by Sarah Monzon
He shook his head but kept his mouth shut.
Na-ah. That wasn’t how they worked. Rogers siblings were a team. A unit. Every member always on a need-to-know.
She stared at him hard.
After a minute, he pulled his hand across the back of his neck. “Look. I know Brett and he are friends and Brett trusted him with you, but twice now he’s let Mitch touch you, and in my book, there is no three strikes and you’re out. Not with my baby sister. It’s one and done.”
She reached over and smacked him on the back of the head.
“Hey!”
“I’m surprised you and Brett didn’t convince a US marshal to tow me into a safe house.”
“I’m not apologizing for wanting to keep you safe.”
“And I’m not asking you to. It’s sweet, and I love you for it, but I am asking you to treat me like an adult. One that can take care of herself.” Her hair bounced on her shoulders as she shook her head. “None of this is Michael’s fault either.”
Eli harrumphed.
“It’s not. Mitch cornered me in the bar when I had to pick up Dad from his dark day and then again after church. Both places populated. And then I, like the responsible, self-sufficient adult that I am”—Eli rolled his eyes, but she ignored it—“filed for the peace order on my own. While I love you, big lugs, you can feel free to go save the world. I can save myself.”
“Oh really?” He stooped to eye level, crowding her space. “Is that why I saw your leg going like a jackhammer and your palms were sweaty when you grabbed the coffee?”
She looked away and took another sip of the mocha. “I never said I wasn’t afraid. Just that I could handle it.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. “And just because you can handle it by yourself doesn’t mean you have to.”
Jack closed her eyes and let her brother hold her. Let his deep voice soothe her overactive nerves. He was right. She didn’t need to prove anything, to herself or others. Fighting against the help her family and Michael had offered only made her foolish.
“You’re wrong about Michael though,” she said without moving from his embrace. “He’s a good guy.”
Eli pulled away and tipped her chin. “Oh?” His hazel eyes seemed to brighten as one side of his mouth tipped.
Jack shoved his arm but couldn’t stop the warmth from flooding her cheeks.
If there had been a bell on the courthouse door, she would have been saved by it.
Mitch sauntered in.
Then again, “saved” might not be the best word.
Jack slumped back in her bench, the carefree spirit of moments before draining out of her.
“Jack. Eli.” His Jersey accent didn’t hide the sneer in his voice as he sat on a bench directly opposite them.
“Mitch.” His name as distasteful on her tongue as a maggot-ridden piece of raw meat.
Eli stayed silent, the muscles in his body tensing until he looked like a crouched tiger ready to strike.
Mitch took his gaze off Eli and placed it back on her. Gave her the heebie-jeebies.
“Didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to see me, babe.”
Her lip curled. “That’s the point, Mitch. I don’t want to see you. Ever.”
He studied his nails before looking up with a smile born of the devil. “Too bad for you, we don’t always get what we want.”
“You never did learn that no meant no.”
“I think that’s quite enough, Mitch.” Eli’s voice held a trace of threat in it.
Sunlight filtered in as the door opened once again. This time the body framing the doorway was decidedly Michael. She knew it not by his stature or the broad shoulders willing to help carry her burden or the evidence of his sacrifice-marked body. She knew it in her heart. The way it leaped at the sight of him. The peace that surrounded her at his presence.
“Sorry I’m late.” His blue eyes spoke more apology. He nodded to Eli before sitting down beside her.
“What? First your brother and now your maimed watchdog? I thought you were always saying you could fight your own battles, Jack.”
Michael’s jaw ticked in her peripheral vision. Being that he had sat on her right, she reached out her hand and threaded her fingers through his.
He turned his head and looked into her eyes, down to their interlaced fingers, and back up, his face softening but a question in his eyes.
A question she couldn’t answer other than she’d done it without thinking. And now that she held his hand, she never wanted to let go.
Mitch fumed across the way, and she could feel his heated glare.
An elderly woman with silvery hair tied up in a bun entered from a side door. “Rogers versus Stavros?”
Jack stood.
“I’m sorry, but the case currently before the judge is going over. Your case will need to be rescheduled for another time. You’ll receive a notice in the mail within a few days.” And with that she retreated the way she’d come.
Mitch stood, a smirk of victory on his thin lips. “See ya around, sugar.” He sauntered down the hall, whistling the tune of “I’ll Be Watching You.”
Jack’s body shivered involuntarily. All of this and nothing had changed. He was still out there, no doubt watching her when she wasn’t even aware.
“Shh.” Michael wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin. “I’m not going to let him anywhere near you. Don’t worry.” He pressed a kiss into her hair.
But she did worry. Not only about herself but now about Michael as well. Hale and hearty, Michael could easily overtake Mitch, even with Mitch’s underhanded ways. But now? She opened her eyes, took in the length of two pant legs. He had only recently received the prosthetic and was still learning to walk on it and couldn’t yet go unaided. Mitch could ruin him. Maim him beyond repair.
All because of her.
