by Sarah Monzon
Jack’s mouth watered as the servers exited, and the room once more held only Trent’s and Summer’s families within its walls. Well, their families and her.
“Before we dig in, I’d like to make a toast to my beautiful bride-to-be.” Trent looked down at Summer with adoration on his face. “Summer, I am a blessed man to have you by my side. You’ve changed my life, made me a better man.” He looked around the table. “As anyone here could attest.”
Adam raised his glass with a hearty “Here, here.”
“I can’t wait to embark on the greatest adventure ever with you. I love you. More than anything in the world.”
A collective “aww” circled the room. Summer dabbed at her eye before she leaned in and kissed Trent on the lips. “I love you too.”
The sweet kiss left Jack with an ache in her middle. Of their own volition, her eyes raised to look across the table. Michael turned his head, but not quick enough. Pleasure eased the band around her gut. He’d sought her out as well. The delight washed away like castles in the sand as her brain registered what her eyes hadn’t wished to see. The pain behind his gaze, determined set to his jaw, resigned slouch to his shoulders. He may have unconsciously looked to her in a tender moment, but he had consciously turned away.
Trent lifted his head with a self-satisfied grin. “Would someone else offer grace? I need to catch my breath.”
The chuckles of those around her rang in Jack’s ear. She forced breath past her lips, hoping the sound would pass for a laugh. Better than the scream of frustration mounting in her chest.
It was fitting though, wasn’t it? The girl who had never been seen as more than one of the guys was in a state of unrequited love. Except it wasn’t really that, was it? Because he did care for her, and it was because of those feelings that he couldn’t be with her…for her sake. Ugh! And men said women were confusing. He liked her. She liked him. The equation should end with them being together, not her insides feeling like they were being shredded by feral cats.
George stood and placed one hand on Trent’s shoulder and the other on Summer’s, then bowed his head. Everyone around the table followed suit, and Jack was happy to have a moment to collect herself. No way would she cry though. Not over this. She’d fight, and after, if he still refused to see the best thing for her was him, well, that would be that then, wouldn’t it? She squared her shoulders, centering her resolve and calming her emotions. Michael Carrington may have a stubborn streak as wide as Texas, but he didn’t know whom he was up against.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
France, 1944
Alice blinked her eyes slowly, hoping the movement would do two things. One, not make her head pound any more than it already was against her temple, and two, clear the fog in her brain that caused her thoughts to slog like Mississippi mud. A high-pitched ringing screamed in her ear, and her body felt like she’d been bucked off Trixie a half a dozen times and then trampled by an entire lineup of racers at the derby.
Movements minuscule, she raised her head and assessed her position. The sun cast the mountains surrounding her in silhouette, a rosy glow to the sky as a backdrop. Hours had passed since she’d dropped the bomb in the ravine. Had the ensuing rockslide been enough to stop the Germans’ advance?
Her hands shook as she fumbled with the harness strapping her to the seat. On which side of the blockade had she landed? Her heartbeat sped up. So far no one had discovered her or the downed Vengeance—which seemed miraculous all its own. Wouldn’t an explosion bring soldiers from both sides?
The latch gave, and the vinyl straps slipped from her shoulders. She needed to find shelter before the sun finished its downward trek or someone stumbled upon her location. She wasn’t keen on being caught unawares, especially not knowing in which territory she’d landed. A German bullet wasn’t a souvenir she wanted to bring home—especially one lodged in her body.
She lifted her arms to grasp the plane’s roof and gasped. Her left hand flopped limply from her wrist. As if seeing the injury pressed a button on in her brain, pain circled her wrist and ricocheted up to her elbow. She cried out and cradled her arm to her stomach.
What should she do now? Broken wrist or not, staying in the plane didn’t seem like the safest option. More like a sitting duck waiting for the hunter. A shiver shot down her spine.
Her nostrils flared as she puffed out short breaths. You can do this. You have to. Reaching up with her good hand, she grasped the metal of the roof and pulled herself out through the window. Her teeth gritted against the pain, but she couldn’t afford to release the cry building in her chest.
She paused on the wing and tried to get her bearings. A good amount of time studying maps of this region had been spent. If she could pinpoint where the plane had gone down, she’d know if she was in friendly territory or enemy.
The plane looked as if it had slid down the side of the mountain, its nose and right wing at an angle along the ground, while its left wing propped up along the slope of the base. But which mountain and which side had she slid? The shoal stacked under her and along the mountain’s side gave her pause. Instinct told her that a tree-studded foothill instead of this rocky one would not have been as kind.
