by Annette Lyon
“Trying to sleep at night, are we?” Haikkola said with a laugh. “Very well. You’ll find him in the recovery tent.”
“Thanks,” Pete said. “And thank you for letting me come along today. I know I slowed you down.”
“Our pleasure,” Haikkola said, pausing at the door then heading out for his coffee.
Pete stayed back for a few minutes, writing notes about what he’d seen on the patrol and what he hoped to photograph his next time out. He glanced up, thinking of hot coffee warming him from the inside out. As tempting as the thought was, he shook his head and returned to his notebook. So far, he’d managed to maintain a semi-normal routine, even though most schedules at the camp were rarely morning-to-night. Depending on the shift, a soldier could have “breakfast” at one in the morning or at three in the afternoon— whenever they woke up. Someone had to be patrolling and guarding and running the place around the clock. The few hours of sunlight they had per day made switching schedules around easy— as it was pretty much dark for the majority of everyone’s shift, it didn’t much matter when you slept. Yet Pete still preferred to stay on a normal schedule, if you could call anything normal in a war zone. Even though he was finally adjusting to the time difference.
Pete tucked his notebook into his coat pocket then turned on his flashlight before heading out of the tent and into the cold in the general direction he thought the field hospital tents to be.
The tents were, of course, completely blacked out, so any interior light didn’t show, and they were white, making them hard to spot. Without the foot-trodden paths throughout camp, Pete would have gotten completely lost. He pushed open the tent door, and light burst through, and with it the relief that he’d found the right place. He wouldn’t end up like the frozen Russian the patrol had come upon an hour ago.
The sharp smell of antiseptic and putrid stench of rotting flesh hit his nostrils. He forced his face to remain impassive, intent on not showing disgust to the healing soldiers inside. Time to earn their trust by showing compassion, not revulsion. He stomped his boots to get rid of the snow so he wouldn’t track it inside then removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. As he moved to take off his coat and step inside, he froze at what had to be an apparition, a figment of his imagination.
Not twenty feet away, Anna sat with her back to Pete at the bedside of a wounded man. It couldn’t be Anna. Pete had traveled across a continent, an ocean, and another continent to escape this heartache.
Yet there it was: Anna’s red hair pulled back, her head tilted in a familiar way. At first he tried to convince himself it was another woman who just looked like Anna from behind, but his heart knew better. He stood there, unmoving, his heart pounding as he remembered running his fingers through flowing red hair, kissing her lips, holding her close.
How could I have been such a fool as to think I could walk away from her?
That question was answered as quickly as he asked it. Because she deserves more than to be poor for life, with a photographer husband who’s never home.
He almost convinced himself it wasn’t Anna, but then she spoke to the soldier on the cot. Her words didn’t penetrate Pete’s mind, because her voice was all he needed to hear. No question; this was Anna. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
What is she doing here?
A tiny seedling of hope whispered that maybe she’d come here to find him and win him back. He’d go back, willingly— eagerly— except for the fact that he refused to become a burden to her.
Pete stood there, debating what to do. His first impulse— to rush over, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her soundly— was obviously out of the question. He could try to whip around and walk right back out, pretend he hadn’t seen her, but she’d probably see him leave.
Then again, she’d see him at some point anyway. As military camps went, it wasn’t exactly huge, but it wasn’t so large that he could avoid her. He might as well get the first contact over with.
His hands clenched his hat as he tried to come up with a greeting. How would she react to seeing him? Would she be glad? Angry? His palms started to sweat, and he swallowed against a dry throat.
As Pete mustered the courage to approach her, Anna soothed the young man by stroking his face and holding his hand. Yet the soldier, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, continued to moan and thrash, his head moving back and forth from pain. Pete’s eyes stayed on Anna’s hands, gently touching, gradually calming the soldier. Pete knew exactly what that touch felt like and wanted to feel it again.
A nurse hovered nearby with a syringe, but the soldier flailed too much for her to use it.
The man cried out. “Anna. Anna.”
The shock that this young man knew Anna was eclipsed by his accent. He was Russian. The man mumbled something unintelligible in his native tongue then reached for Anna’s face. She took his hand and held it to her cheek, smiling and murmuring something surely intended to comfort him.
He doesn’t know her. He thinks she’s someone he left behind. Trust Anna to try to comfort those around here no matter where she was.
Pete found himself drawing deeper into the tent one step at a time. He reached a chair and found Anna’s dog-eared notebook covered with her handwriting. The sight cemented the reality that Dill had really sent Anna here. Of course Keith would be replaced; Pete had gotten a telegram saying as much a few days ago, but no hint that it would be Anna.
He sat on the edge of the chair as she hummed. He didn’t recognize the song, but it was soft, with a lilting rhythm. By the third verse, the soldier’s intense grip began to relax, and soon he stopped thrashing and began breathing easier. Anna smiled up at the nurse yet kept singing, still holding his hand between both of hers.
After another minute, Anna looked up at the nurse and whispered, “I think he’s asleep.”
