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Groaning, I strip off my backpack and lower it to the ground. I sit at the foot of an old, gnarled tree, its tall, thick trunk soaring into the air until it joins the blanket of leaves far overhead, a merciful screen that lets only a few patches of sunlight filter down.
Somchai, my guardian angel, offers me a water canteen before he goes back to attending the mule. The animal is getting restless after the abrupt break.
Head tilted up, I gulp down the liquid in long, greedy sips.
“Slow down,” a familiar voice says. “We don’t know how long the water has to last.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Logan is observing me while leaning against a nearby tree.
I glare at him, and he rewards me with a mockingly sweet smile. “Are you enjoying the jungle stroll?” he asks, eyes twinkling.
Before replying, I study him. He can’t be faring much better than I am. The hair on his forehead and at the back of his neck is sticky with sweat, and his shirt has more damp patches than dry spots. And, damn me, the son of a bitch has never been more good-looking.
Anyway, I’m too tired to argue with him right now. So I give him a tension-defusing answer.
“I’ll be honest,” I say. “Crap as it was, I’m sorely missing the resort’s air conditioning.”
Logan gapes, taken aback by my sincere, unchallenging reply. “Yeah.” He nods. “Every time I breathe I feel like I’m standing in a steam room.”
We stare at each other, both surprised at how civil our exchange has turned out to be. When the silence becomes awkward, Somchai mercifully breaks it by coming back to fetch his canteen.
“More water, Miss Knowles?”
And even though I could drink my weight in water right now, I refuse the offer. “No, we’d better save our reserves, we don’t know how long they have to last.”
I wink at Logan.
He shakes his head as Somchai bows and scurries away.
Cracking a smile—damn, that’s a good smile—Logan pushes off the tree and offers me a hand—also glove-free—to get up. “Time to go. Smith is hacking through the vines like a human chainsaw. We don’t want to lose him.”
I clasp hands with him and allow him to pull me up. When we come face to face, I can sustain his curious gaze only for a few seconds before I let go of his hand and bend again, breaking eye contact to retrieve my backpack. I drag it over my shoulders once more with a grunt.
“Heavy?” Logan asks.
“Yeah, the camera equipment isn’t exactly feathers.”
Logan beckons. “Give it here.”
“What? No! You can’t possibly carry two.”
“I’m not going to; I’ll see if Somchai can fit it on the mule’s back.”
Astonished by the kind gesture, I unsling the backpack, take out my main camera, and hand the rest to Logan. “Thanks.”
He gives me a curt nod and walks away with my equipment. Who knew? Even Satan has a heart.
Break over, we resume walking single file down the narrow path cleared by Smith. But our pace now is remarkably slower, and with my back unencumbered, I can finally enjoy the scenery in all its hostility.
The jungle has gotten thicker, more tangled. Torn branches and vines claw at us from either side of the trail, and I have just enough space to raise the camera and snap a few shots.
Somchai whispering comforting words to the mule while pulling the beast forward.
Smith swinging the machete, the blade catching a sunray.
Logan, sleeves rolled up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his machete-free arm.
Logan, pushing a cane out of the way.
