Taking Fire. Lindsay McKenna
had bales of alfalfa stored in it. She gave her horse another bucket of water and then picked up her M-4 rifle and headed into the other cave. Khat silently melted into the darkness, but he could pick up faint sounds of where she was moving.
When she walked back, minutes later, she said, “I’m leaving you the kerosene lamp. I’ll be sleeping in another cave, keeping guard. I have motion-sensor detectors at the opening. If you hear shots, take cover and hide. I don’t think the Taliban will find us because we’re so far back in this mountain, but you don’t count on anything.”
“Got it,” Mike said. He pulled the kerosene lamp toward him. “Do you have a flashlight?”
She held a small one up in her hand. “Sleep well,” she whispered, and turned and disappeared into the black gloom.
Mike waited a few minutes. He placed his rifle nearby, his pistol within easy reach. Dousing the flame in the old lantern, he set it aside and lay down on his back. He worried about Khat. He wanted to protect her, not have her protecting him. Frustration overwhelmed him as he closed his eyes. Tomorrow he was going to be on his feet and become ambulatory—or else.
* * *
MIKE HEARD A horse approaching his area in the darkness. He stood near the cave opening to the waterfall area, M-4 in hand. The glow from the kerosene lamp revealed Khat leading her mare out of the gloom.
To his surprise, there was another horse behind her, but it was packed with supplies beneath a tarp. Khat looked tired.
When she spotted him, she lifted her hand in greeting. Khat was dressed differently than yesterday. She was in Afghan male clothes, dark brown trousers, boots, a black shirt with a brown vest over it. There was a white-and-blue-checked shemagh around her neck, the ends of it hanging down between the front of her breasts. He saw no weapons on her. What had she been doing? And why the change of costume?
“We’re clear,” she told Mike. For a SEAL, clear meant no enemy was present. And he needed to know that.
Khat felt her heart surge as she caught sight of him. He stood alert, the M-4 in his right hand. She saw he’d taken the sling off his broken arm. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was in a hard line, as if expecting trouble. Fortunately, there was none tonight. The Taliban had moved off the mountain and were north of her location.
She brought the two horses to a stop and dropped Mina’s reins. Lifting the stirrup, she put it over the horn of the saddle and quickly loosened the cinch and hauled the gear off her tired mare. “How was your day?” she asked as she passed him and walked down to the cave that held the hay.
“Better,” Mike said. “Can I help you at all?”
She disappeared inside the cave and came out a moment later, pulling off the shemagh. “No, thank you. How is your arm doing?”
“It hurts like hell when I let it hang too long,” he admitted.
Nodding, Khat saw his chagrin. “Took it off to wash up?” He looked clean. His hair was mussed, but the dirt and sweat were off his body. She was sure Mike had taken off the sling to get out of his blouse. He’d done a poor job of closing it up, however, but considering he had one hand, he’d managed to get his clothes back on.
“Yes. No choice.” Mike walked over to the second horse, a black Arabian that looked identical to the one she had ridden. “What’s under the tarp?”
Khat led Mina to her place, where she fed her and took the bridle off, tying the halter lead rope to a large iron ring in the wall. “Medical supplies,” she said.
“I didn’t know you had two horses.”
“I need two,” she said, patting Mina’s rump as she walked up to the other mare. Leading the horse closer to the tunnel, she added, “If Mina goes down with a sprain or something, I have to have a backup.” She managed a slight smile in his direction. “I’m like the SEALs—one is none, two is one.”
Nodding, Mike put the rifle down against the wall where his sleeping bag was located. “She’s nice looking, too. Are they sisters?”
“Yes. Her name is Zorah.” Khat quickly unstrapped the canvas over the load the horse carried. In moments, she had the tarp pulled off and folded it up. “This one is eight years old. Same sire and dam as Mina.”
Mike saw two huge leather panniers, one on each side of the small horse. Inside, he recognized American bottles of drugs and other medical supplies. “Can I help you carry these things somewhere?”
“Yes,” she said, grateful. He looked like he was bored out of his skull. SEALs didn’t sit down well doing nothing for twelve hours. His skin looked better; his eyes were clear. “Did the pain pills work okay?” she asked, removing a carton.
Mike was able to reach in with one hand and find another box and draw it out. “Yeah, fine.”
“Follow me,” she said, moving past the cave with the gate.
In minutes, they had the horse unpacked, the harness taken off, and Khat tied Zorah to a second iron ring a few feet away from where Mina stood. Giving them each a flake of alfalfa hay, she said, “Okay, you’re next, Mike. Take a seat on your sleeping bag.”
Mike sat down, back resting against the cave wall. She was a marvel of efficiency, as if she had done this all her life. Khat brought her medical ruck to her side as she knelt by him. “Why are you dressed in male Afghan clothes?”
She met his gaze. “Now, I think you know the answer to that one,” she said, and she quickly cut away the dried bandages around the splints. They’d gotten wet when he’d bathed and had become wrinkled and loose. Quickly, she removed the dressing, took the splints away and gently held his forearm between her fingers. Mike’s arm was black-and-blue and swollen. She moved her fingers lightly across it. His fingers looked like sausages because he didn’t wear the sling. “No heat,” she murmured, pleased. “Rest it against your chest.” She turned and gathered the supplies she’d need and dug out a new sling.
Mike looked forward to her gentle touch. He did as she asked, watching her. The lamplight emphasized her green eyes. He saw shadows beneath them. “Tough day?” he wondered. Her lips thinned for a moment and then relaxed.
“It’s always a mix,” she murmured, re-splinting his arm. Leaning up, she fashioned the dark green cotton sling so it supported his broken arm once more.
The nape of his neck tingled wildly when her fingertips brushed his flesh as she tied a knot in the sling. “Thanks,” he murmured, “it feels a hell of a lot better in this position.” He inhaled her scent, a mix of sunshine, fresh air and her. It made him very aware he was hopelessly attracted to Khat.
Khat eased away, wildly aware of Mike’s nearness, his maleness. For whatever unknown reason, he never felt threatening to her. Instead, she felt protection radiating from him, surrounding her. She saw the liquid darkness in his eyes as he followed her movements. His look held desire, and she once more felt flummoxed by the feelings Mike automatically ignited deep within her body.
Almost breathless, Khat said, “I’ll bet it does feel better. Your fingers are swollen because your arm hung down for most of the day. It’s hard for the circulation to get back up into the area of the break because the tissue is swollen around it.” She took his fingers, squeezing them gently, assessing the situation. Khat would never admit she liked touching this man as she gently massaged each finger, pushing some of the fluid out of them and into his arm. “The swelling will probably go down in a few hours,” she murmured.
Picking up her stethoscope, she listened to his heart and lungs. With her small pen flashlight, she moved it across his eyes, watching his pupil response. Moving to his other side, she took his pulse and wrote all her observations down in her small notebook.
“Am I going to live?” Mike asked drily, absorbing her profile, the light glinting through the thick strands of her hair that she had captured in a ponytail.
“Definitely,” she