Untamed

She lowered her eyes to the child she was feeding. “A necklace saved my life.”

“That cross...” he began, recalling that her mother had given it to her and she never took it off—except once, to put it around Rourke’s neck in Barrera, just before he went into the capital city with Machado and the others, for luck.

“No.” She flicked open the top button of her blouse. She was wearing a seashell necklace with leather thongs.

He frowned.

“This little one—” she indicated the child in her arms “—has a sister. She was dying, of what I thought was appendicitis. I commandeered a car and driver and took her to the clinic, a few miles down the road. It was appendicitis. They saved her.” She took the bottle away from the child’s lips, tossed a diaper over one shoulder, lifted the child and patted him gently on the back to make him burp. “Her mother gave me this necklace, the little girl’s necklace, in return.” She smiled. “So the captain whose unit captured me saw it and recognized it and smuggled me out of the village.” She cradled the child in her arms and made a face at him. He chuckled. “This is his son. His little girl and his wife are over there, helping hand out blankets.” She nodded toward the other side of the camp.

He whistled softly.

“Life is full of surprises,” she concluded.

“Indeed.”

She looked at him with eyes that were quickly averted. “You came all this way because you thought I’d been kidnapped?”

He shook his head curtly. “I didn’t know that until I got here.”

“Then why did you come?” she asked.

He drew in a long breath. He watched her cradle the child and he smiled, without sarcasm for once. “You look very comfortable with a child in your arms, Tat.”

“He’s a sweet boy,” she said.

His mother came back and held out her arms, smiling shyly at Rourke before she went back to the others.

“Why did you come?” she asked him again.

He stood up, jamming his hands into his khaki slacks. “To get you out of here,” he said simply. His face was taut.

“I can’t leave,” she said. “There isn’t another journalist in this part of the country. Someone has to make sure the world knows what’s going on here.”

“You’ve done that,” he said shortly. He searched her eyes. “You have to get out. Today.”

She frowned. She stood up, too, careful not to go close to him. He didn’t like her close. He backed away if she even moved toward him. He had for years, as if he found her distasteful. Probably he did. He thought she had the morals of an alley cat, which would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so tragic. She’d never let anyone touch her, after Rourke. She couldn’t.

“What do you know, Stanton?” she asked softly.

His taut expression didn’t relent. “Things I’m not permitted to discuss.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Something’s about to happen...?”

“Yes. Don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Get your kit and come with me.”

“But...”

He put his finger over her lips, and then jerked it back as if he’d been stung. “We don’t even have time for discussion.”

She realized that he knew about an offensive, and he couldn’t say anything for fear of being overheard.

“I’m taking you home,” he said, loudly enough for people nearby to hear him. “And no more argument. You’ve played at being a photojournalist long enough. You’re leaving. Right now. Or so help me God, I’ll pick you up and carry you out of here.”

She gave him a shocked look. But she didn’t argue. She got her things together, said goodbye to the friends she’d made and climbed into the backseat of the car he and Robert had arrived in. She didn’t say another word until they were back at the airport.

* * *

He seated her beside him in business class, picked up a newspaper in Spanish, and didn’t say another word until they landed in Johannesburg. He bought her dinner, and then she got ready to board a plane for Atlanta. Rourke had connections back to Nairobi, far to the northeast. They got through passport control, and Clarisse stopped at the gate that led to the international concourse. “I’ll get on the next flight to DC from Atlanta and file my copy,” she told him as they stood together.

He nodded. He looked at her quietly, almost with anguish.

“Why?” she asked, as if the word was dragged out of her.

“Because I can’t let you die,” he bit off. “Regardless of my inclinations.” He smiled sarcastically. “So many men would grieve, wouldn’t they, Tat?”

The hopeful look on her face disappeared. “I assume that I’ll read about the reason I had to leave Ngawa?” she asked instead of returning fire.

“You will.”

She drew in a resigned breath. “Okay. Thanks,” she added without meeting his eye.

“Go home and give parties,” he muttered. “Stay out of war zones.”

“Look who’s talking,” she returned.

He didn’t answer her. He was looking. Aching. The expression on his face was so tormented that she reached up a hand to touch his cheek.

He jerked her wrist down and stepped back. “Don’t touch me,” he said icily. “Ever.”

She swallowed down the hurt. “Nothing ever changes, does it?” she asked.

“You can bet your life on it,” he shot back. “Just for the record, even if half the men on earth would die to have you, I never will. I do what I can for you, for old time’s sake. But make no mistake, I find you physically repulsive. You’re not much better than a call girl, are you, Tat? The only difference is you don’t have to take money for it. You just give it away.”

She turned while he was in full spiel and walked slowly from him. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want him to see the tears.

He watched her go with an expression so full of rage that a man passing by actually walked out of his way to avoid meeting him. He turned and went to catch his own flight back to Nairobi, nursing the same old anguish that he always had to deal with when he saw her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He had to. He couldn’t let her get close, touch him, warm to him. He didn’t dare.

* * *

He flew back to Nairobi. He’d meant to go to Texas, to finalize a project he was working on. But after he had to hurt Tat, his heart wasn’t in it. His unit leader could handle things until he got himself back together.

He drove out to the game ranch with his foreman from the airport in Nairobi, drooping from jet lag, somber from dealing with Tat.

K. C. Kantor was in his living room, looking every day of his age. He got to his feet when Rourke walked in.

Not for the first time, Rourke saw himself in those odd, pale brown eyes, the frosty blond hair—streaked with gray, now—so thick on the other man’s head. They were of the same height and build, as well. But neither of them knew for sure. Rourke wasn’t certain that he really wanted to know. It wasn’t pleasant to believe that his mother cheated on his father. Or that the man he’d called his father for so many years wasn’t really his dad...

He clamped down on it. “Cheers,” Rourke said. “How’re things?”