From Chapter 12:
Following his instructions, she stretched upward to meet his limited reach. With her movements, the bus tottered slightly, and she rocked back in reaction, trying to regain her balance.
As if in slow motion, she leaned first to her left, then right, her arms outstretched. But there was nothing solid to grab onto, and the sparse couple of inches allowed by the seat’s narrow side gave her feet little purchase.
“Sam, I can’t – ”
Before he could rip back the metal hindering his ability to reach down and scoop her out of that hellish bus, her foot slipped off her makeshift balance beam. As she fell, she lifted her eyes to his, a plea for help etched in the pale gray before it turned to panic and then resignation.
“Gillian!” he screamed just before she disappeared through the window.
Chapter 13
~§~
His heart plummeted as he watched Gillian's light head disappear, panic giving him the slightest pause before he bolted for the underside of the bus.
Zipping to the same place he’d found Antonio, he made it just in time to grasp the back of her shirt as she fell past. With a sharp tug, he pulled her up, maneuvering himself so that he could slip an arm under her knees.
In a matter of seconds it was all over, and he was placing her gently down on the road. His heart, however, took its own time slowing down, hammering loudly inside his chest. If he’d gotten there any later, he shuddered to think what could have happened to her.
Shoving the horrific imaginings away with iron force, he swept the length of her, looking for injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
“My ankle,” she moaned. “I must have twisted it when I slipped...”
“It’s OK. Don’t move it.” Lifting the leg of her pants, he gave the limb in question an x-ray look, but nothing appeared to be broken. Probably just a bad sprain. As his examination continued upward, he caught a thick trickle of blood flowing from her left arm and quickly located the source. A deep gash ran a couple of inches along her forearm. She must have cut it on the broken glass as she passed through the window.
Following his stare, she winced and paled, then looked away from the wound.
"It's nothing," she said through gritted teeth, and he wasn't sure if she'd said it for his benefit or her own. "Where's Antonio?"
“With his mother. He’s fine,” he reassured her with a smile.
She closed her eyes and gave a little nod.
Ripping the sleeve from his shirt with a sharp tug, he wrapped it around her arm and then tied a knot, securing it against the cut. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but when she winced again, he felt his own face grimace along with her. Still, she didn't utter a sound in protest, simply smiling her approval at his makeshift bandage.
The sound of Jeff and Henriqué’s arrival and the subsequent cheers of the bedraggled crowd offered a welcome relief and distracted him from his focus on her. All of these people were going to need to be taken back to San Pablo.
Reluctantly, he left Gillian to consult with the two men. There had been nearly two dozen passengers on the bus, but no one appeared to have sustained any life threatening injuries. Indeed, from what he could see, Clark guessed that Gillian’s ankle and arm might actually be the worst of it, and once again he shook his head in amazement at the luck bestowed upon them all. What could have been a tragedy had turned out to have remarkably few casualties.
They loaded Antonio and the most elderly on to the wagon, along with those who might have trouble walking. The rest of the thankful survivors followed behind as they began the trek back to San Pablo. With a wave to Jeff, Clark returned to Gillian.
It had started to drizzle again, and she shook slightly as the rain soaked her through. He crouched down, ready to scoop her back into his arms, anxious to get her someplace safe and dry. She didn’t resist until he told her what he was planning to do. “I’m going to fly you to Bogotá. We need to get your ankle checked. And your arm...”
“No. I just twisted it. Please, take me back to the clinic. What?” she asked when he shook his head, her eyes widening with renewed panic. “Tell me there’s still a clinic?”
“The clinic’s fine,” he said, pulling her tightly against his chest as he tried to absorb some of the chills racking through her while at the same time offering her small protection against the rain. He’d have given her his shirt except it was just as wet as hers. “Gills, you’re dripping blood – ”
“Really, Sam. I’m fine,” she insisted, water trickling down from her hair to form droplets at the tips of her spiked eyelashes. “I want to go back to the clinic.”
He stared at her a good long minute, his good sense warring with his desire to please her and the overwhelming gratitude that she was alive and in good enough condition to argue with him.
“The longer we stay here, the wetter we’re getting,” she reminded him. “And I am getting a bit chilly.”
Nodding, he scooped her up in his arms and launched himself into the sky.
~§~
They passed the loaded wagon and landed at the clinic within minutes. He placed her on the examining table and went to the next room to retrieve the blanket from the recovery pallet, returning to drape it over her shoulders. She smiled in gratitude.
“You should go change,” she advised, taking in his dripping hair and wet shirt, minus one sleeve. “Sorry about your shirt.”
“It’s all right, and I’m not leaving. How’s your ankle?”