The nurse nodded. Whether she understood the English or not didn’t matter; she took his left arm and injected whatever was in the syringe. The soldier grimaced in his sleep but then drifted away again. The nurse sighed with relief. “He should sleep several hours,” she said to Anna with a thick accent. “Kiitos. I mean, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Anna gently placed the soldier’s arm across his stomach and stood. From where he sat, Pete could see her face and the expression of pain and angst crossing it.
Pete wanted to rush over and hold Anna, to comfort her and get rid of that look of distress. This was no place for a female reporter. What had Dill been thinking?
Aside from Anna being put into harm’s way, how was Pete supposed to keep his focus on his work, with her red hair flashing beside him, her scent hanging about him like a cloud whenever she passed, her voice haunting his mind and heart as they talked story angles and hooks?
This isn’t going to work.
Anna stood, straightening her skirt. Pete instinctively stood as well. Her hands rose and smoothed back her hair, but then she saw Pete. Her eyes widened, and the movement of her hands paused. After a moment, they lowered, and her brows drew together in surprise. “Pete? Is that really you?” He didn’t know whether her soft voice was to keep the Russian asleep or whether it was from shock. Maybe a bit of both.
He mustered a wan smile. Now that she’d seen him, he had no idea what to say or do. “I, uh, didn’t expect to see you here.” Obviously.
Was she pleased to see him? She didn’t seem displeased, exactly, only shocked. A few more moments of silence could well make her reaction progress from shock to hurt or anger. As they stood there, looking at each other, Anna with an expectant look on her face, Pete knew he’d been wrong, so wrong, when he’d said goodbye. Not that he hadn’t needed to leave; he had. But this wasn’t a surface love he would ever move on from. This was a bone-deep need to have her in his life as she would always be in his heart.
He’d dreamed of her, fitfully, every night since walking away. Now here she was, in the flesh— in a war zone. A surge of protectiveness washed over him. He wanted— no, ne
eded— to care for Anna, to have a life with her. To make her happy. Was that possible? Could he be with her yet? Or was he playing the fool, setting himself up for disappointment when he realized yet again that he couldn’t be the husband she deserved?
How long had they stood here, just gazing at each other, silent?
Pete shook his head to chase away such thought; he probably looked like a dolt, gaping mindlessly. The antiseptic smell, the odor of infected limbs, the moaning of the wounded, all came back, but they were still overshadowed by Anna as if the sun itself were approaching him with its life-giving light.
Anna was close enough to hug, but instead she folded her arms, a clear signal that things were different between them now. Of course they were. He’d made them different. She narrowed her eyes. “Dill sent you.” The simple statement came out as an accusation. “Why couldn’t you have stayed home and taken a walk right off the Santa Monica pier?”
Ouch. They’d had more than one outing at the pier. He remembered eating hot dogs as they walked along the wooden planks then looked out at the Pacific and imagined their future together. He had to swallow to hold back the emotions threatening to break through.
“I doubt it helps, but I swear I didn’t know you were Keith’s replacement. I was already in New York by the time he made the decision.”
“You’re really my photographer.” She shook her head. “Unbelievable.”
He chuckled, the ludicrousness of the situation settling in on him. “What were the chances, right? You know how Dill pays no attention to anything the staff does aside from turn in stories. I don’t think he realized that we… that you and I… well, you know.” He cleared his throat and studied the opposite wall, unable to look into her eyes.
Pete searched for a way to fill the silence that felt like a giant void hanging between them. She stared at him, seeming to take in his features as if she hadn’t seen him in years instead of days. What was she thinking? He’d give his best lens to know.
“Dill had his hands full just getting permission for anyone to report north of Lake Ladoga,” Pete offered. “I suppose swapping colleague names wasn’t on his priority list.”
She nodded, and as she spoke, she avoided his eyes. “I heard that Mannerheim himself refuses to let journalists anywhere near the most crucial fighting down in the isthmus. We’re lucky to be this far south instead of up in Lapland.”
“Or holed up in that hotel in Helsinki like most of the journalists,” Pete said.
Too bad Dill got permission to send anyone to this sector. From a journalistic standpoint it was good for the magazine, but with Anna standing two feet away, Pete couldn’t think like a journalist.
Yes, she had an inner strength of steel; he knew that she could handle tough situations, likely even war, although he didn’t want her to have to handle such things. But she was also a small woman— scarcely over a hundred pounds, he’d guess— and this was a dangerous place. The hotel would have been a better choice.
Anna looked about the tent then back at Pete. “Let’s go someplace else to talk. We need to discuss story angles.”
Of course she could stay objective and professional. I’ll do the same.
“Have you eaten since you arrived?” he asked. “We can go to the mess hall. I hear they’re making sausage soup. I don’t know if it’s ready, but it’s worth checking on; the soup is delicious.”
“They’re cooking at this hour?” From her pocket she pulled a small watch, which was attached by a ribbon.
“Schedules don’t mean much out here. Someone is always coming off a shift and ready for food. Besides that, the field kitchen cooks for a couple of thousand soldiers in the area, and they have to deliver it to the various camps.”
She tucked her watch back into her pocket and smiled— a little. Oh, how he’d missed that smile. And now he wanted to kiss the mouth that made it.
“Sausage soup sounds delightful.” Anna stepped to his side, their arms brushing.
