by Tawny Weber
She hadn't yet met their youngest daughter, Grace, also an artist, who was in France with her French-American artist husband, whose father had died recently.
In a town as small as Baxter, it wasn't hard to find people who knew the family. She forced herself out onto the streets, browsed in downtown shops and had lunch at the old-fashioned diner on Main. Lingering over coffee, she chatted up the waitresses, saying she knew the McRaes, and then steering the conversation to Will. What was he doing these days? She'd heard he was back in town.
One problem... People stared, tried to figure out how they knew her. Her face had been plastered all over the news for a while. Some were curious. Some obviously felt sorry for her. Some were horrified by what had happened to her.
She really didn't need that. One afternoon, she spotted a hair salon, walked in and told the stylist she was sick of her hair, of the length, the style, the dark color she had used at her father's urging before she went to Buhkai.
And that visit turned out to be what finally got her to Will. The hairdresser knew where he was.
Bryn said cryptically that you were supposed to call first to get the address, because someone had broken in. But she had driven a client there once, so she knew where the shelter was. Bryn added that Will would understand, because of his mother, and that it was good that Amanda was getting help.
She thought Amanda was a battered woman.
An understandable mistake, given the way Amanda still moved gingerly because of her sore ribs and had a patch of really short hair where her head had been shaved so the neurosurgeon could drill holes in her skull to relieve the pressure on her brain. She was so nervous about actually finding Will that it might well have looked like fear to Bryn.
But what would a soldier be doing at a battered women's shelter?
She was going to find out.
Within minutes of leaving the salon, Amanda was parked on a pretty, tree-lined street of big houses in what seemed like a perfectly normal neighborhood.
Amanda stared at her house for a while. She did her breathing exercises to calm down a bit, gave herself a long pep talk, and then said a few ugly words to herself about how cowardly she had become—all to get herself out of the car.
Her heart was racing, but that wasn't unusual these days. She felt hot all over, and her skin went tingly in a bad way. It was like she wasn't completely in charge of her body. It wouldn't do what she asked it to do—walk, at the moment—and there was some kind of disconnection between her mind and the rest of her.
Panic and a bit of dissociation, Emma called it.
No doubt, there'd been a point recently when she really hadn't wanted to be in her own body. But she could fight through that, too.
She climbed the four porch steps and rang the bell.
No one answered, and she thought the world was playing some kind of trick on her, to have brought her all this way, only to have this man not be here or not be willing to speak to her. And yes, she knew how ridiculous that sounded, but the world had really been messing with her lately.
Then the big, solid front door swung open, and there he was.
All the breath went out of her body. She took one look at him—through the thin mesh and sturdy bars of the screen door still between them—and then had to look down at the floor. Her feelings were so intense, just seeing him was too much at first.
The glance told her he was tall and lean, with dark hair and eyes—no, eye, because one of them was covered with an eye-patch. She had to glance back up to be sure of that. He wore jeans and a plain, dark, V-neck T-shirt, and he had a way of standing and looking at her that told her he was taking in every detail about her and the world in general behind her as she stood in the doorway.
Then, his one dark eye narrowed on her, and surprise spread across his face. As if he couldn't quite believe it, he asked, "Amanda?"
Buhkai, Africa
January 16th
The daughter of an American ambassador was an incredibly valuable hostage, Will knew.
What the hell had she been doing in Buhkai? Why the hell would her father allow it? Especially now.
Will wasn't scared to be here, but he was a Navy SEAL. He was certainly careful, always aware that at any moment, all hell might break loose.
The new democratic government might be able to hold the country together, and it might not. Nobody knew at that point. The U.S. government had a vested interest in helping because the old dictator had been brutal, not to mention he looked the other way when weapons and terrorists fleeing Afghanistan and Iraq poured in.
But at the same time, the people of Buhkai had no interest in the U.S. taking over or having too much influence in their country.
Which was why Will was here, supposedly alone and doing nothing but quietly training a small number of local soldiers, who in turn would train their own military and leave it better able to protect and defend the country from those still loyal to the former dictator.
But peace was hard to hold.
In the last two or three weeks, it had been hanging by a thread, Will would have said before he got the phone call from Sam and the ambassador.
Apparently, that thread had snapped this morning.
A dozen or so rebels, well-armed, had stormed a school that housed a hundred and fifty students and an unknown number of staffers, in the capitol of Ballah.
Will feared the men he was training might try to take back the school, and that made him fear for anyone inside. The trainees were not ready to carry out an operation like this.
James Warren? Will knew the name, might have even met him while serving in Africa or the Middle East.
"Sir, is your daughter the only American inside?"
"She's the only American teacher. There are no American students."
A teacher?
Not a little kid.
Thank God for that.
Although women were treated with shocking disrespect and often violence in this country. They had no rights, other than those given to them by men. Beatings were common for any minor infraction, imaginary or otherwise. Women could be killed for being unclean, which might mean nothing more than being in the company of a man who was not a family member.