She gave it a twist this way and that, then felt the bones and muscles with her fingers, wincing when she hit a tender spot. “Just twisted. It hurts, but it could be a lot worse.”
Clark performed his own examination, re-x-raying her foot and ankle from various angles, as well as her shin bone for good measure. He agreed with her assessment. “Nothing broken.”
With a glance at the door, Gillian looked around the room, considering. “They’re going to be here soon. I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Time for what?” he asked, grabbing a towel from the shelf and using it to rub the worst of the wetness from his hair.
“Since I can’t get around very well, I think I’m going to have to ask you to help me out a little,” she said, ignoring his question as she maneuvered herself off the table and onto the one stool in the examining room. “I need you to get two clean towels and a bottle of hyrdrogen peroxide from the shelf over there.”
She untied his shirt sleeve bandage from around her arm as he followed her instructions, gathering the items she’d indicated.
“What are you doing?” he asked as she spun around on her stool and opened the supply cabinet, pulling out a pack of what looked to be a needle and some sutures.
“I need stitches,” she said, spreading a towel on top of the examining table. She took the bottle of peroxide from him. “I’m going to need a bowl. Over there.”
He looked around the room, bewildered. Didn’t she know that he was the only other one there? Who was going to give her stitches? Surely she didn’t think that he could do it? He blanched. “Gillian, I’ve never done this – ”
“You don’t have to. I’ll do it. Thank God it’s my left arm and not my right.” Somewhat awkwardly, she managed to open the bottle with one hand. He was too stunned to help her until it was too late and she was pouring the clear liquid into the bowl he’d fetched. “But I’m going to need you to hold my arm still.”
He shook his head. “Gills, this is crazy. I can have you at a hospital in five minutes.”
“Where I’ll sit for five days waiting for someone to get around to looking at me. I can’t afford to be gone that long.” As she said it, she spread the clean towel down on her work space and used her teeth to create a tear in the plastic packaging that housed the suture kit.
“What about pain killers?”
“I’ve only got enough lidocaine for about half a dozen people and at least ten or more who are going to need it,” she explained tersely. “There’s some Advil in my room. I’ll send someone to fetch it.”
“That’s not going to help you now,” he argued. Panic was starting to creep over him. She was really going to do this.
“Sam, do you have any idea how much pain I was in after the car accident? A few stitches is nothing.” She pulled a latex glove out of the box sitting atop the supply table and held it out to him. “Just suck it up and hold my arm on the table.”
Fumbling, he helped her put on the glove. “Maybe I should go find a doctor. Somebody who can help – ”
“Will you stop. I’ve done stitches about a hundred million times. Besides, you’re starting to make me nervous.” She glanced at her preparations, then up at his stricken face. “Listen, I’m going to do this. Now, if you can’t help me, I’ll wait for Henriqué. He’s not as strong as you but he’s pretty big enough – ”
“No. I’ll do it.” Even worse than helping her would be sitting in the other room, wondering what was going on and imagining the worst.
Pulling a pair of gloves out of the box for himself and putting them on, he went to stand on the other side of the table, opposite her. He placed his hands where she indicated, one on her wrist and the other a couple of inches past the cut, near the bend in her elbow. With tentative pressure, his hands formed living manacles, pinning her injured arm to the table. She wiggled it slightly, and satisfied with his grip, picked up a cotton pad and dipped it into the peroxide.
Several times as she cleaned the area around the gash and the very wound itself, she sucked in her breath sharply, causing him to tense. But after a reassuring smile from her, he’d relax a bit and she’d continue until finally the wound was cleaned. The whole situation would have been comical under different circumstances, the injured party comforting the supportive friend. He wished he could laugh and promised himself that one day, they both would, together.
Once all of the blood was gone, he felt better to see that the cut itself didn’t look nearly as bad as he’d expected. Outside the closed door, Clark could hear people arriving, a child crying and the general murmur of those waiting to have their wounds checked. Gillian looked up, then returned to her task with increased speed and determination.
He maintained his newfound composure until the curved needle pierced her skin and he glanced at her ashen face. Her mouth was pressed tightly closed, and small beads of sweat dotted her forehead.
“Oh, God, Gillian. Doesn’t that hurt?” he whispered hoarsely, wincing as she tied off the stitch and pushed the needle through a second time.
“No,” she gasped, clenching her teeth and closing her eyes. Her right hand shook visibly, and she laid down the needle, flexing her fist to still it.
This was insane. He should just insist that she let him take her to Bogotá. “You’re turning white – ”
“Will you just...please,” she said, taking a deep breath in through her nose. “Please. I need your help – ”
Her plea was enough, and he felt himself calming. She needed him to be strong. Needed his confidence in her to get her through it. With a voice far steadier than his nerves, he encouraged her to go on. “I’m here. Keep going. Just a few more, that’s all.”
