Free Midnight Rainbow by Linda Howard Page A

and loneliness, and she ached for him.
    All signs of their shelter obliterated, he swung his backpack up and buckled it on, then slung the rifle over his shoulder, while Jane stuffed her hair up under her cap. He leaned down to pick up her pack for her, and a look of astonishment crossed his face; then his dark brows snapped together. “What the—” he muttered. “What all do you have in this damned thing? It weighs a good twenty pounds more than my pack!”
    â€œWhatever I thought I’d need,” Jane replied, taking the pack from him and hooking her arm through the one good shoulder strap, then buckling the waist strap to secure it as well as she could.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œThings,” she said stubbornly. Maybe her provisions weren’t exactly proper by military standards, but she’d take her peanut butter sandwiches over his canned whatever any time. She thought he would order her to dump the pack on the ground for him to sort through and decide what to keep, and she was determined not to allow it. She set her jaw and looked at him.
    He put his hands on his hips and surveyed her funny, exotic face, her lower lip pouting out in a mutinous expression, her delicate jaw set. She looked ready to light intohim again, and he sighed in resignation. Damned if she wasn’t the stubbornest, scrappiest woman he’d ever met. “Take it off,” he growled, unbuckling his own pack. “I’ll carry yours, and you can carry mine.”
    If anything, the jaw went higher. “I’m doing okay with my own.”
    â€œStop wasting time arguing. That extra weight will slow you down, and you’re already tired. Hand it over, and I’ll fix that strap before we start out.”
    Reluctantly she slipped the straps off and gave him the pack, ready to jump him if he showed any sign of dumping it. But he took a small folder from his own pack, opened it to extract a needle and thread, and deftly began to sew the two ends of the broken strap together.
    Astounded, Jane watched his lean, calloused hands wielding the small needle with a dexterity that she had to envy. Reattaching a button was the limit of her sewing skill, and she usually managed to prick her finger doing that. “Do they teach sewing in the military now?” she asked, crowding in to get a better look.
    He gave her another one of his glances of dismissal. “I’m not in the military.”
    â€œMaybe not now,” she conceded. “But you were, weren’t you?”
    â€œA long time ago.”
    â€œWhere did you learn how to sew?”
    â€œI just picked it up. It comes in handy.” He bit the thread off, then replaced the needle in its package. “Let’s get moving; we’ve wasted too much time as it is.”
    Jane took his backpack and fell into step behind him; all she had to do was follow him. Her gaze drifted over the width of his shoulders, then eased downward. Had she ever known anyone as physically strong as this man? She didn’t think so. He seemed to be immune to weariness, andhe ignored the steamy humidity that drained her strength and drenched her clothes in perspiration. His long, powerful legs moved in an effortless stride, the flexing of his thigh muscles pulling the fabric of his pants tight across them. Jane found herself watching his legs and matching her own stride to his. He took a step, and she took a step automatically. It was easier that way; she could separate her mind from her body, and in doing so ignore her protesting muscles.
    He stopped once and took a long drink from the canteen, then passed it to Jane without comment. Also without comment, and without wiping the mouth of the canteen, she tipped it up and drank thirstily. Why worry about drinking after him? Catching cold was the least of her concerns. After capping the canteen, she handed it back to him, and they began walking again.
    There was madness to his method, or so it seemed to