That imperative tone of hers made the other sheikh huff out a noise of impatience.
Fern looked braced for a blow, but she stood her ground and stared hard at Zafir, genuine fear in her eyes as she willed him to do as she asked.
If she was wrong, this would turn out badly.
It might anyway. When he assented with a growl and followed her, the girl’s mother was appalled that Fern had brought her daughter’s condition to the attention of men, most specifically ones in such exalted positions. She tried to wave them away, scolding Fern thoroughly in loud, rapid Arabic. All the women and girls in the communal tent stared, Zafir’s nieces included. The girl was so embarrassed, she started to move to the back of the big lean-to.
The Bedouin sheikh pressed Zafir to come away, telling him to let the women handle things. His vile glare at Fern, sharp with censure and mistrust, didn’t abate when he looked at Zafir.
Fern caught at Zafir’s sleeve and tugged as the girl failed to get her feet under her. “That is not normal,” she insisted. “You have to make them realize.”
“You’ve had your appendix out? Tell me the symptoms,” he growled. He crouched to talk to the mother and girl and lifted a hand to stay his companion’s arguments as he translated Fern’s suspicion.
The girl started to cry and her mother wrapped her arms around her, both of them denying it could be that serious. He understood. Who wanted to need surgery when they were two days by camel to the nearest hospital?
Zafir called on one of his guards who was trained as a medic. The guard wasn’t allowed to physically examine the girl, of course, but he agreed that the diagnosis could be correct. The father of the girl was found and the entire family sent by helicopter with the girl for treatment.
Fern buttoned herself into her tent—an act that poked at Zafir’s conscience—but if he had just had a girl airlifted to a hospital for menstrual cramps, he was going to look worse than his father for listening to her. His attempt to hide that they had a personal relationship would be moot. An affair was already presumed. He’d be labeled as weak, ruled by the same aberrant crush that had undermined his father’s ability to govern well.
An air of tension hung over the camp as they waited word via the relay station. Ra’id and Amineh returned from being in the desert with another group, concerned that they’d seen the helicopter come and go. Zafir explained and Ra’id came to Fern’s defense, assuring the Bedouins she wasn’t the type to stir up false drama.
Zafir couldn’t have argued in her favor. It would have looked suspicious and the fact was, he didn’t know her well enough to judge her as knowledgeable or trustworthy.
He only knew he never should have touched her.
* * *
“Fern.” Amineh’s voice woke her to the first fingers of daylight. “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” She sat up, eyes gritty, and watched the zip climb on the front of her tent.
Amineh poked her head in. “You were right. It was appendicitis. She had the surgery late last night and will be okay. Can you dress and come out? Her uncle wants to thank you.”
Relief lifted a huge weight off her chest. Fern took a big breath and let it out. She’d barely slept, she’d been so worried.
And hurt.
Zafir had been so dismissive, like she didn’t know her place. He’d certainly made it clear how much value he placed in her opinions. Her mother was right. Men didn’t respect women who were easy.