“Sorry, but I don’t believe you.”
“I’m—” She stopped as his face finally came into focus. Her heart skittered, his expression was so fierce, and she forgot to breathe. With a wealth of dark stubble shading his jaw, and his eyebrows like two black slashes over intent, intelligent eyes, he looked more than intimidating. He looked . . .
Tyger Tyger, burning bright . . .
She shivered again as the words materialized in her head, so fitting. Too late she realized she had tilted the canteen too far, and water had sloshed onto his jacket. Clumsily brushing the water droplets off before they soaked in, she tried to recall the rest of William Blake’s poem. It had been in a book of poetry given to her by father. And there had been something about azure skies and wings in it, too . . .
Something cool and slightly rough pressed against her forehead. She flinched without thought.
The lieutenant pulled his hand back. “Damn it. Were you going to tell anyone you’re running a fever?”
Confused, she stared at him, letting his second use of profanity today go unremarked. “I’m what?”
“Feverish. You know, being hot when everything around you isn’t? Chills. Disoriented.”
“I’m not . . .” Another shiver hit her.
“Yeah, you are. So you can drop the martyr act. I like it better when people are straight with me, gals included.”
Her right temple started to throb. “Whatever are you talking about?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped back. “Sterling, we need you down here!” he called up the hillside, startling her.
She turned to see Nathan far above them, bounding down the slope.
Lieutenant Younan turned her face back to him. “Listen. I know fellas like your fiancé prefer their gals empty-headed so they can do all the thinking. But it isn’t right. In fact it can be downright dangerous. Like this afternoon. You knew you were in trouble, and yet you didn’t say a word.”
She winced under his rebuke. “I thought I could make it.”
“And what was the result? You can’t change what is by wishing it otherwise.”
What could she say? He was right. She had made a mistake. From the corner of her eye she saw Nathan reach the road and start jogging toward them. She envied his seemingly inexhaustible energy.
“My point is, while you were waiting for Sterling to think for you, he was busy thinking of something else, letting you exhaust yourself to the point of getting sick.”
Swallowing painfully, she shook her head at the injustice of that claim. “You’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t waiting—”
Nathan joined them. “What’s the matter?”
“I was just telling Miss Baker here she needs to take better care of herself. She’s running a fever.”
Nathan turned to stare at her. “Is that true, Genie?”
Genie, not Eugenia, she noted. For some reason the nickname released a wave of homesickness so deep, she couldn’t breathe. Tears blurred her vision as she tried to deny anything was wrong with her, but the words caught in her swollen throat.
“Where’s Wu Fang?” Lieutenant Younan asked, looking around.
“Farther down the highway. East of here.”
No sooner had Nathan pointed down the road than she heard the faint growl of an engine. The lieutenant tensed, and for an awful second she imagined they were about to be captured by the Japanese, the exertions of the last three days rendered useless.
A canvas-topped truck rounded an outcropping several hundred yards away. The driver began honking wildly and waving at them from his open door. And then she saw the familiar blue-and-white sunburst of the Kuomintang painted on the hood.
Lieutenant Younan started jogging back to his pack.
Nathan held his hand out to her. “Looks like our ride has arrived.”
The truck stopped, and Wu Fang hopped down from the back, his expression stony.
“Time to go,” he said in English, gesturing toward the back of the truck, where at least twenty soldiers were already crammed. Nathan picked up Genie’s pack and tossed it in along with his own.
“There’s no room for us,” she rasped, her head starting to throb viciously.
“You can sit on my lap.” Nathan took her elbow and propelled her up into the truck.
The Chinese garrison leader yelled for them to hurry, and Genie was all but tossed inside. Nathan and Lieutenant Younan were right behind her. Room was made on one of the crowded bench seats for them. Thankfully, Genie didn’t have to sit on Nathan’s lap but was wedged between Nathan and the lieutenant. The truck lurched into gear just as raindrops began to tap on the canvas roof. Genie summoned her dwindling strength and leaned forward to peer out the back.
Wu Fang stood in the road, a lone figure growing smaller and smaller. Even though he had told them yesterday of his plan to rejoin his old compatriots, sorrow still squeezed her chest as the road curved and the old man disappeared. One more person from her old life . . . gone, likely forever.
She leaned back and surrendered to the dark exhaustion pulling her under. Vaguely, she remembered being resituated so her head had better support. Then time lost meaning as she sank under again until the cold roused her. Shivering, she burrowed closer to her only source of heat. But there was no escaping the pain. The bumping and swaying reached into her bones, crushing them. She hurt everywhere.
After what felt like an eternity, the motion stopped. Nathan tried to wake her, but she was so tired. It occurred to her that she was being held securely in someone’s arms, but they weren’t Nathan’s. She cracked open her eyelids and gazed up into Lieutenant Younan’s worried eyes.
“We just arrived at the hospital,” he drawled softly, a thrilling gentleness in every syllable. “You’ll be okay now. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
She wanted to touch his face, to reassure him, even though she was the one who felt like she was dying. But her throat was on fire, and she was just too tired. She closed her eyes and returned to the dark.