Tension built in her shoulders and increased the pressure in her head. No matter how hard she stared, she couldn’t connect the dots from what she was seeing to what she remembered on the maps. She squeezed her eyes closed against the pain and then blinked rapidly. Until she knew for sure, she needed to take precautions. Act as if she was in enemy territory, because that very well might be the truth.
Gravity helped her slide down the wing, and to keep from jarring her arm too much, she made sure to bend her knees when her feet touched the ground. Even so, the impact made her want to scream out words that should never pass a lady’s lips. After a wave of dizziness passed, she scanned the area. Twenty yards or so in front of her the ground darkened under the shade of tall trees. A forest. Easier for her to get lost in, but also easier to hide.
She crouched low and dashed across the open space. One never knew when or where a sniper could be hiding. Better to make any target smaller than necessary. Twigs snapped under her shoes after she fell beneath the forest’s shadow. Stealth and speed being of equal importance, she slowed her pace. Light faded as day gave way to dusk, a smattering of stars shining through the branches. A gibbous moon offered a faint light to the forest floor, the temperatures sinking with the moon’s rising.
Her wrist ached as she held it tightly with her other hand and pressed it protectively against her stomach. The cooling night air intensified the pain as she began to shake. The list of immediate needs rose. A splint. Shelter. Warmth.
Two of the three would have to do.
She stopped walking and sent up a prayer that she was hidden enough for the night. The rough bark of a wide tree dug into her back as she leaned against it. Her pack fell to the ground, and she began unbuttoning the blouse of her uniform with her uninjured hand. Her fingers shook, and the small round buttons slipped through them more than once. Finally, the blouse fell open in the front. With great care, she slipped her arms out and let the material fall to the ground. Bumps dotted her skin as the chilliness seeped to her bones. Swift yanks untucked her camisole, and she pulled it over her head. The satin material between her teeth, she tore the undergarment into strips, hoping the hooting of an owl in the distance camouflaged the ripping sounds echoing around her.
Shaking, she donned her uniform top again, tears of frustration springing to her eyes when the buttons would not go into the holes. Pinch. Align. Push. Her tongue darted out of her mouth. Almost got it. The fabric stretched, and the button slipped out. Blast!
Every moment counted, and she couldn’t waste another on silly buttons. She fell to her knees, the ground cushioned by forest debris. Her hand brushed against damp and decaying leaves, twigs, and pine needles as she moved it in a wide arc in front of her. When her fingers brushed against a thick branch, her mouth parted in a smile, and sh
e brought the object to her side. It took a few minutes to find another limb thick enough for her needs, but eventually she procured two sticks with a girth to her liking. Placing one on top of her injured arm and the other on the bottom, she secured them into a splint with the satin strips of her camisole, tying off each knot with a tug of her teeth.
The ends of the sticks poked, and their rough edges chafed, but the support and immobilization of her wrist already made it feel a little better. With quick motions to get it over with faster, she used both hands to finish buttoning her blouse.
Now for warmth. A fire would be impossible, as she had no starter, and even if she had, the light and smoke would be a flare to all, proclaiming her location. Instead, it would be twice this week when a parachute came to her rescue. She reached for her pack and pulled it over. After fiddling with it for a few minutes, she managed to pull free the yards of nylon packed inside. Not as warm as wool or flannel, it would still help ward off the chill. She wrapped herself up in it like a cocoon and laid down on the loamy earth. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered if, like a butterfly, when she awoke she would be able to fly away free.
***
The musty scent of dirt and underbrush filled her nostrils as Alice blinked awake. Every muscle in her body protested, and she hadn’t even attempted to move yet. Sunlight streamed through the branches above her in rays of gold, causing the droplets of dew collected on her parachute-turned-blanket to glisten like sequins.
Her stomach cramped, reminding her it had been almost an entire day since she’d last eaten. Finding food and water took precedence, then maybe she could figure out where in the mountains she’d landed and how to get back to safety and ultimately to England.
She let her chin fall to her chest and to the side, stretching the taught muscles in her neck. Her head didn’t pound nearly as much as it had the day before, but there was still tension, and she ached all over. The stretches continued for her back and arms, though she was careful with her wrist, which had swollen twice its normal size and taken on a kaleidoscope of grotesque shades.
With clumsy movements, she shoved the parachute back into her pack and slung it over her shoulder, surveying her surroundings in the light of day. Every direction looked the same—endless trees, tall and straight with their high branches and broad leaves; small shoots of green grass sprouting between fallen brown leaves; spongy moss clinging to rocks and bark.
Which way should she go?
The ground sloped ahead of her. If she continued to climb, could she find a limestone cave like those near White Oak in Tennessee? A cavern would offer shelter and protection if she were lucky enough to stumble upon one.
