Her father hadn’t hit Sarai across the face when he found out his child had become a Christian. Or called her a traitor.
Thankfully, the Russian Army had believed in the soldier they’d already spent two years training and then two more in language training at Moscow University. Little did they know when they took Roman on for special operations training, preaching a new Russia, that he’d already found something else in which to believe.
Without David Curtiss and his grace-filled friendship, Roman might still be trapped in the hurt of his father’s failures. Because of David’s courage in sharing the gospel, Roman had hope in something better than the legacy his father had left behind.
And for that reason alone, Roman zeroed in on Sarai’s taillights, ignoring the swell of frustration as he pressed into the blizzard.
Sarai wiped her face with her gloved hand. It shouldn’t be much farther, but if she didn’t find Anya’s dacha soon, she’d be in big trouble. She’d gambled—probably foolishly—by trying to find Genye and Anya’s summer home to hole up in during the storm and during this foreigner crackdown. She wasn’t leaving, no way, no how, but Roman’s words had rattled her.
Especially when he’d admitted that he worried about her. Enough to go AWOL.
She didn’t know what the Russian FSB did to soldiers who disobeyed orders, but her limited knowledge of America’s policy had her wincing.
Roman had put himself in danger professionally, and probably personally, because of her.
Go home, Roma. She wasn’t leaving, but she hoped he’d gotten the message and left her.
As much as that thought tore a hole in her heart.
Do you think I like chasing all over the world after you, worrying all the time if you’re safe or not?
Maybe she shouldn’t focus so much on his words as his tone—exasperation. He sounded a lot like David when he’d pulled her out of Somalia.
Well, maybe she wouldn’t be risking her life alone if Roman had been true to his Christian calling. Hadn’t he told her that he wanted to be God’s man, to change the world one person at a time? Hadn’t he told her he’d give up everything for the gospel?
Sadly, she thought he’d meant in missions. Apparently, she and Roman had different definitions of “surrendering all” for God.
She leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel. She’d turned her lights on low beam—the high beams only made the snow seem like bullets spraying her. As she traveled north, jack pines and birch towered over the road, jagged arms that reached into the black sky and vanished. The wind swirled up drifts, cracked the trees, and shook the ambulance. Although she had the heat on full blast, her toes felt cold, her nose an ice block. Inside her gloves, she balled her fists, hoping for warmth.
Please, Lord, get me to their dacha safely. And protect Roma, wherever he is. She hoped he had the good sense to stay in Khanda.
So maybe that didn’t say much about her own good sense.
She counted kilometers—thirty from the main highway—and slowed as she came up on thirty-six. She’d visited the dacha countless times in the summer, even spent a week with Genye and Anya once in the fall, enjoying shashleek and freshly harvested vegetables. Genye and Anya had winterized their dacha years ago, turning it from a summer garden home to a year-round retreat. And they’d added two downstairs bedrooms, an upstairs bunkroom, a sauna, and a main room. Stateside, she supposed it would be called a cabin. Stateside, it would also have indoor plumbing.
She crept along the road, plowing through the drifts, gunning the ambulance just enough to keep it from getting stuck, yet not fast enough to lose control. Dark branches, laden with ice and snow, streaked across her side windows. The sound raised gooseflesh.
Her stomach felt tied in knots. She hoped Genye and Anya had left some food behind.
She muscled the ambulance up a knoll, mentally calculating the half klick or so to the dacha, when her lights flashed on an object.
A deer stood in the middle of the road. Frozen and wide-eyed.
Sarai slammed on her brakes. The wheels locked up, she tried to get them to gain purchase, but the ambulance began to slide.
She worked the steering wheel, which mocked her efforts. Helpless, she slid toward the deer. She watched, as if in slow motion, as the animal darted off into the forest.
She kept sliding. Slower, but with enough momentum still to careen off the road and settle with a thud into the ditch.
Sarai rocked back in the seat and slammed her hand on the steering wheel. Super. Just what she needed.
She put the vehicle into reverse, spun the wheels a bit, opened the door to check her progress, and smelled rubber burning. She climbed out and surveyed the damage. Snow up to the axles nearly lifted the ambulance from the ground. She wasn’t moving without a shovel—and maybe a tow.
Now what?
Silence around her felt soft and thick as snow sifted down from the blackened canopy. She heard only her heartbeat as she dug out her penlight, closed the car door, pulled down her cap, and trudged into the darkness. She flicked the light on now and again to keep her bearings and hunkered her chin down into her jacket.
She tried not to let her thoughts tangle into the what-ifs. Like what if she had seen the deer earlier? Or what if she hadn’t left Khanda? Or what if she’d returned even one of Roman’s telephone calls thirteen years ago?
Then he might be right here in the ditch with her, helping her dig out.
No, she wouldn’t even be in the ditch.
She hunched her shoulders against the cold and fought the claw of sadness. Seeing Roman had only tightened the sharp band of regret around her chest.
No, not regret. Reality. He was sold out for his job. She was sold out for God. Anyone with their eyes wide open could see that difference.
Her legs felt nearly frozen by the time she found the dacha nestled under a canopy of poplar and aspen trees. The cabin wore a blanket of white frosting, and snow crunched as she climbed the steps and eased the door open.