Chapter 9
A siren wailed, waking Genie. With a groan, she buried her face into her pillow, trying to escape the insidious sound. It was too loud, too insistent, and it really seemed to her someone should shut it off. Even though her throat was feeling better, she still needed more sleep . . .
The tak-a-tak of the hospital window shade being pulled closed sent a jolt of surprise through her, and her eyes flew open.
An unfamiliar woman stood by the window. “Good, you’re awake. We haven’t much time.”
The woman, a very pretty brunette in her early thirties, smiled pleasantly as Genie studied her, trying to determine whether they had ever met. She wasn’t a nurse. Outside, in the bright winter sunshine, the siren wailed on.
“How are you feeling? Shall I fetch a wheeled chair?” the woman asked in her oddly accented English, adding to Genie’s confusion. It wasn’t like Lieutenant Younan’s drawl or Nathan’s more clipped New England accent. Perhaps she was European, another refugee of the war? Her dark eyes were assessing, cool. “It’s unfortunate timing, but better safe than sorry.”
Genie sat up and dragged her fingers through her snarled hair, her mind still foggy with sleep. “Who . . .” The word came out little better than a croak, so she cleared her throat, winced, and tried again. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You sound like you could use some water.” The woman poured her a glass from a pitcher on the bedside stand. “I’m Natasha. Natasha Greenlee. My husband, Harvey, works for the AVG. Here, drink this, and then we really should be going. The trucks are likely to be crowded, and we don’t want to lose our seats.”
Genie’s hand shook as she took the glass. She forced herself to concentrate as she took a sip so as not to spill it. It was hard, though, with that horrid noise like a red-hot poker in her skull. Finishing the glass, she handed it back, more awake now.
“Why are we getting back in trucks?”
It had been four, no five days since Lieutenant You
nan had lifted her out of the back of one and handed her over to the nurses. Not nearly long enough for her to forget how wretchedly uncomfortable the ride had been.
“Because we only have twenty minutes—maybe an hour if we’re lucky—before the planes reach us.” Natasha looked around and then hurried over to where a robe had been hung behind the door. “Put this on. Be glad the doctors decided you’re no longer wildly contagious, or you’d have to tough it out on your own here.”
Genie stiffened in horror as the pieces began to fall into place. “Is that what the siren is warning us about? That the Japanese are on their way?”
Natasha gave her an odd look. “I thought you knew. Though now I think about it, I should have guessed. When Harvey told me you’d been buried in the countryside, I only thought that meant you wouldn’t have anything suitable to wear tonight. I should have realized . . . well, no matter. I can fill you in as we go. Do you think you can walk?”
“I’ll try. Where are we going?” Genie swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“Out of the city, if we can. That siren you hear is an air-raid warning. While our boys will do their best to defend us, there are no guarantees they’ll be able to scatter the bombers in time. Though the success rate has gone up in the last few months, thanks to improvements in the Chinese air-warning system. In fact Ted mentioned you were traveling with one of the radio operators. It’s too bad he didn’t come with you to Kunming, so we could thank him for his work.”
“Who? Wu Fang?” He was the only person Genie knew with a radio. And he did spend day after day up on the mountain, doing heaven only knew what. Apparently he had been helping track enemy aircraft. Had her father known?
Natasha glanced around the floor. “I have no idea. And hurry with that robe while I find your shoes.”
“What about Nathan? The other man I traveled with.” Genie’s fingers fumbled with the robe’s cloth belt. “He likely doesn’t know what the siren means, either.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s been bunking with the pilots, who will tell him.” Natasha handed Genie her shoes and then helped her put them on.
“And Lieutenant Younan?”
“Lieutenant . . . oh, you mean Ted!” Natasha helped Genie stand. “Well, if there’s an available plane, I’m sure he’s already up flying. He’s one of our best pilots, though all the boys are excellent flyers. The AVG has the best kill rate in the Pacific.”
Natasha gestured toward the door. Genie took a step and then staggered slightly. Natasha immediately slipped her arm around Genie’s waist. “My, you are very thin. I hope the dresses I brought won’t slide right off you.”
“Dresses?”
Her legs caught on to walking again, which hurried their progress.
“Yes. That’s the whole reason I’m here. You and Mr. Sterling have been invited to a dinner tonight hosted by General and Madame Chiang. They want to personally thank you for rescuing one of their borrowed pilots.”
“You can’t be serious.” Her knees turned weak. She wasn’t sure what frightened her more: meeting the de facto head of China or the prospect of enemy bombs.
Natasha opened the door leading into the hallway.
“I am. But don’t worry. Once the all-clear is sounded, we can work on getting you ready. In fact . . .” Natasha cocked her head as the siren reversed pitch and then faded into an eerie silence. “There it is . . . huh, that was fast. It must have been a false alarm.”
Out in the hallway, relieved shouts echoed down the corridor as Natasha helped Genie back into the hospital room. Happily, she reached the edge of her bed just as her legs gave out from under her.
