Once a Warrior (34 page)

“James! Catherine!”

As one, they looked up and saw Sister Simone standing at the window holding a small, wriggling body to her shoulder.

“Come quick!” she pleaded over those heart-wrenching cries  “The baby is sick!”

* * * *

“He was fretting at his ear earlier today.”  Not wanting to wake the other babies who were sleeping in the nursery, Sister Simone had met them at the bottom of the stairs when they came running into the house.  

Cain lifted the baby from the nun’s arms and carried him into the dining room. Then he pressed his lips to that tiny, furrowed brow.  “Well, he’s burning up with fever now.”

“Take off his clothes,” she ordered as she started back upstairs. “I need to take his temperature.”

Almost frantic with fear, Cat hovered over Cain as he sat down on one of the chairs and laid the baby on his thighs. She wanted to help but there was nothing for her to do. Already he was stripping the infant, his long, lean fingers making short work of the lightweight sacque and bulky cloth diaper. He was careful to support the delicate neck in his large palm as he undressed the infant.  

Cain turned him onto his tummy when Sister Simone returned with a rectal thermometer. The baby howled at this new indignity. Cat would have had to be a pillar of salt not to be moved at the sight of that dark, manly hand smoothing up and down the infant’s back to comfort him. 

“One hundred and five,” the nun said solemnly.

Cat’s arms suddenly ached to pick up the baby and comfort him, but Cain beat her to it. He cradled that squirming little body to his broad chest and rocked back and forth, back and forth. She clasped her hands together and asked anxiously, “Is there a doctor we can call?  Or a hospital we can take him to?”

“This isn’t America, with emergency rooms on every other corner,” Cain reminded her pointedly. “This is a country at war. The hospitals are full of the wounded, and the few doctors that are left are all busy treating them. Fortunately,
Soeur
Simone is trained as a nurse.”

Cat’s respect for the religious woman went up another notch.

“We’ll bathe him in lukewarm water to bring his temperature down.”  The nun turned on her sensible rubber sole and motioned for Cain to follow her.

Half-crazed with panic, Cat trailed them down the hall and into the same bathroom where she’d taken her shower. The baby’s skin was mottled under the bright light and his frail arms were flailing like broken wings. His frenzied cries had diminished to pitiable mews.

He’s dying
, she thought, licking a tear from the corner of her mouth.
My baby is dying
. . .

After Sister Simone filled the sink, Cain submerged the baby. Cat watched with growing dread as he cupped that beautifully rounded head in a gentle hand and began scooping water over the feverish little body. A spasm seized her heart when those trembling rose-petal lips turned blue.

Please, God
, she prayed with a mother’s heartfelt fervency,
make my baby well,
let my baby live
. . .

“Do you still have any of that penicillin I brought you last month?” Cain asked over his shoulder.

“No.”  Sister Simone switched places with him and nodded approvingly when she saw the baby going flaccid. “Three of the children have been sick since then, and—”

“I’ve got more, but it’s on the boat.”

“I’ll go get it,” Cat said around the lump in her throat.

Cain wheeled away from sink and met her eyes directly. The grim expression on his face reminded her of how he’d looked just before he’d led her into the jungle. At the time she’d been afraid of dying from snakebite or plain old heart failure. But now that tangled wilderness seemed tame by comparison. Now she knew the real meaning of fear. Because now she knew that there was nothing more terrifying than seeing one’s child in life-threatening danger.

“I’ll go.”  He reached over the nun’s crouched back and touched her cheek with cool, damp fingers. “You stay here and help
Soeur
Simone.”      

Cat caught his hand before he could retract it and said in a quaking voice, “Be careful.”

They shared one last, poignant look before he turned and left the bathroom.

She rolled up her sleeves then and stepped to the sink to relieve Sister Simone.

* * * *

 Where was Cain?

Cat had been walking the floor with the baby for what seemed like hours. His fever was down, thanks to the cool baths, but she could tell by the way he kept batting at his ear that it was still bothering him. She thought he might be getting a tad spoiled from all the attention, too, because every time she tried to lay him down, he started crying again.

