Once a Warrior

by Fran Baker

  “I’ll go.” He reached over the nun’s crouched back and touched her cheek with cool, damp fingers. “You stay here and help Soeur Simone.”

  Cat caught his hand before he could retract it and said in a quaking voice, “Be careful.”

  They shared one last, poignant look before he turned and left the bathroom.

  She rolled up her sleeves then and stepped to the sink to relieve Sister Simone.

  * * * *

  Where was Cain?

  Cat had been walking the floor with the baby for what seemed like hours. His fever was down, thanks to the cool baths, but she could tell by the way he kept batting at his ear that it was still bothering him. She thought he might be getting a tad spoiled from all the attention, too, because every time she tried to lay him down, he started crying again.

  Not that she minded. To the contrary, she couldn’t believe how right it felt to have him cuddled against her breasts. How wonderful his slight weight felt in her arms. When she’d first picked him up, she’d turned him this way and that in loving inspection. As she’d put his diaper and his clothes back on, she had counted each toe, marveled over each transparent fingernail, smiled at the square jaw he had inherited from his father. She’d even tried but failed to curl that wild tuft of ebony dark hair upon his head.

  But after her harrowing experiences of the past two days, she was worn slick.

  Sister Simone had put Cat in a first-floor bedroom at the back of the house that the priest from Can Tho used when he came to baptize the babies and give the older children religious instruction. Unlike the nursery upstairs, this room was small and sparsely furnished. It had narrow windows, a padded kneeler for prayer, and a wooden crucifix on the stark white wall. The only thing that looked even remotely comfortable was a double bed with a plain brown spread and two tightly tucked pillows.

  Now she eyed the bed longingly, wondering if she dared try to lay the baby down again. He was sucking on his fist and making those sweet little noises that were music to her ears. She smiled poignantly at the sound.

  If only Cain were here, everything would be perfect.

  She pressed her cheek to the top of the baby’s head as she paced the length of the room, wondering what could be keeping him. Had he run into one of the Viet Cong patrols that owned the night? Was he lying hurt and wounded and helpless in the jungle? Had Colonel Howard tracked him down and arrested him?

  The grisly possibilities were endless, yet she seemed to think of every conceivable one. She clutched the baby tightly and kissed the downy black hair that hugged his soft scalp. He squirmed, as if he sensed her fear, and began fussing again.

  “Ssh, ssh,” she crooned. “He’ll be back soon.”

  She wasn’t sure at this point just who she was trying to convince—herself or the baby. The waiting was unendurable. But what else could she do? She couldn’t take a sick baby outside. And she certainly couldn’t leave him alone. Sister Simone had already had a full day taking care of the orphans and had been dead on her feet, so Cat had sent her to bed. She knew the nun would gladly get up if asked, but she had another full day ahead of her tomorrow and she needed her rest.

  “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques . . .”

  Softly singing the song that her mother used to sing to her, Cat sat down on the edge of the bed and rocked the baby back and forth. He whimpered once, as if he was fighting sleep, then laid his precious little head against her heart. Humming now, she gingerly eased herself back and lowered her own head to the pillow.

  Just before she closed her exhausted eyes, she remembered that Jacques was French for James.

  * * * *

  When Cat awoke, Cain was lying on the other side of the bed, facing her, and the baby was tucked between them.

  She turned her head on the pillow and blinked rapidly, trying to orient herself in the strange room. It was just before sunrise, and the walls were tinted a faint rose with the encroaching dawn. The air drifting in through the screened window smelled sweet with the mingled perfume of flowers and dew.

  Her eyes misted over with emotion when she saw that the baby was sleeping on his tummy. His little rump looked plump and out of proportion to his body because of his diaper. He was snoring softly through slightly parted lips.

  As was Cain.

  Lying perfectly still now, Cat let her gaze wander up his tanned throat to the proud chin. There was a small scar there—silvered by time—which she hadn’t noticed before. His mouth was beautifully shaped, if a bit stern, and the memory of the magic it had worked on hers caused her stomach muscles to contract. She ran her tongue over her own lips, trying to see if she could still taste him—erotic, exotic, narcotic—on them. Caught off guard by a sudden craving to taste him again, she moved on.

  Given the risky nature of his business, it was a mystery to her how he’d managed to keep his nose from getting broken. She blessed the fates that had left it straight. The tropical sun, on the other hand, hadn’t been quite so kind. It had etched permanent creases around his mouth and eye. Offsetting its harsh effects, the midnight-black hair falling across his forehead made him look younger than his years—boyish, yet every inch a man. That black eye patch only added to his overwhelming masculinity.

  She couldn’t help but smile when she remembered the first time she’d watched him sleeping. Then she’d considered him nothing more than a mercenary and nothing less than a criminal. A man who didn’t care about anyone or anything but making a buck.

  Now she knew better. He was tough-minded but tenderhearted. Rough around the edges yet smooth as silk when it came to talking his way out of trouble. He was fighting for what he believed in, although she still wasn’t exactly certain what that was, and he was fighting his battle his way.

  And he cared as deeply about the orphans as she was beginning to care about him.

