Being Wade, he could not do that. Of course, he couldn’t, not while Jake was still held prisoner. Nor could Roan who had moved to stand behind him. They had both eased from the shelter of the woods, she thought, though she couldn’t turn her head to look, not now when every second counted. She had no answer for her doubts, none for anything as she took a steady stride toward Ismael’s outstretched hand. It was not his right hand, the hand of respect, but what did that matter?
His grip was warm and dry, but not confining. Over his shoulder, he said to Ahmad, “Now the boy?”
“It is fair,” Chloe’s stepbrother repeated in virulent ridicule. Then he pushed Roan’s son away from him.
Jake’s face was white and his bottom lip cut and swollen, but his shoulders were rigid with pride and he allowed no trace of fear to show in his eyes. He was all right. He could walk, even if he moved with a teenage swagger calculated to show how little he cared. Chloe willed him to look at her instead of his captor, prayed that he wouldn’t be so humiliated by her rescue that he could not.
Then he met her gaze. His crooked smile of approbation was so like that of his cousin that her heart turned over in her chest. “Run,” she said. “For God’s sake, run. Now!”
It was the trigger.
Ahmad lifted his weapon. Ismael pulled the pin on the grenade, turned with it in his hand. In the single glimpse she was allowed, she saw him lunge at Ahmad, grasping him tightly in a parody of a lover’s hold as he fell with him to the ground.
The hard thud of running footsteps sounded behind her. She was struck from behind, snatched away from Ismael even as she saw Roan hit Jake in a hard dive that carried him out of sight on the far side of the mound. Then she was falling, rolling, tumbling in the circle of Wade’s hard arms while the world blasted apart with a thunderous roar. Deafened, blinded by the white, stabbing light, she felt the earth tremble. Dirt and grass clogged her mouth. Something heavy covered her, stopping her breath. And in her mind were horror and grief and an endless agony of gratitude for which there could never be any acknowledgment. Not in this life.
Then the night was quiet again.
“So you’re leaving.”
Chloe glanced up as Wade spoke from the doorway. He looked as tired as she felt, she thought. “It’s time. I can’t stay here forever.”
“It’s only been four days.”
“It seems longer.” She paused with her shower cap and a lipstick in her hands. Then she went back to filling the plastic bag that served as her luggage.
“Mom says you asked to go back to New Orleans when she goes with Adam and Lara.” Wade turned and put his backbone against the door facing, shoving the tips of his fingers into the pockets of his jeans.
“A phone number for the RAWA group in California was with the video Freshta gave me. I’ll stay in a New Orleans hotel until I can make contact and finish settling my father’s estate.”
“What then? You’re going to go and live with people you don’t know, in a faith that’s not yours, and probably a household where you’ll be expected to cover your hair and almost every inch of skin when you go out in public?”
“Something like that.”
“Why?” Exasperation rasped in his voice. “You know what it will be like. You’ve seen the problems that can be created.”
She refused to look at him. “The RAWA is helping to change attitudes, here as well as in the Middle East. I need to belong somewhere, to do something worthwhile.”
He digested that for a moment. “You can stay here. I told you that before, and it still stands. Janna would love to have the company, and she could certainly use the help when the baby comes.”
“I…don’t think it would work,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort.
“I won’t be here, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
That got her attention. With her hairbrush in her hands, she turned and sat on the mattress. “You’re going back to the oil fields?”
“Nat’s been after me to work with him for ages,” he said with a careless shrug. “Rescuing people seems as good a job as any.”
“It’s dangerous!”
He studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing until it was no longer possible to see their green tint. “I have to do something, and it’s worthwhile.”
“Don’t.” She looked down at her hands twisting the brush.
“What?”
“Don’t mock what I want to do!” The glance she gave him was brief but hot.
“Not what you mean to do, just how and where you intend to do it.”
If he couldn’t understand, then explaining further was useless. “Anyway, you don’t have to leave your home because I might be in it.”
“You think that’s why I’m going?”
“What else? Unless, of course, you just prefer leaving everything here behind you.”
It was his turn to look away. “Hardly.”
“You left years ago because of your father. Now you’re going because of me. It seems to be a pattern.”
“Of running away from trouble?”
“I didn’t say that. And I’m no trouble to you.”
The look he gave her was incredulous. “Honey, you’ve been nothing but.”
She twitched a shoulder. “At least it’s over.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound particularly happy.
“If I’m not going to see you again, I…suppose I should say thank you for what you did out there the other night, getting me away before…”
“Forget it.”
The words were curt, dismissive, and hurtful because of it. “I don’t think I can. Or will. Ever.”
“It’s done. You did what you could, but some things can’t be changed. Let it go.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No it isn’t,” he corrected in strained intensity. He stopped, took a deep breath. “It isn’t easy at all. I was so afraid I was going to have to watch you die. I couldn’t have stood that.”
“There was no need. You didn’t fail,” she said in quiet answer to his pain. “You saw it coming this time, and that made all the difference. If anyone needs to let it go, it’s you.”
