Morgan's Son (14 page)

Gradually, his breathing calmed, and the perspiration on his face began to dry. Sabra could smell the fear around him, and her heart opened at the unknown torture he'd seen or endured. Memories of her father slammed into her, and she wondered if Craig had suffered some terrible event as he had. When Craig raised his hand to wipe his face, she released his fingers. Sitting uncertainly on the edge of the chair, she clasped her hands in her lap. The flight attendant had left a glass of water, and Sabra picked it up.

"Here," she offered, "drink this. It might help you feel better…."

Craig stared at the glass and at the hand that held it. Sabra had such lovely, slender hands. He slowly reached for the glass, his fingers curving around it, curving around hers. Her skin was warm with life, while his was cold with death. For a long moment, he gripped her fingers and the glass, holding her worried, compassionate gaze.

His mouth was gummy, with a bitter, metallic taste that reminded him of the taste of blood. Sabra eased her hand away, and he brought the glass slowly, jerkily, to his lips. The cold water was shocking to him, but he gulped it down like a man who'd been in the desert far too long. He laughed at himself. He was a man in the desert all right. A desert called hell.

Closing his eyes, he handed her the empty glass, then sank against his seat. "Just leave me alone. I'll be all right in a little while," he heard himself rasp. Though he had shut his eyes, he could feel her nearness, smell the faint fragrant scent of her skin. How Craig ached to simply turn over, slide his arms around her, draw her against him and hide from the world. His need for Sabra was so great that he felt like crying. Crying! Hardly appropriate for a marine. This was the first time since the crash he'd come even close to wanting to cry.

Craig hid in the darkness behind his tightly shut eyes, his hands gripping the arms of the chair, for a long time. Every muscle in his body was screaming with tension, the ache in his shoulders and neck particularly severe. Sitting up at last, he turned to her.

"Would you mind massaging my neck and shoulders a little?" It was the first time he'd ever asked for help. The first. He saw the care in Sabra's eyes. Her lips parted, and he knew she would do that for him. Slowly, he turned his back toward her, anticipating her healing touch. Craig knew she didn't realize just how much he needed her hands upon him. It didn't matter.

Sabra gently settled her hands on Craig's back. His shirt stretched tightly across its breadth, damp beneath her palms. She had wanted to do something, anything, to help him. But no one could be more surprised at him asking for help than she was. She moved her fingers in a light, caressing motion up his spine, then slid them across his shoulders. His muscles were rigid. Concerned, Sabra began to realize the true depth of the nightmare's effect on him.

"Just try to relax," she whispered unsteadily, her lips near his ear. "Lean back on me and I'll help you…."

Biting back a groan of pleasure, Craig surrendered to her touch as her strong, sure fingers eased the pain and tension he carried. Every stroke wreaked a magic on him he'd never experienced. As she worked the knots from his shoulders, he groaned softly.

"I'm sorry…."

"No," he rasped, "it feels good. Damn good. Don't ever stop…."

Heartened, Sabra continued sliding her hands across his shoulders, kneading and coaxing the tension out of them. Just being able to touch him quelled her worry. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him about his nightmare, but she realized it would be poor timing. She couldn't believe that he'd taken two sleeping pills and three hours later was completely awake. What kind of nightmare could rip him out of a drugged sleep that way?

Biting her lower lip, Sabra concentrated on loosening the dream's hold on him. With each stroking sweep of her fingers, Craig leaned a little more heavily against her. He was trusting her, and that knowledge sent a shaft of hot, sweet discovery through her. Craig didn't trust anyone, she'd realized early on. But now he was trusting her—with himself. A euphoria flooded her, chasing away her fear and anxiety. Touch was underrated by Americans, Sabra had realized many years ago. Human touch was healing, and Craig was allowing her an intimacy she would never have dreamed of.

"Is there anything I can do to help Mr. Thomas?" the flight attendant asked as she leaned over and smiled, her eyes trained on Craig.

"Uh, no," Sabra said, "it was just a bad nightmare, that's all." Craig was sitting up, his elbows planted on his thighs, his face buried in his hands, unmoving.

"Are you sure?"

She strengthened her voice and put an edge in it. "I'm very sure. Thanks for your help."

The flight attendant nodded and left, disappearing into the gloom of the cabin.

Sabra sat tensely, her hands clutched in her lap. What else could she do? Reach out and try to comfort Craig? Say something?

"Craig?" Her voice was low and unsteady.

Craig opened his eyes and savagely rubbed his face with his hands. Shame wound through him, along with the remnants of the horrible nightmare. Despite Sabra's ministrations, he could hear the screams echoing faintly. Feeling as if he were going insane, he rasped, "Talk to me. About anything. Just talk to me…."

Sabra swallowed hard, her mind whirling. She twisted her head and looked around the cabin. Anyone who might have been awakened seemed to have gone back to sleep. She riveted her attention on Craig who remained in the same rigid position.

"When I was a little girl," she began huskily, unsure it was something he wanted to hear, "my mother would take me to
Dublin
to visit my grandparents. I have wonderful memories of being in their home. They really didn't live in
Dublin
proper, they lived outside of it on a small plot of land that had been in their family for six generations."

