much stronger, so let’s wait and see. We’ll have to monitor him closely, of course.’
We’ll have to monitor him? The words echoed in Jen’s head.
The stranger intended staying?
Here?
In her tent?
Of course he intended staying—he was another aid worker, one who was sorely needed, and right now there wasn’t another tent to house him or his clinic.
Unease fluttered like panicking moths in her stomach—or maybe that was hunger, it was well past lunchtime.
She turned her attention back to the job she was supposed to be doing—taking blood.
Marij had returned, having belatedly finished the morning’s TB testing.
‘Can I help?’ she asked, in her soft, gentle voice.
‘Would you type this blood for me?’ Jen asked her, handing her the vial.
‘Of course,’ Marij replied, adding, ‘And then you’ll want volunteers—I will ask around and begin typing them as well.’
Jen turned her attention back to the patient.
‘Shall we ease him back onto his side? And what about antibiotics? I have some but they’re in tablet form. For a start at least, he should be getting them through his drip. And tetanus? Who knows if he’s ever had a tetanus shot, but if it was a horse whip he was hit with, he’ll need one.’
He helped her move the patient back onto his side, propping cushions gently against his injured back to keep him from rolling over.
‘I’ve stuff like that in the car,’ Kam said. ‘Not much because this visit was more a recce to see what was needed, but I’ll go and get what I have.’
Once again suspicion fluttered in Jen’s chest. Would he really undertake a two-day drive just to see what was happening? And then drive back to the city to get what was needed and drive up here again? Six days going back and forth across desert roads that could swallow a car whole?
Or was the flutter discomfort at the thought of the man moving his things in here—moving in himself?
So close that if she woke in the night she might hear him shifting in his sleep, hear him breathing?
But where else could he stay? Until they had another tent, and she’d believe he could muster one when she saw it, he’d have to live and work here. If she put up another rug across the far corner…
She shook her head at her own folly. Whatever it was about this man that was affecting her, it wasn’t going to be stopped by a brightly woven rug hung down between them. The way they blew when the tent sides were rolled up to allow cool air in, another rug would barely provide privacy.
She checked her patient, then looked up as a shadow fell across them. The cause of her concern was standing over them, a large cardboard box in his hands.
Was she staring that he offered a half smile?
The flutters she felt were definitely not suspicion, and all the more worrying because of that.
‘I have some more pethidine,’ he said, such an ordinary conversation, ‘and antibiotics. The blood test?’
‘Marij is checking now.’
Jen climbed carefully to her feet, but even with care she stumbled when she put her weight on a foot that had gone to sleep.
Kam’s hand reached out to steady her, his grip surprisingly strong. She turned to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come, held captive in her throat by something she couldn’t explain.
She stamped her unresponsive foot, and caught his lips curving into a smile.
‘That’s not a sign of a tantrum,’ she assured him, with a tentative smile of her own. ‘The darned thing’s gone to sleep. And so’s my brain. I know you introduced yourself earlier, but did I? My name’s Jenny.’
She held out her hand and watched him take it—saw the tanned skin of his fingers against her own pale flesh, felt warmth and something else—something she didn’t want to put a name to.
‘I knew the Jennifer part, but wondered if you shortened it.’
Jenny removed her hand from his, and tucked it in the pocket of her tunic, out of danger’s way.
‘Jen, Jenny, even, hey, you—I answer to them all,’ she said, trying desperately to sound casual and light-hearted, although her arm where he had touched it, and the fingers he’d briefly held, burned as if they’d been branded.
The patient’s name, they learned, was Akbar, and his blood group was B.
‘Mine’s B,’ Jenny told Kam, who was sitting, cross-legged, by their patient, talking quietly to Lia, Akbar’s wife. ‘Let’s do a cross-match and see if it’s OK for him to have mine.’
Kam studied her for a moment, wondering about this woman he’d found on the border of his country. Wondering if she was the first fair-haired Westerner to ever tread these particular desert sands.
Wondering if he should take her blood…
Take her, as his ancestors might have…
The sudden heat in his body shocked him back to the matter in hand. Of all the times to be distracted by a woman…
‘You need your strength for your job,’ he objected.
It was a token protest and she took it that way.
‘The loss of a couple of pints of blood won’t hurt me,’ she insisted, handing him a syringe with a needle attached so he could draw blood from her forearm for cross-matching. She had pulled off her soiled tunic and now rolled up the sleeve of her shirt so he could access a vein, yet he felt strangely reluctant to move closer to her—to touch her.
He had to move closer—how else could he withdraw some blood?—and if their patient was bleeding internally, and his blood pressure drop suggested he was, he would need blood.
Kam crossed the distance between them in one long stride and took her arm, seeing as he did so pale scars like snail tracks, paler than the lightly tanned skin and puckered here and there.
Without regard to the intrusiveness of the gesture, he ran his forefinger lightly down the longest of them, then looked up into her eyes, knowing she’d read the question in his own.
Defiance was his answer, as clear as if it was written on a whiteboard. Ask me if you dare, she was saying, and though Kam knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help himself.
‘Accident?’
She nodded briefly then swabbed the spot where a vein showed blue beneath the fine skin of her inner elbow.
Take the blood, she was saying with the gesture—take the blood and mind your own business. But Kam’s mind was already racing off along a tangent—did the scars explain why such a beautiful woman, and she was beautiful in her golden, glowing way, would hide herself away in a refugee camp on the edge of a little-known country?
Was she hiding only these surface scars or were there deeper ones?
Had she lost someone she loved, leaving scars on her heart?
‘Was it bad?’
She stared at him as if she didn’t understand his question, but a shadow had crossed her face and he had his answer.
Very bad, that shadow told him, while the set of her lips again warned him off further questions.
But his sympathy for her made him gentle as he held her arm and eased the needle into the vein. He watched the vial fill with dark blood, trying to keep his mind on the job—on their patient and what might lie ahead for him, and for himself and Jenny as his doctors—not on snail-track-like scars on a woman’s arm, or the dark shadow that had crossed her