He closed his eyes with a small shake of his head. “Maybe I will. One day.”
“I suppose we both will.” It wouldn’t be soon, however, and they knew it. The memory was too fresh, as was the raw earth bulldozed over the crater that had once been an Indian mound. The state authorities had come and taken charge of the artifacts that were uncovered. Federal authorities had arrived to conduct interrogations into Ahmad’s al Qaeda activities and to take charge of the other injured Hazaris. Local authorities had helped clean up the rest of the mess and ship Ahmad’s and Ismael’s remains back to Hazaristan for burial. All that was left was the forgetting.
“I’m glad I didn’t fail with you,” he said quietly.
She thought for an instant that there might be more to that simple declaration than was on the surface. It was so unlikely that she didn’t pursue it. Whatever was personal in their relationship, she had instigated and she had ended.
As silence stretched uncomfortably, she asked, “Your side is okay? It wasn’t reopened by the fall?”
“It’s fine.”
“Jake seems to be all right, doesn’t he? He was laughing with Lainey while he was over yesterday.” Chloe smiled a little. “I think she called him, actually.”
“They’re young, both of them, and they have plenty of people to talk to or to hold them when they need it. They’ll be okay.”
“No counseling?”
“Why would they need that when they have family?”
It was a good point. Realizing that she had twisted the hairbrush until she’d almost destroyed it, she shoved it into the bag. The crackling of the plastic seemed unnaturally loud in the strained quiet.
“Anyway, Roan and Tory are pathetically grateful for what you did for Jake,” Wade went on. “The whole clan feels as if they owe you. Whatever
you want or need, whatever you think you have to do, they’ll help you.”
“I didn’t do it to make anybody feel obligated. No one owes me anything.”
“Maybe I put that wrong. They don’t feel that you need to be repaid. It’s just that you’re special to them. You always will be, no matter where you are or what you decide to do. You can always come back here, anytime, no questions asked. Always.”
Her throat ached with the sudden press of tears. To have a place where she belonged, where she would always be accepted, meant so much. That was what family really was in her mind, people who valued and wanted you regardless of what you did or didn’t do, simply because you belonged.
With a small, helpless gesture, she said, “I can’t possibly come back here if it means you have to go. This is your home, after all.”
He gave a short laugh. “The only way I can stay around is if you take to wearing a burqa again. You might be safe then, but I don’t guarantee it.”
“You mean…you want me?”
“I thought I’d made that abundantly clear,” he said with irony.
“Not lately.”
“Not for four days. But who’s counting?”
“Maybe I am?” she said tentatively.
“Meaning?”
She took a deep breath. “Meaning I’m sorry.”
“Don’t!”
The tears crowded behind her nose, threatened to fill her eyes so she had to hold her head high to prevent it. “All right.”
“I told you not to say that. You’ve nothing to apologize for, not to me, not ever.”
“Not even for refusing to marry you?”
He was quiet for so long that she thought he didn’t mean to answer. When he did, his voice was uneven. “Well, okay, maybe for that.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, encouraged by her ability to throw him off balance. “April told me that Benedict women do pretty much what they want. Is that true?”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far.” His tone was doubtful, but the beginning of a smile tilted one corner of his mouth.
“What I’m trying to say is…”
“I know what you’re trying to say,” he interrupted as he moved toward her and reached to take her hand, drawing her to her feet and into his arms. “You want to know if I’ll try to stop you from rescuing all the downtrodden females of the world. And the answer is that you can do whatever you want, so long as you don’t bring them home with you.”
“You really won’t mind?”
“As long as you’re happy, I’ll be happy. But will that be enough?”
“I think it will,” she said seriously. “I thought once that I had to be on the front lines, teaching, helping, healing those who had been hurt by barbaric laws and ideas. Then I was forced to stop, made to realize that it might be more useful to bring the deplorable conditions in Hazaristan and other Muslim nations to public notice as world events have done in Afghanistan. That’s still a worthy goal and something to which I’ll always want to contribute. But I’ve come to see in the last few days that what I truly want is to make the world a better place, one where all people can find the freedom and peace that exists here at Grand Point. It’s too big a task to take on single-handedly, too enormous to know exactly where to tackle it. The best place, I think, may be in my own backyard. The best way to do it may be by bringing up children who have morals and manners, who love and respect each other and their parents and have concern for their fellow human beings. In other words, to bring up more Benedicts.”
His smile was warm and wide and his voice husky as he asked, “Need any help?”
“Always.” It was a lovely word, and she felt a tear track slowly down her cheek as she said it. She didn’t care, didn’t mind how many followed.
“I’m going to remember you said that,” he warned, his voice not quite steady as he gathered her closer against him. “I love you, you know, for all the things you want to do and all the things you are. For your bravery, which scares the hell out of me, and even for the streak of martyrdom that makes you do things that nearly kill me. And if you ever, ever, do anything that comes as close to giving me a heart attack the way you did the other night, I swear I’ll shut you up in this house and never let you out for the rest of our natural lives.”