Not that she minded. To the contrary, she couldn’t believe how right it felt to have him cuddled against her breasts. How wonderful his slight weight felt in her arms. When she’d first picked him up, she’d turned him this way and that in loving inspection. As she’d put his diaper and his clothes back on, she had counted each toe, marveled over each transparent fingernail, smiled at the square jaw he had inherited from his father. She’d even tried but failed to curl that wild tuft of ebony dark hair upon his head. 

But after her harrowing experiences of the past two days, she was worn slick.

Sister Simone had put Cat in a first-floor bedroom at the back of the house that the priest from Can Tho used when he came to baptize the babies and give the older children religious instruction. Unlike the nursery upstairs, this room was small and sparsely furnished. It had narrow windows, a padded kneeler for prayer, and a wooden crucifix on the stark white wall. The only thing that looked even remotely comfortable was a double bed with a plain brown spread and two tightly tucked pillows.

Now she eyed the bed longingly, wondering if she dared try to lay the baby down again. He was sucking on his fist and making those sweet little noises that were music to her ears. She smiled poignantly at the sound.

If only Cain were here, everything would be perfect.

She pressed her cheek to the top of the baby’s head as she paced the length of the room, wondering what could be keeping him. Had he run into one of the Viet Cong patrols that owned the night?  Was he lying hurt and wounded and helpless in the jungle?  Had Colonel Howard tracked him down and arrested him?    

The grisly possibilities were endless, yet she seemed to think of every conceivable one. She clutched the baby tightly and kissed the downy black hair that hugged his soft scalp. He squirmed, as if he sensed her fear, and began fussing again.

“Ssh, ssh,” she crooned. “He’ll be back soon.”

She wasn’t sure at this point just who she was trying to convince—herself or the baby.  The waiting was unendurable. But what else could she do?  She couldn’t take a sick baby outside. And she certainly couldn’t leave him alone. Sister Simone had already had a full day taking care of the orphans and had been dead on her feet, so Cat had sent her to bed. She knew the nun would gladly get up if asked, but she had another full day ahead of her tomorrow and she needed her rest.

“
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques
. . .” 

Softly singing the song that her mother used to sing to her, Cat sat down on the edge of the bed and rocked the baby back and forth. He whimpered once, as if he was fighting sleep, then laid his precious little head against her heart. Humming now, she gingerly eased herself back and lowered her own head to the pillow.

Just before she closed her exhausted eyes, she remembered that
Jacques
was French for
James
.

* * * *

When Cat awoke, Cain was lying on the other side of the bed, facing her, and the baby was tucked between them.

She turned her head on the pillow and blinked rapidly, trying to orient herself in the strange room. It was just before sunrise, and the walls were tinted a faint rose with the encroaching dawn. The air drifting in through the screened window smelled sweet with the mingled perfume of flowers and dew.

Her eyes misted over with emotion when she saw that the baby was sleeping on his tummy. His little rump looked plump and out of proportion to his body because of his diaper. He was snoring softly through slightly parted lips.

As was Cain.

Lying perfectly still now, Cat let her gaze wander up his tanned throat to the proud chin. There was a small scar there—silvered by time—which she hadn’t noticed before. His mouth was beautifully shaped, if a bit stern, and the memory of the magic it had worked on hers caused her stomach muscles to contract. She ran her tongue over her own lips, trying to see if she could still taste him—erotic, exotic, narcotic—on them. Caught off guard by a sudden craving to taste him again, she moved on.         

Given the risky nature of his business, it was a mystery to her how he’d managed to keep his nose from getting broken. She blessed the fates that had left it straight. The tropical sun, on the other hand, hadn’t been quite so kind. It had etched permanent creases around his mouth and eye. Offsetting its harsh effects, the midnight-black hair falling across his forehead made him look younger than his years—boyish, yet every inch a man. That black eye patch only added to his overwhelming masculinity.

