Born To Protect. Virginia Kantra
collection trays, describing what they were likely to see, explaining how to identify and count the tiny aquatic insects and record their finds on their clipboards. Downstream, she had another student team measuring water temperature. Later, they would calculate the creek’s flow using a stopwatch and a stick.
Like Pooh and Piglet, she thought fancifully, racing twigs from the bridge in the Hundred Acre Wood. A.A. Milne’s classic was one of her mother’s favorites. The Queen, a former governess, had always taken the time and care to read to her own children at bedtime. Christina remembered snuggling with her sisters while her brother, Lucas, lounged male and superior in the doorway.
Christina cleared her suddenly constricted throat and focused, as she always focused, on the work. On work and on the bright, interested faces of the students bending toward her as she knelt on the muddy bank.
“All right now.” She plunged her hand into the muck, winning groans and giggles from her audience. “This little fellow here…” Gently, she separated out a caddis worm with her thumb. “Can anyone tell me what he’s called?”
She wasn’t sure at what exact moment she felt the change, like a rise of temperature in the air around her. Like the kiss of a branch on the back of her neck. Like the glide of the sun on her cheek. As the students scattered with their counting trays, she rinsed her hands in the cold stream. Under the splash and calls of the children, she heard the whisper of her own breath.
She stood slowly, her gaze scanning the opposite bank. Nothing.
She paused to correct a clipboard entry and stop the girl in the blue sweater from tipping the contents of her collection tray down a boy’s back.
And when Christina straightened, when she turned to check on the other group of students taking water temperatures downstream, she saw Jack Dalton standing above her on the bank.
For a moment she couldn’t think, move, breathe. She froze like a doe in a hunter’s sights as he stood watching her, lean and tough and out of place in his light T-shirt and leather jacket. His face was hard. His eyes were slate-blue and unreadable.
Her blood drummed in her ears. And then her mother’s training kicked in. Chin up. Eyes straight. She drew a shallow, careful breath. You are a Sebastiani.
“You frightened me,” she said with dignity.
“Good.” He came down the bank, his boots slipping slightly on the wet gravel. “You should be frightened. What the hell are you doing out here?”
She raised her chin another notch. “Conducting a field trip on riparian ecology and the importance of the water-shed.”
From downstream, she heard a couple of yells, a yelp and a splash.
Fascinated, she watched as a corner of Dalton’s hard mouth kicked upward. “And here I thought you were under attack,” he said.
She smiled back reluctantly. “That may come later. Excuse me, I’d better go see what’s going on.”
He fell into step beside her. “I can tell you what’s going on. Somebody got pushed into the water. And you shouldn’t be out here alone, miles from town, miles from the university.”
She resented him setting limits on her activities. If she’d wanted to live by palace rules, she would have stayed in Montebello. If she could have stomached the constant scrutiny, she would have stayed at UCLA.
“Hardly alone, Mr. Dalton. I am surrounded by thirteen-year-olds.”
“Yeah, and they’d be big protection if Kamal’s guys decided to snatch you now, wouldn’t they? If you won’t think about your safety, you should think about theirs.”
Her mouth firmed. “I am thinking of theirs. Dr. Lyman was ill, and someone needed to come down here with the class. I assure you, the students are at greater risk of drowning than I am of being kidnapped.”
They rounded a bend in the stream and saw one of her charges floundering knee-deep in icy water while his friends laughed on the bank.
“Eric Hunter!”
The laughter subsided into fits and sniggers.
Eric looked up warily, all freckles and false innocence. “Yes, ma’am?”
Christina swallowed a bubble of amusement. “Get out of that water this instant.”
“I can’t.” He sounded pained. “My sneaker slipped, and I’m stuck. My ankle.”
She frowned. She hoped it was only stuck. The boy could walk the half mile back to the bus in wet shoes, but not with a sprained ankle.
“All right,” she said, unzipping her nylon field jacket, preparing to wade in after him. “Stand as still as you—”
But before the words were out of her mouth, Jack Dalton was in the stream. Pushing his sleeves back to his elbows, he bent down.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he ordered.
The boy’s mouth dropped open. Christina suspected hers did, too.
“For balance,” Jack explained, plunging his arms into the water. “Your hand on my shoulder. Now.”
Tentatively, Eric obeyed.
“Okay, your sneaker’s wedged under this rock,” Jack said calmly. “I’m going to shift it, and I want you to pull your foot out. Got it? On three. One, two, three.”
Christina glimpsed Jack’s mask of concentration and the boy’s hand clutching the brown leather of his jacket. The clear, dark water surged and splashed. And then Eric, supported by Jack’s arm, staggered out of the stream and collapsed onto the bank.
“Let’s take a look,” Jack said.
But Christina was already kneeling, the gravel sharp and cold through her twill slacks. She was picking at the boy’s sodden laces when she noticed the water streaming from Jack’s boots. His jeans were soaked to the knee.
She looked up ruefully. “You got wet. I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t wet. You should have seen me in BUD/S.” Her face must have betrayed her lack of comprehension, because he grinned sharply. Her breath caught. He really was most attractive when he smiled.
“SEALs training. Basic Underwater Demolition,” he explained.
Christina nodded, still not really understanding. “Can you wiggle your foot?” she asked Eric.
“He won’t have a fracture,” Jack said as the boy moved his foot cautiously from side to side. “Ligament will give before bone.”
“Which means what?” Christina asked, pushing down the wet, sagging sock. She pressed her lips together. The ankle was already puffy.
“If the ligaments are stretched, it’s a strain. Partly torn, it’s a sprain. Either way, all you can do is elevate the ankle and ice it.”
“I don’t have ice.”
“Did the kids pack lunches?”
She frowned. “I—yes, I believe so.”
“We put our drinks in coolers,” Eric volunteered, leaning back on his hands. “Ow. There’s ice in the coolers.”
Jack shrugged. “There you go, then.”
“The coolers are on the bus.” She sat back on her heels, looking up at him. “I can’t leave the children unsupervised. Could you…?”
“Sorry. I can’t leave you unsupervised, either.”
Her pleasure at his quick, practical response vanished. “I am not thirteen, Mr. Dalton. I am well able to take care of myself.”
“That’s what you think. You two.” The boys still on the bank straightened abruptly. “Can you find your way back to the bus?”
They