  Before Cat could fully digest that thought, Cain opened his eye and smiled at her. The lashes he lifted were broom-thick, and the look he gave her was bone-meltingly tender. She swallowed a sudden urge to cry and smiled back.

  He mouthed a, “Good morning.”

  She mouthed one right back.

  “Did you get your sleep out?”

  She nodded. “You’re a real pro when it comes to sneaking in.”

  His smile widened. “Just call me ‘Cool Breeze.’”

  They were whispering so as not to disturb the baby. But the baby snuffled and turned his head, telling them that they were tempting fate. So by tacit agreement, they eased out of bed, tucked their pillows around the baby like bolsters to keep him from falling off, then crept out of the room and into the kitchen.

  “He woke up?” she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief when she saw the half-empty bottle of clear liquid and the small container of medication sitting on the table.

  “I guess he thought it was time for breakfast.”

  “I feel terrible that I didn’t hear him.”

  He shrugged off her concern and went to the stove to start the coffee. While he was at it, he dropped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. “I gave him his penicillin and a little Seven-Up and he went right back to sleep.”

  “Some mother I’m going to make,” Cat muttered in self-recrimination.

  Cain wheeled and threw her a heartwarming glance. “You’re going to adopt him?”

  “If I can get the paperwork done before my visa runs out.”

  “I’ll see if I can speed things up for you.”

  She scowled. “Legitimately?”

  He smiled. “Leave it to me, okay?”

  Cat watched Cain pour their coffee. He remembered that she took sugar and he stirred some in before placing the cup of steaming liquid in front of her. Then he retrieved the two slices of toast, slathered them both with butter and passed one to her while sinking his strong white teeth into the other.

  The whole scene was so domestic that she suddenly found herself wanting things she could never have. Cozy things, like waking up in the same bed with him every morning for t
he rest of her life. Simple things, like sharing toast and coffee along with their plans for the day while the children still slept snug and warm and safe. Arousing things, like having him kiss her and caress her in the heat of the night . . .

  “Thanks.” She looked away before her eyes betrayed the foolish fantasies that were flashing through her head with every heartbeat and bit into her toast.

  He leaned back against the counter with his own cup cradled in both hands and let his gaze move restlessly around the room. “We need to leave at full light in order to make it back to Saigon before nightfall.”

  She suppressed a shudder at the thought of having to retrace her path through the jungle and tried to drown her fears with a sip of coffee. It was hot and sweet. And it gave her time to gather her courage to speak.

  “Soeur Simone told me that you’re an orphan.”

  “That must have been some conversation.”

  Cat set down her cup and looked up at him earnestly. “She didn’t tell me much. Only that you remembered how it felt to be an orphan. But if it’s not too difficult for you to talk about, I’d really like to hear the story from you.”

  Cain forked his hand through his hair, and she could see that the bruise at his temple was beginning to fade. His rueful expression, though, was evidence that some old wounds never entirely heal. “My father was an American pilot in China—one of the original ‘Flying Tigers’—and my mother was the daughter of a Chinese general.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Anna. Anna Lee.”

  Now she knew where he’d gotten his middle name. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

  “She was a beautiful woman—inside and out.”

  Cat watched Cain retreat into himself, as if he were recalling some special childhood memory of the mother he had obviously loved. She wished he would share it with her because she wanted to know as much as she possibly could about the woman who’d given birth to this extraordinary man. Instead, she sipped her coffee and waited for him to return to the present.

  “Unfortunately,” he continued in a raw voice, “both the American and the Chinese cultures frowned on intermarriage in those days. So my mother ‘lost face’ with her family and my father was disowned by his when they eloped.”

  “How awful!”

  “It wasn’t quite the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ tragedy you’re imagining.”

  No matter that Cain was stoic about it, Cat was steamed enough for the both of them. “But they loved each other.”

  “That they did.” He took another sip of coffee before he went on. “They fled to America—to California—just before the Japanese overran China, and I was born on—of all thing—Pearl Harbor Day. Then, while my father was in the Pacific fighting the ‘Yellow Peril,’ my mother and I were interned in one of the concentration camps the government had set up to ‘protect’ its precious Mayflower descendants from enemy aliens.”

  “That sounds dangerously close to what the Germans were doing to the Jews at the time.”

  “Except we were in America, not Europe.”

  She pushed her coffee away, sickened to the core now by what he was telling her. “And your mother was Chinese, not—”

  Bitterness curled the edges of his mouth. “My mother had yellow skin and slanted eyes, and in the home of the free and the land of the bigoted, that was enough to render her a threat to democracy.”

  “Your father must have been furious.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  She frowned. “Yet he went on to fight and die in Korea.”

  His eye turned to gray iron. “He was a soldier. Flying B-52s was his job.”

  “Is he buried in California?”

  “They never recovered his body.”

  She managed to keep the pain from showing on her face, but her throat worked convulsively. “And your mother—”

  “Died a broken woman when I was eleven,” he supplied shortly.

  From the bedroom came the whimpering sound of the baby waking.

  Cat sprang to her feet, having heard all she could stand. “I’ll get him.”