She couldn’t help but smile when she remembered the first time she’d watched him sleeping. Then she’d considered him nothing more than a mercenary and nothing less than a criminal. A man who didn’t care about anyone or anything but making a buck.

Now she knew better. He was tough-minded but tenderhearted. Rough around the edges yet smooth as silk when it came to talking his way out of trouble. He was fighting for what he believed in, although she still wasn’t exactly certain what that was, and he was fighting his battle his way.

And he cared as deeply about the orphans as she was beginning to care about him.

Before Cat could fully digest that thought, Cain opened his eye and smiled at her. The lashes he lifted were broom-thick, and the look he gave her was bone-meltingly tender. She swallowed a sudden urge to cry and smiled back.

He mouthed a, “Good morning.” 

She mouthed one right back. 

“Did you get your sleep out?”

She nodded. “You’re a real pro when it comes to sneaking in.” 

His smile widened. “Just call me ‘Cool Breeze.’”

They were whispering so as not to disturb the baby. But the baby snuffled and turned his head, telling them that they were tempting fate. So by tacit agreement, they eased out of bed, tucked their pillows around the baby like bolsters to keep him from falling off, then crept out of the room and into the kitchen.

“He woke up?” she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief when she saw the half-empty bottle of clear liquid and the small container of medication sitting on the table.

“I guess he thought it was time for breakfast.”

“I feel terrible that I didn’t hear him.”

He shrugged off her concern and went to the stove to start the coffee. While he was at it, he dropped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. “I gave him his penicillin and a little Seven-Up and he went right back to sleep.”

“Some mother I’m going to make,” Cat muttered in self-recrimination.

Cain wheeled and threw her a heartwarming glance. “You’re going to adopt him?”

“If I can get the paperwork done before my visa runs out.”

“I’ll see if I can speed things up for you.”

She scowled. “Legitimately?”

He smiled. “Leave it to me, okay?”

Cat watched Cain pour their coffee. He remembered that she took sugar and he stirred some in before placing the cup of steaming liquid in front of her. Then he retrieved the two slices of toast, slathered them both with butter and passed one to her while sinking his strong white teeth into the other.   

The whole scene was so domestic that she suddenly found herself wanting things she could never have. Cozy things, like waking up in the same bed with him every morning for the rest of her life. Simple things, like sharing toast and coffee along with their plans for the day while the children still slept snug and warm and safe. Arousing things, like having him kiss her and caress her in the heat of the night . . .   

“Thanks.”  She looked away before her eyes betrayed the foolish fantasies that were flashing through her head with every heartbeat and bit into her toast.

He leaned back against the counter with his own cup cradled in both hands and let his gaze move restlessly around the room. “We need to leave at full light in order to make it back to Saigon before nightfall.”

She suppressed a shudder at the thought of having to retrace her path through the jungle and tried to drown her fears with a sip of coffee. It was hot and sweet. And it gave her time to gather her courage to speak.

“
Soeur
Simone told me that you’re an orphan.”

“That must have been some conversation.”

Cat set down her cup and looked up at him earnestly. “She didn’t tell me much. Only that you remembered how it felt to be an orphan. But if it’s not too difficult for you to talk about, I’d really like to hear the story from you.”

Cain forked his hand through his hair, and she could see that the bruise at his temple was beginning to fade. His rueful expression, though, was evidence that some old wounds never entirely heal. “My father was an American pilot in China—one of the original ‘Flying Tigers’—and my mother was the daughter of a Chinese general.”

“What was her name?”

“Anna. Anna Lee.”

Now she knew where he’d gotten his middle name. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

“She was a beautiful woman—inside and out.”

Cat watched Cain retreat into himself, as if he were recalling some special childhood memory of the mother he had obviously loved. She wished he would share it with her because she wanted to know as much as she possibly could about the woman who’d given birth to this extraordinary man. Instead, she sipped her coffee and waited for him to return to the present.

“Unfortunately,” he continued in a raw voice, “both the American and the Chinese cultures frowned on intermarriage in those days. So my mother ‘lost face’ with her family and my father was disowned by his when they eloped.”