Chapter Twenty
England, 1944
Alice, along with the rest of her squadron, sat in front of the commander. Her silk camisole under her uniform blouse clung to her body, a rivulet of sweat trailing down her spine, making her want to reach around and scratch away the discomfort. Even with the windows open, not even a slight breeze offered a moment’s respite from the summer’s heat. She puffed out a breath, directing it toward her forehead, but the wet strand there clung stubbornly to her skin.
“Since the invasion along the coast of northern France, Allied forces have pressed onward. Casualties on both sides have been in the tens of thousands, but in order to retake Paris and then all of France, we cannot back down.” The commander paused and met the eyes of those assembled in front of him. “Fighting is heavy, and reinforcements must be unrelenting if we are going to win this war.” He turned around and considered the map of Europe pinned on a board along the wall. Rubbed his chin before rotating back around to the group. “Any mission holds risks, but with this the risks will triple. Intelligence is solid that now is a good time to deliver the needed air support, but I won’t lie—you will be flying to the front lines. Anything is possible.”
Old Man Gray, named as such for his head of thick gray hair that bespoke his sixty-two years, jumped to his feet. “What are you jabbering around here for? If those boys need more birds to fight the Nazis, then let’s take them to ’em.”
The commander smiled while pinning Old Man Gray a look. Not a fool, the elderly pilot took a seat.
“While I appreciate the enthusiasm, it would be suicide to take off without a plan.” Once more he turned to his map, pointing to the familiar outline of France’s borders. He gave detailed geographic descriptions and laid out orders.
Alice rose with the others, excitement and trepidation zinging through her limbs. Never in her life had she thought being a ferry pilot would see her so close to the front. Danger, yes. She’d seen more than her fair share—Teresa’s unfortunate death the keenest loss, but factories where the planes were manufactured and where pilots
picked them up had been bombed by the enemy as well.
Daddy always said without risk there was no reward. He meant it for financial investments, but what greater risk was there than one’s life for another? Because thousands were dying in those horrific concentration camps. The news about them had caused her to lose the contents of her stomach. If people weren’t willing to fight, weren’t willing to die, then nothing would stop the atrocity.
She followed Rose and the other women to the small area they used as a locker room. She fumbled with the buttons on her uniform and shimmed out of the drab pencil skirt, relishing a moment when the wool didn’t heat her skin. Without a word, Rose tossed her a small towel with a smile. Alice smiled back, feeling obscene joy at the little pleasure of wiping the perspiration that had wetted the hairs at the nape of her neck. Leaving the damp camisole, she stepped into her flight suit and zipped up. They helped each other into parachutes that hung down their backs and banged into the undersides of their legs.
It was a solemn affair, the ride to the factory. Everyone in their own thoughts.
If she died today, on this mission, blown out of the air with an antiaircraft missile, would her father even speak her name again, would he continue to pretend a daughter had never been born to him? The threat of which still rang in her ears all these months later.
What of Henry? Where was he this very moment? No doubt he had faced many dangerous situations in the search for truth and a story. Would something lasting become of their courtship? If one could even call their understanding such.
The plane touched down, and they disembarked. Receiving a few additional instructions, Alice and her squadron climbed into the waiting Hawker Hurricanes. She refreshed herself on the instruments by perusing the bonded note cards, then started the engine on the nose propeller. Easing onto the yoke, she maneuvered the runway and floated up into the cloud-studded sky.
After a time, the green lands below her gave way to an open ocean of shifting blues. The familiar hum and vibration of the plane lulled her into a sense of peace and safety. She shifted in the cockpit seat. Best stay on alert.
Land formed on the horizon, growing in depth the farther she journeyed. Soon villages and farms passed beneath her. The neat rows of grapevines made her want to take a deep breath and inhale the sharp scent of the fruit.
They were reaching their destination with not even a hint of opposition. The fact should have relieved her, but instead it set her on edge. Yes, reconnaissance had indicated now was the perfect opportunity, but this was the front lines of a world war. Where was all the fighting?
Flashes of light shot from the ground only seconds before her plane shook like an earthquake. Years of horseback riding and she’d never been bucked and thrown like now, her body slamming into the instruments at her side. A red ball of fire burst from her right wing. She was going down. And fast.
Survival hung on bailing. She pried the canopy open, and the wind ripped it off. Scrambling, she closed her eyes and prayed the air stream wouldn’t pull her into the tail section of the plane. Like a battering ram, the wind hit her, then sucked her back. She opened her eyes, and in frantic motions she found the rip cord to her parachute and pulled with all her might. The material unfolded and filled with air, blessedly slowing her descent to the ground below.
A loud explosion rocked the earth, flames bursting and reaching into the sky with angry fingers. Black smoke billowed up and choked her as she floated down and across the destruction of the plane.
The ground rushed up to meet her. Too fast. Like a ripe peach falling from a burdened limb, her body came in contact with the unforgiving ground. Pain ricocheted around her ankle and up her leg as she rolled and clutched her shin, trying in vain to protect the injury from further jostling. Finally, motionless, she lay and looked up into the sky.
Sweet Jesus.
The two words were a prayer. A thankful heart that couldn’t string its gratitude together. Moments collected together to form minutes. She’d needed each of them to gather her breath, her bearing on the world. Enough to realize the danger awaiting in the outskirts around her.