Will didn't want to even imagine what the rebels might do to an American diplomat's daughter.
Chapter 3
Baxter, Ohio
Seven weeks later
"Hi. Will." Amanda added his name, because she feared he might not let her inside if she showed any hesitation about his identity.
Although, honestly, she knew it was him.
It was both terrifying and thrilling to see him. Terrifying because she felt closer to everything that had happened to her. Thrilling because remembering seemed important to dealing with it and moving beyond it.
Something else, too. He seemed so familiar. Every time she glanced up at him, she felt a sense of... coming home, was the closest she could come to describing it. This from a person who'd never had a place to call home. Her childhood had been filled with new people and new places. It had been exciting, but exhausting, too.
So little had been solid and dependable in her world, and now, for a moment, something seemed so familiar and comforting about him.
What had happened between him and her?
She glanced up again. He kept doing that taking-everything-in thing. He looked at the shaved patch on her head, the small scar, still pink and raised. Her cheekbone, no bruise now. Her hair, shorter and a different color. She felt almost naked without all her hair to hide behind.
The next time she glanced up, he was looking at her mid-section. Her ribs, she realized. He knew she'd been injured there, too.
"Can I come in?" she asked finally.
"Sure." He unlatched the sturdy screen door and pushed it open for her. "Sorry. I was just surprised."
And he was seldom surprised, she suspected. The two of them did an elaborate dance so he could hold the screen door open for her and yet she could get past him without touch
ing him.
Because he thought that might scare her? Her body accidentally brushing against a man's body?
Which meant he knew about the rape, too.
But then she remembered the news stories. It had all been there, speculation masquerading as fact. Maybe he just suspected and wanted to be ultra-careful with her. Everyone else did.
He took a moment to fasten multiple locks on the screen door and the front door, then turned to face her. Hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, he leaned back against the doorframe, staring again, somehow managing to look both at ease and wary at the same time.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said finally.
Because he didn't want to see her? Why? He'd helped to save her life, after all.
Had she even thanked him? She hoped so. Not that she could ever say or do anything to sufficiently thank someone for that.
"So," he said, when she was still unable to get a word out, "how are you?"
He probably meant it as a simple, polite question, the kind people asked all the time of near-strangers, expecting a polite nothing of an answer back. But already overwhelmed at finding him, she couldn't come up with a perfunctory answer.
"Honestly, I have no idea how to answer that," she admitted. "Do you have a few minutes? Can we talk?"
He took a breath. She sensed he didn't want to talk, but finally, he said, "Sure. Come on into the kitchen. I just made some coffee."
She followed him, noticing for a split second the way he walked, with a loose, easy sway of his hips, and how nice they looked in a pair of form-fitting, well-worn jeans.
It seemed perfectly normal for a moment, until she realized—these were her first slightly inappropriate thoughts about a man since it happened.
That was progress, wasn't it? To react with a bit of interest instead of fear? She wondered if Emma would think so, but to ask, Amanda would have to admit to stalking Will until she found him.
They walked through a big living room full of more couches and chairs than most anyone would have in a normal family home, and then into a big kitchen with a breakfast bar and high stools.
"Have a seat," he said, opening a cabinet and grabbing a mug. "Coffee?"
"Please," she said, climbing onto one of the stools.
As he brought the cup to her, along with cream and a bowl filled with sugar packets, she stared at his hands. He had an all-over tan, like a man who was outside a lot—face, neck, the part of his chest visible from his V-neck shirt, arms, even his hands. They were nicked here and there, looked strong and capable. A working-man's hands.
Did she remember those hands?
She wondered as she poured a bit of cream into her coffee.
He put the breakfast bar and five feet of empty floor space between them as he leaned against the kitchen cabinets, drinking his coffee and watching her.
She wasn't scared of him, wished he wasn't all the way across the room. She thought she would feel better if he was close.
"I'm sorry to just... hunt you down and barge in this way," she said finally.
"Hunt me down?"
She nodded, latching onto that opening because it was easier to talk about than why she was here. "I've been lurking in stores and restaurants downtown asking about you. People were very protective of your location."
"They're supposed to be."
"To keep me from finding you?"
"No." He laughed, one short sound rumbling out. "This is a shelter for battered women and their children. The location is supposed to be a secret."
"Oh, of course."
"Someone gave you the address?"
"Yes, but to be fair, she probably thought I was a battered woman. My ribs still hurt, and I think she saw that when I was getting into the chair so she could cut my hair. And she couldn't have missed the little shaved patch of hair and the scar on my scalp. Add to that, me saying I really, really needed to talk to Will, about something personal..."
He nodded. "I can see that. We're all a little touchy about security right now. The ex-husband of one of our residents found the place a few weeks ago and broke in."
"Oh. Was anyone hurt?"