“Please do,” she whispered. “I think if there was ever a man who could make me like it, it would be you. You are the most steadfast and honorable man I’ve every known, and I’ve loved you since you knocked me down in the stadium at Kashi. You were ten feet tall and the hero of my dreams, and I would have followed you anywhere.”
“Then why in heaven’s name was it so hard to get you out of there?”
“I was afraid, afraid that when you did it would be over. And that all I’d ever have would be your pity.”
He shook his head. “Very good for my ego, but I don’t believe it.”
“Why else do you think I asked you to make love to me?”
“Because,” he began, then stopped. “Are you saying it wasn’t a public service I was performing there?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” She waited to see how long it would take him to get the point.
“You wanted me,” he said after a bare nanosecond.
“I did. I do. And yes, when I said I didn’t, I lied through my teeth.”
“Thank God,” he said, and kissed her with hunger and unrestrained passion and much, much promise.
It was some time later that she shifted on the much-rumpled bedspread, and settled closer against him. Freeing an arm and hand, she traced a finger over the bandage at his side, then upward to his chest where she made small circles in the silky hair on his chest. “So,” she said in musing tones, “I’m not to bring veiled women into the house, am I? Does that mean you don’t want a harem?”
“Heaven forbid. One veiled woman is about all I can manage.” He captured her fingers, raised them to his lips, then replaced them where they had been.
She doubted that, but it was nice to hear anyway. “Veiled, huh? You actually liked the burqa, didn’t you? Admit it.”
“Not on me, I didn’t! But it has its points if a guy’s the jealous type.”
“Come on. It turned you on and you know it. It’s the mystery. It stirs the male imagination. It stirs…”
“I know what it stirs, thank you. But I have to tell you that there’s only one way that I’d want you waltzing around here undercover, so to speak.”
“And that is?”
He leaned close to whisper against her ear.
“No,” she said distinctly. “Not naked under it, not in a million years.”
“Not ever?” he asked, his voice laden with disappointment.
“Never.”
“Really never, or maybe never?”
“We’ll see,” she said, her smile bright as she gazed into his eyes.
Author Note
On the morning of September 11, 2001, the first half of Wade—with its setting of Afghanistan—was almost completed. I awakened at 3:00 a.m. as I often do and went downstairs to my office to finish writing the final pages of Chapter 10. In these, Chloe and Wade return to the United States from Taliban-held Afghanistan only to realize that her Islamic stepbrother, a militia officer with connections to Osama bin Laden and the al Qaeda network, has preceded them to Louisiana to carry out his declared jihad against the Benedict clan. Several hours later, with the chapter done, I hit Save on my computer then returned upstairs to have morning coffee while watching CNBC with my husband. I was just in time to catch the first report of a plane crashing into one of the twin towers of New York’s World Trade Center. Standing in front of the TV, I reached to put my finger on a bright, moving dot flying near the towers, saying, “Look, isn’t that a helicopter or another plane? What do they think they’re doing?”
The answer to that question, with its proof of a direct and horrific terrorist attack, came very close to spelling the end for Wade.
The plight of women i
n Afghanistan under the Taliban regime first came to my attention in the early fall of 2000. Sympathy over their treatment created within me a strong need to help bring the situation to public notice. Almost immediately, I began to mentally construct a story with an American heroine living behind the veil, one who is rescued by the last of my Benedict heroes, Wade. At the same time, I wanted to involve the entire Benedict clan in a grand finale for the Louisiana Gentlemen series. What greater threat could there be to the happiness and well-being of my fictional family than to put them in jeopardy of attack from Islamic extremists? How better to illustrate the heroic capacity of my Louisiana gentlemen than to have the heroes from the first five stories and their families come together with Wade and Chloe to meet this ultimate threat?
Background research for the book was begun in earnest in January 2001, and the proposal for Wade was written and shipped to my editor in March. She soon gave it her stamp of approval, and the actual writing began in April. A publication date was set at this time for September 2002.
Considerable space in the initial chapters was given to descriptions of the Afghan political situation, climate, topography, customs and particularly the restrictions imposed on women and harsh penalties for failing to abide by them. The idea, of course, was to establish immediacy and mood for an exotic locale little known to the average reader. Much of this background information suddenly became unnecessary in the first few days after the Attack on America. Suddenly the whole world knew exactly what Afghanistan looked like, the names of its cities, how people dressed and the conditions under which the female population lived. Watching details unfold in the media that I’d spent so much time studying and writing about during the previous months was surreal.
But now countless changes were required in my manuscript, plus the inexorable march of international events put Wade’s basic plot in danger of obsolescence. These were problems that had to be fixed before I could go on. That was if I could find the heart to continue at all with a story that had abruptly become too immediate for comfort.
My first move was to contact my editor at MIRA Books. Others at the publishing house were also brought into the discussion, along with my agent. A major concern for everyone was to avoid all appearance of attempting to profit from the disaster, especially since publication was already set for the one-year anniversary of the attack. In desperation over an increasing state of writer’s block, I suggested abandoning the whole idea and starting over with a completely new story.
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