Candace Irvin - Crossing The Line

Eve forced her gaze back to Bishop.

He was marking the graves now, each with a small makeshift cross. Evidently the man was religious. How would he feel if she asked him to add a smaller cross to the grave on the far right?

Or did he already know?

Is that why he’d been scowling at Carrie from the moment he’d approached the chopper? Maybe it hadn’t been her imagination earlier out on the landing zone. At the time, she could have sworn he’d been brusque with her because she’d tried to divert his attention from Carrie’s behavior. Either way, it didn’t matter now.

She wasn’t breathing a word about the baby to Bishop.

If she did, the pregnancy would only come out during the accident investigation—and what would be the purpose of that? All it would serve would be to tarnish two records that were already about to be closed forever. Even if the knowledge did explain Carrie’s distraction during their flight, it wouldn’t have changed anything, least of all what had happened. Yes, Carrie’s preoccupation with Sergeant Turner had allowed the chopper to fly into hostile airspace. But even if they’d gone down on the San Sebastián side of the border, they would still have gone down. And that fault was hers, and hers alone.

“Ready?”

Eve flinched.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” Eve eased out her breath as she stared down at the single rucksack that had been thrown free along with Bishop. From the bulging seams and rear pouch, she could tell he’d already added the extra supplies she’d managed to scrounge up from the scorched hulk of steel that had once been her chopper.

Thankfully, water was abundant in the area.

They also had a rain poncho between them, as well as a two-day supply of food. Rick had gathered his extra T-shirts from the ruck and shredded the brown cotton with his pocketknife, turning them into makeshift bindings for her ribs. After she’d wrapped herself, she’d gone back to the chopper and managed to locate the sergeant’s blackened but still razor-sharp machete. Unfortunately, Bishop’s radio was hopeless. As was the PRC-112 survival radio and beacon she carried in her flight suit. Whatever had slammed into her ribs during the crash had cracked the Prick-112 as well.

They truly were on their own.

But at least they weren’t blind.

Bishop adjusted the dark-green cravat he’d wrapped around the gash on his forehead, then pulled a battered map out of the cargo pocket on the right thigh of his jungle fatigues. He hunkered down beside her. The Green Beret was obviously good at his job as well as a natural choice for training San Sebastián’s troops in their own backyard. He’d already reduced the azimuths of the two visible Córdoban mountain peaks down to lines on the map and used them to mark their location. He extended his index finger and tapped the resulting X, then traced the route he’d already plotted out.

Their route.

He sighed. “The good Lord didn’t totally blow us off this morning, because we went down in a fairly remote area.”

Meaning that since they’d yet to encounter any sign of the Córdoban army canvassing the area from overhead or searching on foot, they had time. But even she knew that how much time remained to be seen. Eve stared at the dirt and grime still staining Bishop’s hands. Strong, capable hands that had just buried three of their fellow soldiers.

Friends.

One even more so. To her anyway.

Eve pushed aside the mindless torrent of tears that had been threatening to drown her for the past two hours and raised her gaze. She focused on that collection of imposing, yet still camouflaged facial features beneath the knotted, blood-stained cravat, and waited for the rest. Dark-brown eyes stared back, their gaze razor-sharp and much too steady.

“Well? What’s the bad news?”

Those firm lips only tightened further.

“Don’t hold back on me now, Bishop. I know I look like I’m about to break, but I swear I won’t.” At least, not until they reached San Sebastián—and she reached a private room with a locked door and bucket large enough to hold her tears and grief.

Hell, maybe they should head for the Pacific Ocean.

Bishop held her gaze for several moments longer, then finally nodded. He glanced down at the map and traced the zigzagged line he’d added, the one that would take them well around the steep incline of the waterfall they’d flown over. “We’ve got a good six kilometers to cover.”

“How long will it take?”

He frowned. “Given the density of the undergrowth as well as the condition of your ribs?” His dark gaze found hers again. If it contained compassion, she couldn’t see it. But neither did it contain reproach. He shrugged. “We’re looking at two days, maybe three. Depends on what we encounter along the way.”

Natives.

Fortunately for them, at least half the locals were rumored to support the political freedoms of their San Sebastián neighbors.

But which half would they encounter?

Eve studied Bishop’s eyes as well as his body language, trying to gauge his mindset in the silence that followed. Unfortunately, it was impossible. The man could have been born a rock. A large, stubborn rock at that. She slid her gaze to the bandage tied about his head. Just as she’d warned him, the exertion of digging had already taken its toll. The center of the dark-green cravat was now soaked with blood.

Red blood, not brown.

Fresh.

She reached out, but he intercepted her hand before she could check the bandage. Startled by the warmth in his fingers, she jerked her hand to her lap. “You still need stitches.”

“There’s still no time.”

“I disagree. You said yourself, we’ve crashed in a remote area. It looks as if we’ve gone unnoticed for the time being. We should at least have ten more minutes to sew up your head.”

He shook that same damned stubborn head.

As if on cue, a thin river of blood spilled out from beneath the bandage and trickled into his right eye. She raised her brow as he swiped at it with the back of his hand. “If I don’t stitch it, you’ll just continue to lose blood during the journey. How long do you think you’ll be able to keep up with me and my cracked ribs if that happens?”

Apparently she’d chosen the one argument that had a chance of working, because that dark gaze finally wavered. But his frown deepened. “My sergeant’s medical kit was charred beyond salvage.”

Eve shrugged as she reached into the right pocket of her flight vest and pulled out her first-aid kit. Unlike her radio, the kit had survived the crash intact. “I guess you’re lucky you’re stranded with a pilot.” She flicked her gaze to the canteens he’d already topped off. “Now why don’t you wash the grime and camouflage off your face while I thread the needle? You might just save yourself an infection.”

Bishop nodded curtly, but at least he complied.

By the time he’d rummaged through his rucksack and located his stash of alcohol wipes and used them to clean his face, she’d managed to thread the needle and ready her disinfectant.

He turned back. “Ready.”

Sweet heaven.

Her hands froze as she took in the man’s features without the olive-drab and brown grease paint smeared into his skin. Her initial instincts at the landing zone had been right on. Rick Bishop’s face was as commanding as his lean, muscular body. Perhaps even more so. Without the grease paint to break up the planes of his face, he was uncannily handsome. Not in the blond, pretty-boy way that had attracted Carrie to Bill Turner, but in a dark, pure male and very rugged fashion. The only thing remotely soft about this man were his thick brown lashes. But those curling wisps were deceptive.