She nodded and gave him a weak smile, then picked the needle back up. “Too bad we’re not up higher where there’s snow.”
“Snow?”
“Yeah. It would probably take the edge off – ”
He didn’t even wait to explain, instead blowing gently on her arm. Why hadn’t he thought of that, he berated himself. So caught up in his concern that he wasn’t event thinking straight anymore.
Her eyes widened in amazement. “You never mentioned that particular ability.”
“Almost as useful as being able to heat things with my eyes.”
She smile broadly, nudging her chilled skin with a bemused shake of her head. “Well, this should help a lot.”
Even with her arm numbed, Clark swore he’d never go through anything like that again. When she’d finished, seven stitches in all, his knees wobbled, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down. Still, he managed to help her wrap a clean bandage over the jagged line that would most certainly leave a scar despite her heroic efforts. And after he cleared away the bloodied cotton swabs and soiled towels, he stroked her head when she buried her face in her good arm resting on the table, regaining her composure before she opened the door and faced those waiting for her help.
After a quick triage, one by one she called them into the examining room, starting with the youngest. Clark stood in the corner, his arms folded across his chest and a concerned frown on his face. She had to be exhausted, and for once, he selfishly wanted her to worry about herself instead of every other creature in San Pablo. But since there was no argument in the world he could make to convince her to leave, he did what he could to help her, fetching supplies and water and anything else she needed.
Acting as the living X-ray machine, he checked several people for broken bones. But by some miracle, the only actual break was a finger which Gillian swiftly splinted. As patient after patient entered the room, the true luck of the bus passengers was revealed. Despite the severity of the crash and the condition of the bus, no one had sustained anything more serious than a quickly stitched cut and some very nasty bruises and bumps. The lidocaine lasted long enough for the youngest victims to receive some relief, but Clark found himself employed again on two men who had to endure the pain of their own stitches with only the benefit of Clark’s personal numbing technique.
Gillian wouldn’t leave the clinic until she had checked every injury, and Clark guessed it had to be near ten o’clock by the time the last person walked out the door. Other than the couple of arepas brought to them by Antonio’s still grateful mother, she hadn’t eaten anything, and he was afraid she might collapse from exhaustion. He knew where his own endless resources came from, but hers remained a mystery.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as he helped her put the rest of the dirty equipment in the sterilizer.
She shook her head. “I’m just ready to go home.”
“I’ll bet you’re exhausted,” he noted, but instead of weariness, her eyes contained an odd sparkle, as if being needed energized her.
“Actually, I feel pretty great.” She grinned. “Pretty exciting day, huh? Almost makes me want to go into emergency medicine.”
“I can think of other words,” he snorted. “Terrifying, for one. Which reminds me, what the hell were you doing still on that bus, anyway?”
“Oh no,” she groaned. “Actually, I think I am feeling kind of tired.”
“No. That’s not going to work. You could have died, you know.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t really stop to think about it,” she said dryly. “When Antonio fell, I just reached out and grabbed. Instincts kicked in.”
“I want to know what you were doing there in the first place. You should have gotten out as quickly as possible.”
“He was stuck. His shirt had gotten caught on something. I couldn't just leave him there. The poor kid was terrified,” she explained with a shrug. “By the time everyone else had gotten out, I’d managed to reach his shirt and rip it enough that he got loose, and that’s when he slipped through the window.”
“Then you should have waited,” he said, sounding like a stern father.
“For what?”
“Me!”
She laughed. “How was I supposed to know you were coming?”
“Of course I would come. Why wouldn’t I come?”
“I don’t know. Because you were busy doing something else."
“All you had to do was yell.”
“Yell what?”
“For help! ‘Superman!’” he demonstrated. "Or 'Sam!' if you couldn't manage Superman."
“Are you kidding?” she asked, incredulous. "That's crazy."
“No, I’m not kidding. How else do you think people let me know they need help?”
“I have no idea. Smoke signals, maybe?”
“Gillian, I mean it. If you ever need me – ever – all you have to do is yell for help and I’ll be there.”
“So you would come running, just like that?”
“Yes!”
"I guess I’m just not used to someone flying to the rescue.”
“Yeah, well, it’s my job.”
“Oh, gee, thanks,” she said sarcastically. “It’s good to know you care.”
“God, Gillian.” His voice broke. “Of course I care. I...”
He stopped, the air around them thick with the tension of their argument and something else. His heart pounded against his ribs, his face hot. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he tried to regain control of his spiraling emotions. He felt like a spring tightly coiled.