"The live-in shelter director. Compound fracture of the leg, but she's supposed to make a full recovery. Everybody else was just really scared."
"Wait, kids were here?" Her stomach rolled at the thought.
They must have been so scared.
"Don't think about it, Amanda," Will said softly, kindly. "We're all working hard to keep them safe now."
"Of course."
Still... They must have been so scared.
She kept thinking about the kids in her classroom in Buhkai that day, how scared they must have been. She needed to know she had done all she could to reassure them, to save them.
Being a teacher—not just in places like Buhkai, but now in the U.S.—where she'd earned her degree and done her student teaching—meant knowing one day a gunman might walk into your school. A teacher had to be ready, to have a plan. You just hoped you were strong enough to carry it out, if that time ever came.
"Come back, Amanda," Will said, seeming to know exactly where she'd gone.
And then, she thought she remembered his voice. It was a really nice voice. Deep and full, that rumbling baritone some men had, a voice that could soothe a woman and put her at ease, charm her even, if he wanted to. She thought maybe he'd used that voice, that exact tone, to calm her down, to reassure her, or maybe get her to do what he'd needed her to do in Buhkai.
The voice seemed to hit something deep inside her, as if her body recognized it and it might be able to drill into that hidden part of her brain where her memories were locked away.
She looked up at him, forced a smile across her face.
"There you go," he said. "Now, let's try this again. How are you?"
"I have good days and bad days. But I'm here, safe, all in one piece, and I know I wouldn't be without you," she said. "So, how does that work? Someone can just call you and off you go? Charging to the rescue?"
Buhkai, Africa
January 16th
"Mr. Ambassador, what do you need me to do?"
"Get her back for me," came the strained, shaky reply.
Yeah. That's what Will was afraid of.
Some people thought Navy SEALs were miracle workers, some kind of cross between Superman and Rambo. Granted, he liked to think they were as close as any group on earth was. But there was no magic to what they did, just experience, the best support team on the planet, the most careful planning, the best and latest equipment, sheer force of will and trust in the men serving beside them. Which, again, was a whole helluva lot.
But Will couldn't leap tall buildings or turn invisible to go grab one female out of a school and whisk her to safety.
"Sir, I'm in this country alone—"
"You are?"
Okay, officially, he was. Unofficially, he was on loan to the CIA, with a handful of other guys like him. But they were spread thin across a big country, trying to track down various pieces of the illegal weapons pipeline puzzle, and, in the last week or so, chasing rumors about an attack against the current government. Which, it seemed, had just happened, with the ambassador's daughter caught in the middle of it.
Missed on that one, Will thought.
Too bad for her.
For now, it was just him. He didn't know if or how quickly he might be able to contact the other guys, or how long it might take them to get to him, or to the school where the ambassador's daughter was being held.
"At the moment, I'm alone, Sir. And I have no authority here, other than as an advisor on a very limited number of things."
"Of course. I know what I'm asking. Anything you can do... I'd give anything." The man's voice started to break. "If you'd just try..."
"I'll go there, Sir. I'll do what I can, but I'm not sure how much that will be."
"I understand. Thank you."
"Do you know of any American response so far to the situation?"
> "They haven't even notified me about it yet, and I have a lot of friends at the State Department. I wanted to try to get in touch with you first because—"
"You may be told in no uncertain terms to stay out of it," Will guessed.
"Yes," the ambassador admitted. "So could you. I realize this could end your career—"
"If it went badly enough," Will said, although it wasn't a huge concern, all things considered.
He was thirty-eight in a profession that required a man be in top physical shape. His days were numbered anyway, and there was no way the risk would keep him from trying to help an American woman held hostage in a foreign country.
"Sir, you have to know a coordinated effort by the U.S. military with a team of men and all the backup they need would have a much better chance of getting your daughter out."
"Yes, but you're there already. The longer they have her..."
"Of course, Sir." The higher the chance of her being hurt or killed.
"We don't even know if the government in Buhkai would let an American team into the country to attempt a rescue, or how long that might take to negotiate."
"Yes, Sir."
Going in without permission involved a whole other set off risks. Will knew it was about eighteen hours in the air, just to get a team from Virginia to Buhkai, and that was only the transport time. Not the mission-planning time, not the time it would take for such a mission to be authorized by the U.S. government. Some teams would be closer, staged in forward operating areas, but they might be already tasked with other missions. It was a busy time for all the Special Ops guys.
"And we have no guarantees the Buhkai government won't send its own troops in to try to deal with the situation, even if they're not up to the job. Remember the gas refinery in North Africa that was taken over by terrorists? Thirty-nine hostages died when local troops went in. Chief, I'm asking... no, I'm begging you... to go and do anything you can to get her out."
"Yes, Sir. Here's the thing, if I could get inside the school and get your daughter out, it would be really nice to be able to call for a helicopter evac."