He sucked in a deep breath at her touch— silently, so she wouldn’t hear it— and fought the urge to take her into his arms
She gestured toward the door. “I don’t know the camp yet. You lead the way.”
He did, holding the hospital door open then releasing the flashlight he’d clipped to his belt and turning it on to light the boot-trodden path through the snow. As they walked in the darkness, his cheeks seemed to burn even with the sub-zero temperature. With any luck, by the time they reached the mess hall, she’d assume his pink cheeks were simply from the cold rather than from seeing her again, being so close to the woman he loved.
Chapter Four
The walk to the mess tent felt longer than Anna expected it to be; now that she knew what the scent drifting through the air was, her stomach rumbled with hunger.
Plus, the fact that she was walking beside Pete made the trip seem to last even longer. A charged silence hung between them like a dark cloud. Neither had said a word yet about their breakup or what happened between them before, or even what a dolt Dill was for not knowing better.
She wanted to grab her suitcase and head back on the first train. To go home and burrow under her comforter— and cry. To think she’d run away from her memories of Pete only to travel across the globe and end up in the same place as him anyway.
Like some horrid joke at my expense.
In spite of her twisting stomach and aching heart, Anna couldn’t help but make a surreptitious glance at Pete’s evening stubble, which had always made him look ruggedly handsome. The old attraction flamed in her chest, but she tamped it down, taking a deep breath of the cold air as if that could put out the fire still burning for Pete.
After a few minutes, the pathway narrowed to single file. Pete had the flashlight, so he went ahead to light the way. She couldn’t help but notice his confident gait and broad shoulders. She knew all too well that beneath his coat were well-toned muscles.
Have mercy.
The only sounds were their boots on the snow and their steady breathing. After a moment, Anna girded up her courage to speak. She could— would— be professional through this. “You’ve been here longer than I have. Do you have any suggestions about things we should be sure to cover?”
Pete glanced over his shoulder at her, making her middle flip like a pancake. So much for professionalism keeping her from thinking about him as her Pete, of the two of them not as a journalistic team, but as the romantic couple they used to be.
The couple we still should be, if things had worked out as I’d expected them to.
But there was no sense in toying with romantic thoughts; they were sheer nonsense. He’d made that abundantly clear last month. The two of them were here with a job to do. An important job. And that was that.
“I’ve been here only two days longer than you have,” Pete said. “I haven’t had time to give stories much thought, but so far, I can tell you what my biggest challenge will be.”
Sensing concern in his voice, Anna paused in her step. “What’s that?”
Pete stopped, turned around, and sighed. “My equipment freezes solid within seconds of being out in the cold. All of it. Shutter won’t even move.”
“Then how on earth will you take any photographs?” Instinctively, Anna put her hand on his arm. He looked at it, and she realized she’d crossed a boundary. She almost pulled away but couldn’t keep herself from looking into his eyes, hoping to find something in them.
Pete shrugged, acting as if her touch meant nothing. She quietly removed her hand as he kept talking. “Any photographs will take planning and a lot of effort. I’ll have to keep everything inside my coat until the last second. If I can whip out the tripod and camera and take a picture within, say sixty seconds, the equipment should stay warm enough from my body heat to work for one quick shot.” He turned about and kept walking.
“Goodness.” Anna walked on behind Pete, mind now firmly in journalist mode. She had much to write about; too bad she didn’t have her notebook open or the light
to scribble it all down right now. Yet even as the thought appeared, it was a whisper in her head compared to the thoughts and feelings about Pete crashing like cymbals inside her.
The path widened again, and Pete once more slowed so they stepped side by side. Did he still care? Why had he’d decided to walk away? It had to be because he didn’t care anymore. He’d hardly noticed her touch. He hadn’t shown the slightest inclination to hold her or kiss or even apologize for being so cruel. She supposed she could try to get him back— only she wouldn’t, because if he didn’t return the feelings, she wouldn’t grovel in hopes of him simply giving in. No, she wanted a man who loved her— as she’d thought Pete did.
Instead of leaving a land of eternal summer, but where her heart felt dead and cold, she’d traveled to a frozen land, and now her heart was burning with the heat of emotion. This had not been the plan; she was supposed to have a break, time to heal. Yet her heart felt close to ripping in two all over again.
Pete resumed talking, for which Anna was grateful. “One thing I learned the first night I was here was when some of the men were cleaning their guns. Turns out that equipment freezing is one of the Russians’ big problems right now— they’re still using regular oils, which freeze, so their guns freeze solid too, and they’re left with nothing to fight with, no matter how many men and how much ammunition they have. Well, not all the Russians’ guns have frozen yet, obviously. There are always new guns being sent, and not all have been cleaned. And they have plenty of artillery and tanks. But freezing guns has been a problem.”
“I don’t understand how they’d invade so ignorantly,” Anna said, deliberately keeping her attention on the war effort. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I thought the Soviet army was one of the most advanced in the world. How did Stalin send his men so ill prepared? It’s not as if he invaded in the middle of summer. He had to know winter was coming.”
Pete’s arm brushed hers as they walked; Anna swore she could feel his touch through both of their coats.