Page 15 of Burning for Him

“It’s my t-time.”Cough, cough.“My George is w-waiting for m-me. It’s o-okay.” Her gaze shifted from Jenn to the sky above. “Hi, George.”

With that, her breathing ceased even though her eyes remained open. Despite the grim reaper claiming her, a hint of a smile was on her face.

“Margie?” Jenn shook the woman’s shoulder. “Margie?” She shook harder. “Margie!”

Her anguished gaze met Doug’s defeated one. “N-no!”

She started digging again. “Help me! We have to get her out.”

“Jenn—”

“No!” She glared at him as her hands worked faster. Her nails were broken, and her fingers were smeared with blood and dirt. “Help me, damn you!”

He stood and reached for her, but she pulled away angrily. “No! We can still save her! We can still—we have to save her!”

When he knelt behind her and pulled her to his chest, she struggled for a few moments, then let out a wail that nearly tore his heart out. Sobbing uncontrollably, she twisted in his arms and buried her head between his shoulder and neck. Hot tears soaked through his shirt, scorching his skin. He held her tighter, wishing he could turn back time and save her from the grief of losing her friend.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jenn didn’t know how long they sat there in the damp dirt next to Margie’s lifeless body. She cried in Doug’s arms until there were no more tears. Her chest burned, and her head throbbed. If she had the option, she would climb onto a soft bed somewhere with Doug beside her, holding her tightly until she fell asleep, praying the past twelve hours were only a nightmare and Margie was still alive. That everyone in the village of Anjama was still alive.

She inhaled deeply. Despite the dirt and salty sweat coating his skin, Doug still smelled like himself. There was no hint of the cologne he occasionally wore, but she recognized his unique scent. It was all masculine—leather and musk with a hint of spice—wrapping around her, like a warm coat in the dead of winter.

The scruff of his jaw rasped against her cheek. She would give anything to be in his arms, at another time and place, filled with happiness and bliss instead of grief. She felt safe with him. Comforted. Connected. Loved.

She knew Doug didn’t feel the same way about her—he’d told her that several times—but in that moment, she belonged to him. His soothing voice, his caring touch, the sound of his heart beating as her ear rested against his chest, her head rising andfalling with every breath he took—all combined—felt like home to her.

“¡Por favor ayuda a mi esposa!”a man yelled.“¡Socorro!”

Shifting, Doug cupped Jenn’s face in his hands and gently kissed her forehead. “I think that’s the pregnant woman’s husband. We have to help her. Let’s take care of the survivors, and then we’ll make sure Margie is returned home to her family.”

She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. “She didn’t have any children, and her husband passed away last year. She mentioned two brothers and some nieces and nephews.”

“We’ll get her back to them.” He stood, picked up the canvas knapsack, and held out his hand. “C’mon. They need our help.”

Swallowing hard, she let him help her stand, then glanced down at Margie. Doug must have reached over at some point and closed the woman’s eyes. Notwithstanding the blood and dirt, Margie looked at peace, and Jenn prayed she was. “Can we—can we cover her?”

“Yeah. I’ll bring something back when we’re done.”

With his assistance, she climbed over the tree and then the next one, trying to keep her mind from falling back down a well of grief. Her hands and legs shook as the adrenaline seeped from her body, but she pushed onward. Injured people still needed their help, and that’s who she would concentrate on. She reminded herself of the thought she had earlier—there would be plenty of time to mourn the dead later.

The sounds of the mountain forest returned to normal. Birds sang. The village’s animals were still skittish but had calmed somewhat. Dogs barked, but not in alarm like they had before the landslide. A few goats and a cow called out to their herds.

The man whose wife was in labor grasped Jenn’s arm and pulled her toward one of several huts that were still standing on that end of the village.“¡Date prisa, por favor!”

Doug caught up to them, and the three ran inside, where a heavily pregnant woman in her late teens or early twenties writhed in agony on an old metal full-size bed with only a thin mattress and a sheet under her. A scratchy-looking brown blanket covered her. Her eyes were wide with fear and pain. Drenched in sweat, she panted as she cried out and clenched the blanket in both fists. Jenn reached out to her but quickly pulled her hands back—they were caked in blood and dirt. She looked at the woman’s husband and showed him her hands.“Um.¿Agua?”

“Si.” He gestured to a pitcher and basin on a nearby metal and cracked, green linoleum table that looked like it’d been salvaged from the 1970s.

Jenn and Doug quickly washed their hands in the water, then again in sanitizer from the first aid kit in the emergency bag, before pulling on sterile gloves. Jenn glanced around. The floor was made of concrete, with a few scattered, handmade-looking woven rugs. The walls were constructed with wooden slats, and the roof was metal. Her eyes widened when a mouse ran across the floor and out the door. Thank God she wasn’t afraid of them—her third-grade class had two pet mice and three gerbils. She used to love holding them whenever she got the chance.

“Have you ever delivered a baby?” she asked Doug, trying to get her mind focused on what they were about to do.

“Once. Sort of. In a village similar to this in Iraq. My medic did the actual delivery, but I helped.”

“Well, then, you’ve got more experience than I. When all my nieces and nephews were born, I was in the waiting room. Although they did cover it in a health class I took in high school. But that was years ago andverybasic.”

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