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emotions that threatened to burst and let loose a torrent of tears. Today, she didn’t notice the rays of the sun lancing downward from the azure sky or hear the call of the tropical parrots. She climbed into the truck and took her place behind the wheel.
    Brock said nothing when he came out. He merely slid onto the seat and shut the door, resting his arm on the windowsill. Mackenna drove with intense concentration, her eyes narrowed on the rutted road that led to the upper elevations where the road activity was taking place. The coolness of the morning air felt good against her flushed skin, and she took a few steadying gulps, trying to ease the pain, trying to forget.
    If Brock Hampton was aware of her sudden change in mood, he said nothing. Once at the base camp, he followed her about her normal morning routine. She checked in with the union stewards, gave assignments to the foremen, found out who was sick and went over the worksheets. Then she climbed back into the truck. When the sun crested the lower hills, and the humid heat of the day began to rise, she perspired freely like everyone else. Finally, near noon, she pulled over and shut off the engine of the pickup near the head of the road.
    Leaning back, she took off the hard hat, placed it on the dashboard and ran her fingers through her hair. “As you can see, Brock, the soil base here is extremely soft and silty. I’m having another three feet of gravel base transported from the gravel plant, which is now sixty miles away. Come on. You can get a close look at the stuff.” She slid out of the cab, putting the hat back on. The sun’s rays burned down on her shoulders; mosquitoes and other insects buzzed incessantly around her head. Even a liberal dose of the oily, smelly repellent didn’t stop them.
    Brock squatted down where she stood, picking up a handful of the dry, powdery, red soil. He ran it slowly through his fingers, grinding it to feel its consistency. Mackenna hunkered down beside him, squinting back at the men working the road equipment a quarter of a mile away. The growling roar of the D-9 Cats reverberated throughout the surrounding jungle, adding to the cacophony of birdcalls. Distractedly, she ran her hand across the surface of the soil.
    “Doesn’t feel very substantial,” he muttered, letting the last of it sift through his fingers.
    “Believe me, it isn’t,” she answered fervently, slowly rising.
    Brock joined her, wiping his hand on his strong thighs, and then glanced down at her. “How about lunch? It’s one o’clock.”
    Mackenna nodded. “Herr Vermeer has one of the servants pack me a lunch. It will be in the glove compartment. I hope he remembered you were coming along.”
    Brock followed her slowly back to the truck. “You mean you wouldn’t share your lunch with me?”
    Mackenna smiled distantly. Ever since their discussion in the wee hours of the morning, she had felt displaced, her reality centered vaguely on emotions of over a year ago. On Ryan’s death. And then the reference to malaria over breakfast…. She had been vaguely aware of Brock’s silence, for he said little over the last six hours as he followed her through her routine. “Of course I would,” she replied.
    Brock opened the glove compartment, his brows knitting as he pulled out a plastic bag. “Looks like we share. Let’s go over to that tree and sit down. I’m getting tired of being driven. Your pickup rides like an earth-mover.”
    Mackenna nodded sympathetically. Earth-moving equipment was known to be hard on a passenger’s kidneys and lower back. And it wasn’t uncommon for the operators to have health problems after ten years of using such equipment. “Okay, we’ll have a picnic,” she agreed.
    Slumping against the smoothness of the palm tree, Brock joined her, his shoulder touching hers. Mackenna was busy dividing up the sandwiches and fruit when he asked, “Why aren’t you afraid of me? Most women are.”
    She handed him the food. “Why?