisdom of joining Brock in the river, she discarded her pants and blouse, slipped on his T-shirt she grabbed from his backpack and stepped into the water up to her knees.

She had to agree with Brock. The water was cool and refreshing, washing away the perspiration and dirt.

When something brushed against her leg, she jumped back, whirling around at the same time to see what it was. Brock, with water dripping off his beautifully built body, straightened out of the water with a big grin on his face. Samantha had a strong urge to strangle him.

“I think you enjoy scaring me to death. I thought you were a school of piranhas.”

“Relax. You’re standing straighter than a soldier does at attention. The river is pretty shallow here. You can come out farther.”

“No!” She stood her ground, resisting the hand that Brock offered.

“Which are you more frightened of, the water or me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she retorted, and wondered about the answer to that question herself.

“I think it’s time you learned to swim. I’ll teach you.”

“No!” She started back toward shore, deciding that she was clean enough and much too vulnerable, dressed so scantily in one of his T-shirts.

“Why not? You don’t strike me as a woman who runs from something.”

She spun about in a few inches of water, her hands resting on her waist. “You’ve been sick. Drop it, Slader.”

He moved slowly toward Samantha, as though he were stalking her. “Why not? I can be as curious as you. What happened to make you afraid of water?”

For a few seconds she was whisked back to another time when she was six and at the beach with her parents. She didn’t even see Brock cover the remaining feet between them. Suddenly he was in front of her and his masculine scent chased away all other smells and dominated her senses.