Inside, time stood frozen, the remnants of summer caught in winter’s grasp. She flashed her penlight into the main room. A batch of now-golden dill, hung upside down near the window to dry, crackled in the stiff wind that followed her in. A bunch of wilted daisies dusted the table top with their teardrop offerings. The place felt bone cold, shrouded under the blanket of winter. Sarai tried the light. Nothing.
Okay, this didn’t have to be hard. One step at a time. She’d start a fire in the potbelly stove, then search for food.
Then hunker down for a few days. Just until the craziness in Irkutsk subsided and she could sneak back into Smolsk.
Besides, what did the Russian government want with a small-time frontier doctor in the middle of nowhere? Roman was overreacting.
Thankfully, Genye had stocked the wood bins, both inside and outside, before they’d left a month or so ago. Sarai filled the stove, found an old newspaper, and lit it. It clawed at the wood, but the breath of winter had moistened it and the flame smoked out.
Sarai tried again, blowing gently, feeding in twigs. C’mon little fire…
The door slammed open, caught by a gust of wind. Ashes spewed out of the stove as Sarai turned, startled.
Froze.
When would he give up?
9
If Roman read her correctly, Sarai wasn’t that displeased to see him.
Mostly displeased, perhaps, but he saw definite relief around the outside of her eyes as he shone his flashlight on her and closed the door.
For his part, relief took over his body and wrung him out, nearly buckling his knees. Thank you, Lord. He’d seen her car in the ditch, found her tracks, and had pictured head wounds or even broken bones.
But no, here she sat, Miss I’m-Fine-on-My-Own, making herself a cozy little fire. “Found you,” he said as he came into the room, disguising well his unhinged emotions. She said nothing, just narrowed her eyes, watching him as he knelt next to her.
Or maybe relief wasn’t the rig
ht word for what he saw in her eyes. Try resignation. Good. She should get used to his following her. Like a lovesick puppy.
Oy.
“I wish you’d stop trying to ditch me.” He picked up a log, looked it over, pulled out a pocketknife and peeled off a layer, cutting it into tiny strips. He tucked the bark around the paper and the logs she’d layered in the stove. “Matches.”
She slapped them into his hand, still, silent. Uh-oh, not good.
He took off his gloves and lit the match, then the paper in several places. He blew on it gently to catch the kindling he’d cut. In a moment, the flames settled on a thick piece of pine and began to crackle.
He closed the door halfway. She sat back, tucked her hands around her updrawn knees, watching him. “Thanks.”
He rubbed his hair. Snow flaked off it, but his scalp felt like ice.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble on account of me.” Her voice sounded muffled, and he realized she had rested her head onto her arms.
She looked cold. Snow-encrusted hair curled out of her cap. He reached over and wrapped his hand around the end, warming it with his hand.
“It might be too late for that.”
“Fine. Then, sorry. But you made your choice. No one asked you to come and get me.”
Well…that wasn’t quite true. If he was honest, even if David hadn’t asked, as soon as Roman had discovered Bednov’s deadline, he would have been on a plane and headed her direction.
As much as he hated to admit it.
“Please, Sarai, help me help you. They’ve already started to post your picture on the news. I saw you on television.”
Sarai stared at him, a horrified look on her face. What was it about him that repelled her but only made him want to pull her into his arms?
It had felt too good the first time, back at her clinic, despite its brevity. And the second, when he’d comforted her over her sick patient—she’d lingered just a little. Like she needed him, cultivating all his stifled protective urges. If he got too close to her again, he just might do something foolish, like kiss her.
No, that would be so much more than foolish because, while he might still love Sarai, painfully more than he had thirteen years ago, she couldn’t stand him. And wouldn’t that be fun, laying out his heart for her so she could leave it cold and alone when she left him—again. And again.
She’s not the same girl you fell in love with in Moscow. And a man who ferreted out criminals for a living, reading hints and relying on his gut, should face the Dear John truth.
“Don’t you see?” he asked softly. “We need to get you out of here.”
She folded up the paper and smiled sweetly. “I’ve been in countries before when my visa’s expired or been revoked. The right people, the right strings pulled and I’ll be reinstated in no time.” She handed him back the paper, looked at the flickering flames. “Besides, why do you think I came here? I fully plan on laying low for a few days, so don’t worry. You can be on your merry way.”
He barely choked back his disbelief. “Your picture is in the paper. Zdrastvootya? What more do you need, a Wanted label under it?”
She rolled her eyes. “If you leave now, you can make it back to Smolsk before the storm gets really bad.”
Roman rested his forehead on his palms, fighting frustration. Well, at least she knew she should keep her head down. For now. One step forward… And they still had almost forty-eight hours, right?
Hopefully, tomorrow he could talk her into more. “I’m not going anywhere. My car’s in the ditch beside yours.”
She shook her head, but he saw the smallest of smirks lift one side of her mouth. Such a pretty mouth…
“Stop. What do you expect? It wasn’t like you left your flashers on. I nearly went through the windshield,” Roman said.
“Forgive me, O Bloodhound. If I had known you were following me, I would have put out semaphores, of course.”