“I’m taking you home,” he said at last, needing to move. Run. Fly. Something. Stepping to her side, he bent down, ready to lift her up.
“I can walk,” she protested.
He straightened, giving her a skeptical frown. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” she insisted, and he stepped back, ready to let her discover the truth for herself. Touching a toe to the ground, she tested her ankle gingerly, wincing in pain. “OK, no I can’t. But I’ll just lean – ”
Before she could argue, he lifted her into his arms and strode out of the clinic.
After the chaos of the day, the village was eerily quiet. As they made their way down the hill, the only light was from the moon shining between a patch in the clouds.
They reached her place, and silently, she dug in her pocket and unlocked the door, all within the confines of his arms. Entering the dark room, she reached to the lamp and clicked it on with no resulting light.
“Quake must have killed my electricity,” she said softly. “There’s an oil lamp over there.”
He walked with her to the table, and with more of their speechless cooperation, she lifted the glass dome of the oil lamp, and he lit it with a small burst of heat. The small flame cast a glowing ring of light as she replaced the glass and returned her hand to his shoulder.
Mesmerized, he couldn’t look away from her when she turned to him expectantly. Her hair had dried in a riot of curls and waves, framing her face with curlicues of gold and honey that caught the warm light of the lamp. When she caught him staring at her, he heard her breath catch.
But instead of looking away, she locked her gaze on to his, smoke and mahogany colliding, joined by an invisible thread. She flushed under his scrutiny, warming to a rosy pink, and for the first time he noticed a trail of pale freckles, four in a neat row just at her right temple and running into her hair. If he’d had a free hand, he would have traced the line with his finger.
“Sam, I think you could probably put me down now,” she murmured after they’d stood in the center of her room for a good full minute.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, but he felt no inclination to release her from the protection of his arms. He’d spent too many dreadful minutes that day wondering if he’d ever see those gray eyes again.
Finally, he set her down slowly, but he kept his hands placed loosely on her shoulders. As she transferred her weight onto her injured ankle, it buckled. With a gasp, she jerked her foot off the floor, propelling herself into his chest. He tightened his embrace immediately, hauling her against him to keep her from falling to the floor.
It wasn’t intentional, but afterward, when he examined every moment and nuance of that night, he could see that what happened next was inevitable. Every event of the past six months had culminated in that single day full of near tragedy and unmitigated miracles, all conspiring to bring them to that exact place and point in time.
Hours of carefully controlled emotions, maintaining a calm exterior for the benefit of everyone around him while inside he had trembled with his own mind-numbing fear, ended instantly as he allowed himself to finally feel the overwhelming relief of finding her alive and relatively unharmed. Relief of knowing that once again, they’d faced tragedy together and come away unscathed, victorious against the forces conspiring to keep them down.
And too, after the blood and the panic and the fear, there was the piercing need to connect with her, to saturate all of his senses with smells and sounds and touches that reminded him that she lived on. Would live on.
All of those concentrated emotions mixed with his ever deepening feelings for this amazing woman, guiding him as he lowered his lips to capture hers. She hesitated only a heartbeat before returning his kiss.
Honeyed silk filled his hands. Clothes fell away in wordless whispers to reveal warm skin, musky with the scent of clean rain and cherry-almond shampoo. Sinuous curves molded to steel muscle.
Once again she was in his arms as he carried her to the bed, laying her down and covering her with himself. And beneath him, she was finally still.
Despite his inexperience, he felt no uncertainty, no shyness. His hands and mouth wrought pleasure because he used them naturally, every touch directed by his own need to feel her and explore the secrets of her curves and hollows. Smells and tastes and textures that were unique to her filled his senses and pushed him to seek more.
And as his body gave itself over to sensations beyond his imagining, Gillian responded generously. Fingers warm on his skin, gentle as they brushed magic onto every nerve. Her mouth pliant and receptive, wandering on its own explorations and bringing about responses that intoxicated him.
For only one moment did he give pause, lifting his head to peer into pewter eyes, his voice an aching whisper. “Gillian...I want...this...”
She placed her fingers on his lips, silencing the question and answering it at the same time. Never again did he hesitate.
Within timelessness they lingered. In slow motion, wordlessly, they surrendered to the bond drawing them together, securing it by baring the rawest elements of themselves. Until finally she gasped, the name she had given to him falling from her lips.
“Sam...”
Beneath the frothy confines of the mosquito netting raining down around them, they lost themselves within each other. There was no past. There was no future. Only that night. Every moment and touch led them further from the hurt, where they found loving and being loved in return.
And afterward, as they lay entwined coated with the fine sheen of shared passion, he fell into a dreamless sleep, waves of honey covering his naked body like a blanket.
to be continued...
