Adelaide
It’s been a long, hot day and an even longer night.
I’m wiped. Exhausted. Spent.
And it’s not even over yet.
“You’ve been drinking the well water?” I ask as my current patient vomits into a bucket that I had placed in front of her only just in time.
“We all drink the well water.” She glares up at me ungratefully, and considering her current state, I don’t take it personally.
“Which is why you all have food poisoning.”
I fish out my own canteen and hand it over to her. It has a little salt and a little potassium mixed into it already—electrolytes are crucial in this stage.
“Here. Sip on this for now. Sip,” I warn as she raises it to her lips to guzzle. “Your stomach is in a delicate place right now—and tonight won’t be enjoyable for you, either. But you should feel better by morning. I’ll be back then to check on you.”
That stupid well is making me fume.
This—all of it—the heat and the smells and the thankless work and the vomiting—this is what they don’t tell you when you’re dressing Dr. Barbie in her lab coat. Being a doctor isn’t hopping in your little pink convertible and coming home to a handsome, loving Ken waiting for you at the Dream House every night.
It’s mostly just work—nasty, crappy work.
I don’t do it for the Dream House, though.
Or for my own hunky, clean-cut Ken, either.
I do it because I’m a doctor.
I do it because these people need help, and there’s no one else to give it to them.
I took an oath, and I’m going to keep it.
That’s why tomorrow morning, I’ll be back here bright and early…and on barely any sleep, from the looks of things.
Time flies when you’re mopping up sick, I guess.
My head aches. When I move to stand, I realize that my body aches even more. Probably just from working so hard today—and from staying up so late.
That’s what I figure, anyway—until, that is, I see him.
Out in the moonlight, his figure framed by darkness and stars…
It’s been ten long years, but I’d recognize those broad shoulders and that easy gait anywhere.
Ford Armstrong.
Against all odds, walking back into my life.
That’s how I know I have Dengue Fever. Not a doubt in my poor, exhausted mind. I’m obviously hallucinating—and what a gorgeous hallucination it is, too.
But then a wave of rationality hits me.
It can’t be Dengue—because if it were, I would have been lying in bed with a high fever and a rash and hemorrhaging manifestations long before the psychosis presented.
Which leaves only one possibility…
God.
It’s really him.
My feet do the moving for me as I draw closer to him. I’m grateful for that much—because if my brain was in charge right now, I’d be frozen in place out of shock.
With every step, my heart beats a little harder.
He’s gorgeous.
Scruffy and bearded, dark blonde and blue-eyed…
Handsome as ever.
Ford Armstrong’s good looks always did give him a direct line to my heart.
“Addie,” he croaks, hitting me with a tired, roguish smile.
His voice sounds so dry that now, instead of pounding, I can feel my heart break.
I almost regret handing over my canteen now…because if I had it here, I would have his head in my lap, smoothing his brow and dribbling water between his parched lips.
It’s not until he draws closer still that finally I start to see all the cracks in my Adonis. Ford Armstrong was never as spiffed and shined as the other boys at St. Anthony’s, but despite his good looks…even I can admit that he looks like hell.
“Ford,” I breathe, raising a hand to his chest. My fingertips brush against his dirt-covered, sweaty t-shirt, touching him just barely at his sternum.
When I make contact, it sends shivers up and down my spine like I’m touching an electric current.
“What happened to you?”
And Ford Armstrong—being Ford Armstrong—only shrugs and laughs.
“Not anything you need to worry about,” he says, looking down at my fingertips at his chest before meeting my eyes. “I’m here now. That’s what matters.”
I eye the scrapes and bruises on his bulging biceps suspiciously, his being so blasé right now only making my suspicion grow.
“That brings me to my next question, actually.” I drop my hand from his chest, fighting back a blush. I cross my arms over my chest instead. “What are you doing here, Ford?”
He laughs again, like I have to be joking…then looks suddenly taken aback.
“Sten didn’t tell you,” he says in a deadpan.
I take a step back. “What didn’t he tell me?”
“Christ,” Ford swears. “Of course he didn’t. I mean, I knew you wouldn’t like it, but the least he could have done was let you prepare…”
“Prepare for what?!” I say—a little louder than I should.
I hear the shuffling of the half-dozen villagers I just startled awake with the sound of my voice and immediately feel bad—and I feel even worse when I see Ford’s eyes dart around our surroundings, looking concerned.
“I’m here to protect you, Addie,” Ford says, his voice hushed.
He puts his arm around me protectively—not like we’re high school sweethearts on a stroll through the moonlight, but like there’s an active shooter lurking around every corner and he’s trying to put his body between their bullets and my skin.
“And you couldn’t have picked a more difficult place to do it, huh?” he asked.
“I don’t need protection,” I hiss as he guides me to the shelter of the overhang of a nearby hut. “And I definitely don’t need you.”
“Then why are you trembling?” he asks.
I look down at my hand, the way it’s shaking.
Yeah, it’s probably for the best if he attributes that to fear right now. That way, he doesn’t realize the real reason.
I’m trembling because of him.
I’m not scared of Ford. Sure, he disappeared seemingly off the face of the earth after our one night together…but when you’re around someone as big as him and as brave as him and as self-sacrificing as him, it’s hard to be scared.
No, I’m not afraid of Ford in the least.
I’m afraid of myself.
Because if my hands are shaking now, just from being this close to him…
What happens when he makes me smile for the first time in ten years? Makes me laugh? What if he walks in on me while I’m changing and—
“Your cheeks are red,” Ford says, raising the back of his hand to my cheekbone. “Are you okay?”
I’m not okay—and as soon as he touches me, I’m more certain than ever about that. His skin is warm, but my face is burning so hot with embarrassment that he almost feels cool…
“I’m fine,” I spit, pulling away. “What’s not fine is you being here—and you know it, and so does Sten. Whatever he’s paying you to be here, I’ll double it if you leave.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.” Ford shakes his handsome head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“It doesn’t work like this, either!” I have to stop myself from raising my voice again. “This is my life, Ford. You don’t just get to come waltzing into it and—”
I lose track of my argument as I see an expression cross Ford’s face. It’s a little bit dark, a little bit foreboding, and in ten years, I haven’t forgotten what it means when he sets his jaw in that way.
I might have picked this fight, but he’s about to end it.
“Let’s get one thing straight, princess,” he says, looming over me. Suddenly, I feel incredibly delicate—and impossibly small. “You’re a wealthy heiress playing doctor in one of the most dangerous hot zones on the planet right now. You think some warlord is going to care that you’re a doctor when he sweeps through this villages and starts taking hostages, trying to get himself on CNN?”
I open my mouth to argue back, but Ford is on a roll—and it’s no use.
“They’re not going to care that you’ve got a medical degree,” Ford warns me, his voice low. “You’ll be lucky if they even realize you’ve got money attached to your name. No—there are dangerous men in this neck of the woods, Addie. Men who will take one look at a pretty little blonde like you with those blue eyes and those luscious lips, prancing around in these tiny fucking shorts, looking like you do…”
He plucks at the hem of my khaki shorts, his fingertips brushing against my thigh.
I draw a quick breath in as he touches me.
It’s like my whole body is on fire at that touch.
“Where’s your kit?” he asks me.
It takes me a second to realize he means my medical bag.
I don’t even argue. I’m too dazed for that.
I just point, and he fetches it.
Ford was always light on his feet. The difference now is that he seems to be made predominantly of muscle. Muscle, wariness, and speed.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe for the night,” he tells me. “You want to argue more…you’ll have to do it in the morning.”