Pushing up to sitting, she unstrapped the parachute and tested her weight on the injured leg. Searing, knifelike pain shot into her ankle. A sprain most likely.
She looked around, eyes alert for any infantryman who might step out from behind the trees in the woods lining the meadow that housed her. Seeing none as yet, she stepped forward and bit back a cry. How was she to manage when her ankle wouldn’t support her weight?
“Over here!” The cry came in blessed English, and Alice’s tears turned to those of relief. She’d been found, and not by the Nazis.
A man in a blue Royal Air Force uniform jogged toward her.
“Are ye hurt, miss?” His thick Scottish brogue somehow matched the muttonchops bookending his face.
She nodded. “My ankle.” Already she could feel it swelling in her boot.
He bent and poked about above her foot a moment, the prodding causing her to wince whenever his finger come in contact with her skin. Standing, his large hand encased her wrist, and he pulled it over his shoulders while slipping his other arm about her waist. He supported most of her weight as they walked across the meadow.
“We’ve a few bonny nurses that can tend to ye.”
It took half of forever to make it to the makeshift base just past the meadow in which she’d crashed. They hobbled into a tent with a large red cross along the top and another on the sides. Moans drifted from a few bodies lying on cots made of rough blankets upon the ground. Antiseptic and the telling stench of infection caused Alice’s nose to scrunch. Nurses in blue service dresses—white aprons covering their entire fronts, tied at the waist, a boxy cross in red stitched at the bosom—walked with purpose around the tent, checking on patients.
The Scotsman helped Alice to a vacant chair along the perimeter of the tent.
“I’ll be right back with someone who can look at ye.”
She watched his retreating back cross the expanse of the tent as he approached a nurse referring to a chart. The woman’s chestnut hair had wisps escaping her bun beneath the white kerchief atop her head. She reached up a hand and brushed those strands from her face. She seemed to be listening to what the Scotsman said, for she was nodding her head. The man stepped aside, and the nurse looked over at Alice, their gazes colliding.
Alice’s thoughts scattered like autumn leaves on a breeze, save one.
Providence had brought her to Aunt Sybil.
She covered her gaping mouth with a hand, her lips turning from open surprise to delighted smile as her aunt nearly jogged across the distance and stopped in front of her, falling to her knees and enveloping Alice in a tender embrace.
“Oh, my sweet child.”
Her aunt’s familiar accented voice brought a fresh wave of tears to Alice’s eyes.
Sybil reached out and smoothed her niece’s hair away from her face. “What in the world are you doing over here? You’re supposed to be safe in Tennessee.”
Alice sniffed back the emotion and laughed. “And let you have all the adventures?”
“Your father must be having fits.” Sybil studied Alice so thoroughly there was no use denying it.
She shrugged. “Nothing new.”
A chuckle passed her aunt’s prim lips. “No. I suppose not.” Her shoulders rose and fell from a heavy sigh. “I’ve been told your ankle is injured from parachuting out of a downed plane.” She rose and placed her hands on her hips, the look on her face the same Alice had received as a girl when she’d been caught sneaking out of the house to attend a carnival on the other side of town.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which?”
She lifted her left foot and winced from the pressure and discomfort the slight movement caused.
Gingerly her aunt removed Alice’s boot and examined the swollen and discolored ankle. After confirming Alice’s suspicion of a sprain, her aunt wrapped it tightly in a bandage for support.
“There you are!” Rose ran into the tent and flung herself at Alice.
Moisture collected on the collar of her flight suit as Rose wept.
“When the Germans shot you out of the air, I thought you had died.”
More members of their squadron filtered in, giving Alice relieved glances or pats on the shoulder.
She squeezed Rose’s arm before gently pushing her back. “Besides a little sprained ankle, I’m fine.”
Rose worried her lip. “Do you think you’ll be able to fly one of the planes back that needs repairs?”
Alice cringed inwardly at the idea, but she made her lips curve into a convincing smile. “Absolutely.”
The tent flap flung open, letting in more light. “I heard tell there’s a story to be had in here.”
Those surrounding Alice parted.
“Henry?” Her pulse quickened at the sight of him, his curly blond hair haloed by sunlight. Even without being the only person not dressed in a uniform, he’d stand out in a crowd.
“Alice? You’re the ferry pilot who was shot down?” He rushed toward her and took up both her hands in his.
“I’m fine.” She answered his unasked question as he swept his gaze over her person, searching for evidence to the contrary.
“Are you sure?” Worry lines etched his forehead, and he reached out, smoothing her hair and tracing the back of his fingers over her cheek. “We all saw gunfire from the German front and then your plane get hit and fall. When it exploded, we weren’t sure if the pilot had survived.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “Almost lost to me, when I’ve only just found you.”
Emotion clogged her throat, but it was someone else’s that cleared behind her. Alice glanced back, heat climbing up her neck.
“Aunt Sybil, I’d like you to meet—”
“Mr. Henry Caldwell. Yes. We met the other day. Inquisitive man that asked me a slew of questions.” Her brow rose. “Of course, I thought that was newspaper business, but perhaps I was mistaken.”