Reckless. Linda Howard

like pure suicide from the top, and not much better than that from the bottom, but she followed without complaining. It wasn’t that she didn’t think of plenty of complaints, but that she was too tired to voice them. The benefits of her short nap had long since been dissipated. Her legs ached, her back ached, her bruised arms were so painful she could barely move them, and her eyes felt as if they were burning out of their sockets. But she didn’t ask him to stop. Even if the pace killed her, she wasn’t going to slow him down any more than she already had, because she had no doubt that he could travel much faster without her. The easy movements of his long legs told her that his stamina was far greater than hers; he could probably walk all night long again without a noticeable slowing of his stride. She felt a quiet awe of that sort of strength and conditioning, something that had been completely outside her experience before she’d met him. He wasn’t like other men; it was evident in his superb body, in the awesome competence with which he handled everything, in the piercing gold of his eyes.

      As if alerted by her thoughts, he stopped and looked back at her, assessing her condition with that sharp gaze that missed nothing. “Can you make it for another mile or so?”

      On her own, she couldn’t have, but when she met his eyes she knew there was no way she’d admit to that. Her chin lifted, and she ignored the increasingly heavy ache in her legs as she said, “Yes.”

      A flicker of expression crossed his face so swiftly that she couldn’t read it. “Let me have that pack,” he growled, coming back to her and jerking the straps free of the buckles, then slipping the pack from her shoulders.

      “I’m handling it okay,” she protested fiercely, grabbing for the pack and wrapping both arms around it. “I haven’t complained, have I?”

      His level dark brows drawing together in a frown, he forcefully removed the pack from her grasp. “Use your head,” he snapped. “If you collapse from exhaustion, then I’ll have to carry you, too.”

      The logic of that silenced her. Without another word he turned and started walking again. She was better able to keep up with him without the weight of the pack, but she felt frustrated with herself for not being in better shape, for being a burden to him. Jane had fought fiercely for her independence, knowing that her very life depended on it. She’d never been one to sit and wait for someone else to do things for her. She’d charged at life head-on, relishing the challenges that came her way because they reaffirmed her acute sense of the wonder of life. She’d shared the joys, but handled the problems on her own, and it unsettled her now to have to rely on someone else.

      They came to another stream, no wider than the first one they had crossed, but deeper. It might rise to her knees in places. The water rushing over the rocks sounded cool, and she thought of how heavenly it would be to refresh her sweaty body in the stream. Looking longingly at it, she stumbled over a root and reached out to catch her balance. Her palm came down hard against a tree trunk, and something squished beneath her fingers.

      “Oh, yuck!” she moaned, trying to wipe the dead insect off with a leaf.

      Grant stopped. “What is it?”

      “I smashed a bug with my hand.” The leaf didn’t clean too well; a smear still stained her hand, and she looked at Grant with disgust showing plainly on her face. “Is it all right if I wash my hand in the stream?”

      He looked around, his amber eyes examining both sides of the stream. “Okay. Come over here.”

      “I can get down here,” she said. The bank was only a few feet high, and the underbrush wasn’t that thick. She carefully picked her way over the roots of an enormous tree, bracing her hand against its trunk to steady herself as she started to descend to the stream.

      “Watch out!” Grant said sharply, and Jane froze in her tracks, turning her head to look askance at him.

      Suddenly something incredibly heavy dropped onto her shoulders, something long and thick and alive, and she gave a stifled scream as it began to coil around her body. She was more startled than frightened, thinking a big vine had fallen; then she saw the movement of a large triangular head and she gave another gasping cry. “Grant! Grant, help me!”

      Terror clutched at her throat, choking her, and she began to claw at the snake, trying to get it off. It was a calm monster, working its body around her, slowly tightening the lethal muscles that would crush her bones. It twined around her legs and she fell, rolling on the ground. Dimly she could hear Grant cursing, and she could hear her own cries of terror, but they sounded curiously distant. Everything was tumbling in a mad kaleidoscope of brown earth and green trees, of Grant’s taut, furious face. He was shouting something at her, but she couldn’t understand him; all she could do was struggle against the living bonds that coiled around her. She had one shoulder and arm free, but the boa was tightening itself around her rib cage, and the big head was coming toward her face, its mouth open. Jane screamed, trying to catch its head with her free hand, but the snake was crushing the breath out of her and the scream was almost soundless. A big hand, not hers, caught the snake’s head, and she dimly saw a flash of silver.

      The snake’s coils loosened about her as it turned to meet this new prey, seeking to draw Grant into its deadly embrace, too. She saw the flash of silver again, and something wet splashed into her face. Vaguely she realized that it was his knife she’d seen. He was swearing viciously as he wrestled with the snake, mostly astride her as she writhed on the ground, struggling to free herself. “Damn it, hold still!” he roared. “You’ll make me cut you!”

      It was impossible to be still; she was wrapped in the snake, and it was writhing with her in its coils. She was too crazed by fear to realize that the snake was in its death throes, not even when she saw Grant throw something aside and begin forcibly removing the thick coils from around her body. It wasn’t until she actually felt herself coming free of the constrictor’s horrible grasp that she understood it was over, that Grant had killed the snake. She stopped fighting and lay limply on the ground. Her face was utterly white except for the few freckles across her nose and cheekbones; her eyes were fixed on Grant’s face.

      “It’s over,” he said roughly, running his hands over her arms and rib cage. “How do you feel? Anything broken?”

      Jane couldn’t say anything; her throat was frozen, her voice totally gone. All she could do was lie there and stare at him with the remnants of terror in her dark eyes. Her lips trembled like a child’s, and there was something pleading in her gaze. He automatically started to gather her into his arms, the way one would a frightened child, but before he could do more than lift his hand, she dragged her gaze away from his with a visible effort. He could see what it cost her in willpower, but somehow she found the inner strength to still the trembling of her lips, and then her chin lifted in that characteristic gesture.

      “I’m all right,” she managed to say. Her voice was jerky, but she said the words, and in saying them, believed it. She slowly sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “I feel a little bruised, but there’s nothing bro—”

      She stopped abruptly, staring at her bloody hand and arm. “I’m all bloody,” she said in a bewildered tone, and her voice shook. She looked back at Grant, as if for confirmation. “I’m all bloody,” she said again, extending her wildly trembling hand for him to see. “Grant, there’s blood all over me!”

      “It’s the snake’s blood,” he said, thinking to reassure her, but she stared at him with uncontrolled revulsion.

      “Oh, God!” she said in a thin, high voice, scrambling to her feet and staring down at herself. Her black blouse was wet and sticky, and big reddish splotches stained her khaki pants. Both her arms had blood smeared down them. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the wetness that had splashed her face. She raised exploring fingers and found the horrible stickiness on her cheeks, as well as smeared in her hair.

      She began to shake even harder, and tears dripped down her cheeks. “Get it off,” she said, still in that high, wavering voice of utter hysteria. “I have to get it off. There’s blood all over me, and it isn’t mine. It’s all over me; it’s even in my hair... It’s in my hair!” she sobbed, plunging for the