Swearing under his breath, Grant hauled her to her feet. “Just stand over there, out of the way,” he said, turning her around and starting her on her way with a swat on her bottom before he turned his attention to taking down their shelter.
JANE STOPPED, HER hand going to her bottom. Awakened now, and irritated by his light, casual slap, she turned. “You didn’t have to do that!”
“Do what?” he asked with total disinterest, already busy removing the tarp from the top of the lean-to and rolling it up to replace it in his backpack.
“Hit me! A simple ‘wake-up’ would have sufficed!”
Grant looked at her in disbelief. “Well, pardon me all to hell,” he drawled in a sarcastic tone that made her want to strangle him. “Let me start over. Excuse me, Priscilla, but nappy time is over, and we really do have to—hey! Damn it!” He ducked in time, throwing his arm up to catch the force of her fist. Swiftly he twisted his arm to lock his fingers around her wrist, then caught her other arm before she could swing at him with it. She’d exploded into fury, hurling herself at him like a cat pouncing. Her fist had hit his arm with enough strength that she might have broken his nose if the blow had landed on target. “Woman, what in hell is wrong with you?”
“I told you not to call me that!” Jane raged at him, spitting the words out in her fury. She struggled wildly, trying to free her arm so she could hit him again.
Panting, Grant wrestled her to the ground and sat astride her, holding her hands above her head, and this time making damned certain that her knee wouldn’t come anywhere near him. She kept wriggling and heaving, and he felt as if he were trying to hold an octopus, but finally he had her subdued.
Glaring at her, he said, “You told me not to call you Pris.”
“Well, don’t call me Priscilla, either!” she fumed, glaring right back.
“Look, I’m not a mind reader! What am I supposed to call you?”
“Jane!” she shouted at him. “My name is Jane! Nobody has ever called me Priscilla!”
“All right! All you had to do was tell me! I’m getting damned tired of you snapping at my ankles, understand? I may hurt you before I can stop myself, so you’d better think twice before you attack again. Now, if I let you up, are you going to behave?”
Jane still glared at him, but the weight of his knees on her bruised arms was excruciating. “All right,” she said sullenly, and he slowly got up, then surprised her by offering his hand to help her up. She surprised herself by taking it.
A sudden twinkle lit the dark gold of his eyes. “Jane, huh?” he asked reflectively, looking at the surrounding jungle.
She gave him a threatening look. “No ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ stuff,” she warned. “I’ve heard it since grade school.” She paused, then said grudgingly, “But it’s still better than Priscilla.”
He grunted in agreement and turned away to finish dismantling their shelter, and after a moment Jane began helping. He glanced at her, but said nothing. He wasn’t much of a talker, she’d noticed, and he didn’t improve any on closer acquaintance. But he’d risked his own life to help her, and he hadn’t left her behind, even though Jane knew he could have moved a lot faster, and with a lot less risk to himself, on his own. And there was something in his eyes, an expression that was weary and cynical and a little empty, as if he’d seen far too much to have any faith or trust left. That made Jane want to put her arms around him and shield him. Lowering her head so he wouldn’t be able to read her expression, she chided herself for feeling protective of a man who was so obviously capable of handling himself. There had been a time in her own life when she had been afraid to trust anyone except her parents, and it had been a horrible, lonely time. She knew what fear was, and loneliness, and she ached for him.
All signs of their shelter obliterated, he swung his backpack up and buckled it on, then slung the rifle over his shoulder while Jane stuffed her hair up under her cap. He leaned down to pick up her pack for her, and a look of astonishment crossed his face; then his dark brows snapped together. “What the—” he muttered. “What all do you have in this damned thing? It weighs a good twenty pounds more than my pack!”
“Whatever I thought I’d need,” Jane replied, taking the pack from him and hooking her arm through the one good shoulder strap, then buckling the waist strap to secure it as well as she could.
“Like what?”
“Things,” she said stubbornly. Maybe her provisions weren’t exactly proper by military standards, but she’d take her peanut butter sandwiches over his canned whatever anytime. She thought he would order her to dump the pack on the ground for him to sort through and decide what to keep, and she was determined not to allow it. She set her jaw and looked at him.
He put his hands on his hips and surveyed her funny, exotic face, her lower lip pouting out in a mutinous expression, her delicate jaw set. She looked ready to light into him again, and he sighed in resignation. Damned if she wasn’t the stubbornest, scrappiest woman he’d ever met. “Take it off,” he growled, unbuckling his own pack. “I’ll carry yours, and you can carry mine.”
If anything, the jaw went higher. “I’m doing okay with my own.”
“Stop wasting time arguing. That extra weight will slow you down, and you’re already tired. Hand it over, and I’ll fix that strap before we start out.”
Reluctantly she slipped the straps off and gave him the pack, ready to jump him if he showed any sign of dumping it. But he took a small folder from his own pack, opened it to extract a needle and thread, and deftly began to sew the two ends of the broken strap together.
Astounded, Jane watched his lean, calloused hands wielding the small needle with a dexterity that she had to envy. Reattaching a button was the limit of her sewing skill, and she usually managed to prick her finger doing that. “Do they teach sewing in the military now?” she asked, crowding in to get a better look.
He gave her another one of his glances of dismissal. “I’m not in the military.”
“Maybe not now,” she conceded. “But you were, weren’t you?”
“A long time ago.”
“Where did you learn how to sew?”
“I just picked it up. It comes in handy.” He bit the thread off, then replaced the needle in its package. “Let’s get moving; we’ve wasted too much time as it is.”
Jane took his backpack and fell into step behind him; all she had to do was follow him. Her gaze drifted over the width of his shoulders, then eased downward. Had she ever known anyone as physically strong as this man? She didn’t think so. He seemed to be immune to weariness, and he ignored the steamy humidity that drained her strength and drenched her clothes in perspiration. His long, powerful legs moved in an effortless stride, the flexing of his thigh muscles pulling the fabric of his pants tight across them. Jane found herself watching his legs and matching her own stride to his. He took a step, and she took a step automatically. It was easier that way; she could separate her mind from her body, and in doing so ignore her protesting muscles.
He stopped once and took a long drink from the canteen, then passed it to Jane without comment. Also without comment, and without wiping the mouth of the canteen, she tipped it up and drank thirstily. Why worry about drinking after him? Catching cold was the least of her concerns. After capping the canteen, she handed it back to him, and they began walking again.
There was madness to his method, or so it seemed to her. If there was a choice between two paths, he invariably