He gave her a mock glare. “Where are we, anyway? I hope we haven’t committed yet another crime.”
She looked disgusted. “Anya and Genye’s dacha.”
He made a silent O with his mouth as he got up. “Got anything to eat here?” He strolled over to the tiny kitchen composed of a two-burner gas stove, an electric oven and fridge, and a small two-door cupboard. Inside, he found cans of salmon, a bag of sugar, tea, crackers, and a jar of raspberry preserves.
He took out the salmon and began fishing for an opener. He heard Sarai rise. The floor creaked as she moved into the kitchen.
“David tells me you’re a captain now. Of your own COBRA team. That’s pretty impressive.” Sarai took off her hat and hung it on the rack by the door. She stood there, her hands woven into her jacket sleeves, and when he glanced at her, he couldn’t help but notice that she appeared tired.
“You okay, Sar?”
She looked at him, gave a half smile. “I always knew you’d go far.”
He let those words settle into his chest. “Thanks. I’m amazed at what you’ve done also. You’ve always…taken my breath away.”
Oops. He hadn’t quite meant that as it sounded. Or maybe he did. She swallowed, and he turned his attention to the can opener. For a moment, all he heard was the slush of his pulse in his ears.
When she said nothing, he sighed and dredged up words from the clog of emotions in his chest. He could keep this nonchalant, without giving too much away, couldn’t he?
“I meant your aspirations were always so noble, I just couldn’t keep up.”
She pulled out a chair, sat. “It’s not like you to just sit around and do nothing. David told me about the Epcot thing.” She paused, smiled. He caught it out of his peripheral vision and tried not to wince. “The thing is, it still took courage, and I know you’re only trying to save the world, in your own way.”
Well, maybe not the world. Just Sarai at the moment. The world would come later.
“I’ll bet your dad is proud of you.” She said it so softly, he barely caught it.
“Hardly.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. “He died, Sarai. Drank himself into a stupor and froze to death.” He put the open can of salmon on the table.
“Oh, Roma. I’m so sorry.” She reached out to touch his arm, and he tried not to let it undo him. “Did you two…reconcile before—”
“No. I never went to see him.”
She said nothing.
He clenched his jaw, fighting a sudden rush of emotions. “How about I make some tea?”
“You’re not him, Roma. I know you think you are, but you’ll never be him. And I’ll tell you why.”
He didn’t look at her as he found the teakettle. Snow would melt, make water.
“Because you’re a Christian. And no matter what happens, your life matters. Maybe not the way I want it to, but you’re a man of principle and salt and light in your world. I know because David tells me everything, and you’re like a brother to him.”
He glanced at her, dangerously aware of how much that meant to him. “Thanks.” Carrying the kettle, he moved to step past her, outside, but she caught his sleeve.
“I worry about you too.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.
“And, deep in my heart, I know someday you’re going to die. And I won’t be there to stop it.”
He set the kettle on the table. She wanted to have this conversation now? What about ten-plus years ago? “I’m not going to get killed, Sarai.”
“You will. And then…. I don’t want to be there when it happens.” She let his sleeve go, looked away, as if that might be the end of the conversation.
Not quite. He pulled out a chair, straddled it backward. “And what about you? It’s not like you don’t go around risking your life. I think you have this knack for picking the hot spots in the world. Have you any idea how your brother—all of us—worry about you?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “At least I’m doing it for the right reasons.”
“I knew it!
You still think I’m out to make a name for myself, don’t you?”
Even in the shadows of the dacha, he could see her eyes flash. “Yes. Okay, I do. I think you’re trying to prove you’re not your father. That you’re not going to end up like him.”
“Thanks, Sarai, for that sensitivity, as well as your vote of confidence. Did it ever occur to you that I am just trying to be the guy God created me to be? Not everyone can save lives—and souls. Some of us are cut from a different cloth. Besides, don’t tell me you don’t get a little high when you save a life. Don’t tell me that there isn’t a piece of you that sees herself as a savior to these people.”
“I don’t.” She sat back. “I’m here for eternal purposes. I share the gospel, I tell people that Jesus loves them as I heal them.”
“You heal them.”
“God heals them. For crying out loud.” She shook her head. “At least, when I die, it’ll be for a good reason.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot, you’re a martyr.” He rose, turned the chair around.
She looked away, out the window. But when he glanced at her again, he saw that her chin trembled.
“I’m not a martyr, Roma.” Her voice dropped and he heard tears on the far edge. “Don’t you think that I get lonely? Discouraged? That I want to give up and just go home? And get married and…have kids…”
Oh. Wow. He froze, pretty sure that if he didn’t, he might do something stupid, like pull her into his arms. Because her words felt raw and vulnerable, and the look on her face, as if she’d surprised herself, made his chest hurt.
Look what we could have had.
“Do you have anyone you want to get married to?” he asked softly. Was he now a glutton for pain?
She gave a huff of what he’d label exasperation, or maybe quick cover. All the same, it felt like a stake through his heart. “No. Of course not. I’m just saying that I’m not the girl that you and David and my parents label me—”
Never Say Goodbye Page 10