  “He’ll need another dose of his medicine.”

  She canted her head. “How much should I give him?”

  “I’ll show you.” Cain set his cup down and picked up the penicillin container.

  By the time Sister Simone came downstairs, trailed by a dozen sleepy-eyed children, the baby was wearing a dry diaper. He’d also been medicated and fed. Propped up against a pillow and gnawing on his fist, in fact, he looked as contented as a little Buddha.

  The nun eyed Cain’s bulging backpack containing a sheet, extra diapers and clean sacques and bottles of formula sitting on the bed. A square of mosquito netting lay atop the pack. Then she looked at Cat, who had changed back into her pantyhose, sandals and the black pajamas one of the other nuns had thoughtfully laundered for her.

  “You’re leaving.”

  “Yes.”

  Cain stooped to pick up a little girl with tightly curled brown hair who had lifted her arms to him. He settled her on his hip and she laid her head trustingly on his shoulder. It was all Cat could do not to cry when several of the other children raised their arms in supplication. They were starving—not for food, but for affection. And as sweet and caring as the nuns were, there simply weren’t enough loving arms and empty laps to go around.

  “I unloaded the boat last night.” He gently patted the little girl’s back as he spoke to Sister Simone. “The powdered milk and the rest of your supplies are hidden in the roots of that same tree I’ve used before.”

  “Our gardener will bring them up to the house.” Sister Simone reached down and ruffled the hair of a toddler with round green eyes who was clinging to the skirt of her habit with one hand and sucking the thumb of the other.

  Cat’s eyes smarted with a fresh batch of tears when Cain set the little girl down and picked up a boy who’d been badly burned—when the orphanage was bombed, perhaps?—and who now carried the scars from his face to his feet.

  “I don’t know when I’ll get back,” he said as he bounced the little boy on his hip. “I need to go north again, and—”

  “We’ll get by,” Sister Simone assured him as the little girl turned and raised her thin arms to her in silent appeal.

  Her heart on the verge of breaking, Cat knelt and opened her own arms to enfold as many of the other children as she could. She was rewarded for her effort with hugs and kisses and giggles that made her wish she had the means to take all of them with her. But she didn’t, and there was no sense in lamenting what could never be.

  “Are you ready?”

  Cat released the children and looked up at Cain. He was holding the baby now, and as the children stepped back solemnly, she rose and said in a voice that was close to cracking, “I guess so.”

  He handed her the baby, then bent to kiss Sister Simone on both cheeks.

  The nun hugged him fiercely, then turned and smiled down at the baby. She cupped his little face with a loving hand and whispered, “Adieu, mon petit ange.”

  “He really is a little angel, isn’t he?” Cat replied with maternal pride.

  Sister Simone smiled serenely. “He’s a miracle in the midst of war.”

  “I’ll write to you—” Cat began.

  “Di-di mau,” Cain snapped as he slid his arms through the straps of the backpack.

  She glanced at him, perplexed. “Excuse me?”

  He gave her the polite translation. “Get moving.”

  Cat forced herself not to look back as she followed Cain to the front door. It was time to take Johnny’s baby—no, her baby—home. But as she stepped outside and, through shimmering eyes, saw the sun rising against a vivid red sky, she knew the forlorn faces of the children she was leaving behind would haunt her forever.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  At the edge of the jungle, Cain arranged the mosquito netting over her head like a bridal veil so that half of it hung down her back. But just before he covered her
face, his gaze speared into hers. “Now your only job is to hold on to the baby.”

  Cat tightened her arms and tried to wipe the thought of what lay ahead of her out of her mind. “I’ve got him.”

  She was terrified. He could see it in her white face, her fragile eyes. Yet somehow she’d found the inner strength to still her trembling lips and lift her chin in that characteristic gesture. Thinking only to reassure her that everything would be all right, he bent his head and slanted his mouth over hers.

  This kiss wasn’t hard and quick like the one he’d given her for luck the evening before. No, this kiss was so tender and so thorough that it drove Cat’s fears to the farthest recesses of her mind. Cain’s tongue delved deeply into the receptive warmth of her mouth, bathing her body with liquid heat. He didn’t physically touch her anywhere else because he was still holding the netting, but he could have been caressing her throat, teasing her nipples, parting the secret folds between her thighs, for she was tingling in all those places.

  Instinctively, her hand came up to cradle the baby’s head against her breasts. In that moment, with her hand trapped between them, she had the best of both worlds. Her new son. And the man she wished had fathered him.

  Cain knew that if he didn’t pull back, now, he’d never be able to survive without her. He had no idea how it had happened. How the simple comfort he’d meant to offer had grown into something so huge and primal and hot. As he eased out of the kiss, he only knew that he wanted her in the worst way.

  And that it was folly of the highest caliber.

  Fighting to regain both his breath and his sanity, he dropped the netting over her face. He told himself that the kiss was a mistake he wouldn’t make again as he tied the material securely around her slender waist and tucked the ends up under the knot. But once she was all trussed up, he couldn’t resist squeezing her shoulders with his hands and asking her gruffly, “You okay?”