Natasha gave her a sideways look. “When was the last time you ate? We’ve got a long afternoon ahead of us if you’re to be ready in time.”
Genie exhaled shakily. “How can you even think of food at a time like this? We might still be bombed.” Or shot at by enemy fighter planes with their awful machine guns. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to throw up. Her father and Zhenzhu were out there, unprotected, along with all her friends.
“Oh, come on. You’re not going to be one of those girls, are you?” Natasha’s voice was laced with disdain.
Stung, Genie opened her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You know . . . someone who refuses to get on with the business of living simply because there’s a war going on. Because if you are, I have some news for you—if you put your life on hold now, you might as well end it.”
Shocked into silence, Genie could only stare at the other woman.
Natasha made an impatient sound. “Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s true. Tomorrow is never guaranteed, so we might as well live while we can.
“And speaking of which, why don’t you get cleaned up while I find you some lunch. The showers down the hall should be empty this time of day, but to be safe, drape the ribbon hanging next to the door over the door handle to tell the boys to stay out.”
“All right.” Genie rubbed her aching temples as Natasha left with enviable energy.
Following the woman’s advice, she forced herself off the bed and down the hall. Fifteen minutes later, after having scrubbed off what felt like over a week’s worth of grime and illness, she felt much better. Still weak, but more alert.
After re-donning her hospital pajamas—she should have thought to bring a change of clothes with her to the showers—she returned to her room. A young Chinese boy was setting a luncheon tray on the desk. His wary, worldly gaze assessed her in a way that broke her heart. He couldn’t have been more than ten, far too young to be working, in her opinion, yet she understood how important his income was to his family.
As much as she loved her birth country, there was no ignoring the brutish poverty that racked so much of it—a situation the war wasn’t helping one bit. Her father had once hoped to change things by tirelessly preaching the twin Christian pillars of charity and love for one’s neighbor, but the problem was proving nearly intractable. When she had asked Nathan about it, he had told her that it wasn’t just China. Corruption and selfishness had poisoned societies everywhere.
Apparently deciding she represented neither threat nor opportunity, the boy slipped silently out on bare feet. At least the weather in Kunming was relatively mild even though it was February. In the mountains, it would have been a different story.
Her stomach growled at the smell of food, her appetite abruptly returning. She walked to the tray and lifted the napkin covering it. Except for the cup of tea, none of the other contents looked familiar. She picked up a spoon and poked uncertainly at an oddly shaped noodle mass in a yellow sauce.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” Natasha said as she breezed into the room with several dresses slung over her arm.
Genie picked up the bowl and tilted it toward Natasha. “Can you tell me what’s in this bowl?”
The other woman gave her an odd look. “Macaroni and cheese. Why?”
“Oh.” She debated whether to mention that she had no idea what either word meant, then decided against it. She held up a smaller bowl of diced fruit in liquid. “And this?”
“Canned peaches.”
The tension in her temples eased. Peaches she knew she liked, though she’d never had them canned.
“Here, look at these while you eat up.” Natasha slung the garments over the only chair in the room.
Still weak, Genie returned to her perch on the edge of her bed, the peach bowl in her hand. Natasha selected one of the dresses, a bright-blue satin. Then, holding it to her body, she turned around to show Genie. “What do you think?”
Genie almost choked. The hemline barely brushed Natasha’s knees, and Genie was several inches taller than the woman. She didn’t even want to think where the hemline would fall on her.
“Well?” Natasha prompted.
“It’s very pretty, but also a little, um . . . revealing. Don’t you think?”
Natasha glanced down at the dress, clearly puzzled. “How so?”
“Do you have one that’s a little longer?” she finally asked.
“I have one.” Natasha turned back to the chair and pulled out a navy wool dress. “And you’re thin enough, you won’t even need a girdle with it. Which is a blessing, if you’ve never had the misfortune of wearing one.”
Not knowing what a girdle was, and not sure she wanted to know, Genie bowed to the inevitable, put the peaches aside, and stood. Sternly telling herself she was not a Jezebel, she shed her hospital clothes and allowed Natasha to dress her like an American. The silk slip was cool on her skin, if a little tight. Natasha handed Genie a pair of garters and stockings to put on, and then it was time for the dress.
The wool floated down over her skin as soft as kitten fur, and when she turned around to check her appearance in the mirror on the wall, she did a double take. The gathered shoulders softened the angles of her jaw, while the deep blue color brought out the red in her hair and made her skin almost translucent. The effect was so startling she could almost forgive the war for bringing her here.
For the first time in her life she felt . . . pretty.
Natasha gave her a thorough once-over. “Very nice. A little makeup, some earrings, and a better hairstyle, and your Mr. Sterling will never know what hit him.”
At the mention of Nathan, all her newfound confidence vanished. No doubt the change in appearance would leave him stunned—just not in a good way.
She started reaching for the zipper in the back. “Do you have anything else? Maybe a chipao?” The traditional one-piece Chinese dress might be as body-hugging, but it was also so widely worn, there was no way Nathan could object.
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