She looked around, then concentrated on him again. As she spoke, she saw him slowly begin to relax. "Since I was an only child, my grandparents doted on me. I remember my grandmother, Sorcha, teaching me how to knit. She was a wonderful crocheter and knitter. I used to sit by the hour on an old footstool at her feet. She would knit in her wooden rocking chair, her fingers flying, and I would struggle with a pair of small knitting needles my grandfather, Kerwin, had made for me."

Hesitating, Sabra went on, beginning to relax herself at recounting the happy memories. "Grandfather Kerwin had been a potato farmer, like his father and grandfather before him, until he hurt his back. Then he turned to carving and making furniture. He became locally famous for his rocking chairs. I remember his hands—large, with a lot of little scars on them, much like yours. I would stand in his small garage and watch him for hours as he took a piece of fruit wood and shaped it. I was amazed at how gentle he was with a carving knife or a rasp. The wood seemed to melt to his will." Sabra moistened her lips, glanced apprehensively at him and went on.

"My mother loved visiting her family.
Israel
is desert dry. In
Ireland
, she always said she felt reborn."

"How often did you go?"

Craig's voice was rough, and Sabra checked the urge to reach out and touch his sagging shoulder. Somehow, her story had helped bleed away his tension. "Well…" She hesitated, not having expected him to ask questions. "We went when we could afford it. My father was in the army, and the paychecks were small. But my mother was a wonderful seamstress. People hired her to make dresses, and she saved her money until we had enough to fly to
Ireland
." Lifting her hands, Sabra murmured, "I think we visited about every two years."

"Where were you born?"

"In
Jerusalem
."

"And did you have your mother's love of
Ireland
?"

Delighted that Craig was taking an interest in something other than his nightmare, Sabra said, "I was born in a hot, dry place, but I feel, in my soul, I'll always love
Ireland
's moist greenness. I never saw much rain until I started visiting my grandparents. I have this memory, when I was about three, I think, and it was raining outside my grandparent's home. I toddled outside, and my mother panicked because she couldn't find me." Sabra chuckled, the memory still strong. "There I was—standing outside in that pouring rain, my little hands stretched skyward for all they were worth, my face upturned, laughing. The rain was wonderful, and I felt like a thirsty sponge. My mother, of course, was upset to find me soaked to the skin and shivering, but I was oblivious. That rain just felt so good."

Craig took a deep breath. Sabra's voice was like an angel hauling him out of hell itself. Finally, he had the strength to lift his head and sit up. He could feel the cold rivulets of sweat still trickling down the sides of his rib cage, the dampness of the fabric now making him chilly. He shivered, unable to hide the response.

"You're cold," Sabra whispered, getting up.

Before he could say or do anything, she opened the overhead compartment and retrieved a blanket. In the shadowy gloom, he saw concern burning in her eyes as she leaned over and settled the blanket around his shoulders. Unable to look at her, he turned away.

"Thanks," he muttered roughly. Pulling the ends of the blanket tightly about him, Craig wished he had a warm shower to climb into. That's what he did after every nightmare, letting the water drive out the last of the inner trembling that kept him in its poisonous grip. Well, he didn't have that luxury this time, and he was feeling confused and groggy from the damn sleeping pills he'd taken earlier. Usually, when he took the pills, he could grab four or five hours sleep—enough to survive on. Tonight it didn't work, probably because of the stress of the mission and the flight.

"Better?" Sabra asked, sitting down and rebuckling her seat belt.

"Yeah," he said. "Thanks."

She stole a glance at him. "Would some coffee help?"

The corners of his mouth cut upward. "Coffee? No. A nice warm shower would, but that isn't available."

"Oh…" She laced her fingers together nervously. "I remember my father getting nightmares when I was growing up. Before he transferred into the Mossad, he was on the front lines, protecting
Israel
's borders. I think I was fourteen when he started having these horrible nightmares. My bedroom was down the hall in our small apartment, and I used to wake out of a sleep and hear him screaming."

She gave Craig a sympathetic look, noticing how bloodshot and exhausted looking his eyes had become. "The first time it happened, I leapt out of bed, thinking someone was attacking us. I ran down the hall and into my parent's bedroom and saw my mother holding my father. He—" she grimaced "—I had never seen my father cry before. I just stood there in shock, watching him weep, hearing terrible animal sounds tearing out of him. It was awful…."

Craig saw the pain in Sabra's eyes. "Anyone who fights in a war gets that way eventually," he muttered, wiping the sweat off his brow and allowing his elbows to rest on his long thighs. He felt weak, with even the effort of talking draining him.

"At the time, I didn't realize that," Sabra admitted quietly. "My mother, bless her heart, told me to go back to bed, that Father was all right and that things would be fine. The next morning, before I went to school and after my father had left for work, she tried to explain what had happened. I remember crying because I was so frightened."

Craig twisted his head to look in her direction. "And despite that, you joined the army."

"In
Israel
, everyone has to join the army for a period of time. I served at a kibbutz as a communications specialist. Kibbutzim are like outposts, and the work wasn't dangerous."

"Did you want it to be?' Craig's gaze clung to her soft, shadowed features. How beautiful and calm Sabra looked. He wanted to turn and bury his head against her breasts and just be held—if for a little while. She fed him strength—something that had never happened between him and any woman before. Stymied, he kept his hands where they were.

"No, not really. My father's nightmares were many, and over the years, I learned to sleep through them, because my mother was always there to help him when he woke up from them."