Her stomach growled, protesting her delay. First, food. She’d spent time in the woods surrounding her family’s plantation home as a small child, leading her nanny on merry chases that always ended in fits of laughter on both their parts. Those happy days had ended all too quickly when her father deemed her of an age to put childish fancies aside and learn how to behave like a proper lady.
The memory brought a distinctive unladylike snort. How far she’d come from the southern ballrooms and fancy soirées filled with crystal wine flutes and miniature hors d’oeuvres, fake smiles hiding caged lives. Puppets on strings, marionettes every one of them. And here she was, true to herself but with a busted wrist, dirt scrubbed into every pore, hair without a single pin and in desperate need of a brush. Despite it all, despite the very real danger, she was surprised to discover she wouldn’t wish to be back in that life as long as her lungs drew breath.
One thing she did learn in her young years of freedom as a forest sprite, however, was the rules to berries. Never white, always black, sometimes red. She wasn’t sure what type of edible flora and fauna grew in France though. Would it be possible to come across a tart strawberry or sweet blueberry? Upward she hiked, eyes and ears alert. A soft breeze kicked up, and she allowed herself a moment to pause and relish the moving air across her damp skin.
Without the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath her feet, she made out a faint sound in the distance. That of falling water.
Her mouth flooded with saliva at the thought of a cool drink. With hurried paces, she followed the faint sound until it crescendoed into a wall of water dropping down fifteen feet into a pool clear as glass. She ran the rest of the way and fell to her knees, scooping the glacial cold liquid into her cupped hands and bringing them to her lips. Over and over until her thirst quenched. Sitting back on her haunches, she surveyed her surroundings. Seemed she did a lot of that lately. The stone face of the waterfall glistened with wetness, paralleled on either side with thick green foliage. Wouldn’t hurt to look around a bit. If she couldn’t find a berry patch, maybe she’d at least come across some honeysuckle or wild onions.
She pushed through the greenery, her pant leg catching on a barbed thicket. With a tug that sent her off balance, she freed the material and stumbled back, landing hard on her bum. The jarring sent shooting pains in a radius about her wrist, and she clenched her eyes until it subsided to something manageable. When she opened her eyes, her gaze landed on a cluster of blackberries hanging heavy from a low bush. She plucked the whole bunch, shoving three of them into her mouth at once. The flavor was milder than the ones grown at home, but they tasted better than anything she’d ever placed on her tongue. Her fingers turned purple as she plucked and popped blackberries into her mouth in quick succession.
Belly satisfied, she stood. No matter how much she wanted to stay where food and water were sure, she’d never find her way out of this mess if she didn’t keep moving. She picked her way out of the thicket and onto a worn deer trail. At least she hoped it was a deer trail. Did they have bear or other such creatures to fear within France’s borders? Her favorite childhood fairy tale, Beauty and the Beast, had a pack of wolves hunting in French woods.
Her throat worked at the memory. Nothing like surviving getting gunned down by antiaircraft weaponry only to die at the fangs of a ravenous family of wolves. She should have brought along a pistol for protection. Then again, she hadn’t planned on crashing her plane and being left on her own to find her way back to the Allies.
The sound of movement—leaves crunching, bushes being pushed through—met her ears. Alice froze and dropped to the ground.
Animal or man?
Voices drifted to her, words spoken in a language she couldn’t understand. French? German? Although once she thought about it, did it matter? All of France was occupied except the strip of land overtaken by the Allies, the resistance only now coming above ground since D-Day. Unless the men wore British, Canadian, or American uniforms, she couldn’t trust them enough to show herself. She strained to see through the tangle of vines, grateful that they hid her but frustrated that they also hindered her view. The voices drew nearer, and she could make out the hard sounds and colliding consonants. If that weren’t enough, one of the men came into view. A domed helmet topped his head, secured under his chin. Drab-green uniform coat, thick black belt, and puffy pants tucked into knee-length black boots had her stomach sinking to her toes. And if there had been any doubt, the red band with a swastika circling his bicep would have silenced it. Not only had she landed herself amid the Germans, but an elite SS Nazi officer stood feet in front of her.
Alice was in a load of trouble.
Chapter Thirty
Present Day, Florida
“You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you?” Adam stared down the shaft of the dart, talking but not taking his eyes off the target hanging on the wall. He leaned forward, then thrust the dart forward. Bull’s-eye. He turned around with a grin. “A complete idiot, my brother.”
Michael grabbed the neck of his Coke bottle from the edge of the pool table and took a swig before turning to Trent. “Should have rethought your best man. The one you picked is a real dud.”
Trent glanced up from racking the balls. “But a smart dud.” He lifted the triangle off the green felt. “You are an idiot.”
“We’re just calling it like we see it.” Adam let another dart fly.
Trent leaned over the pool table and took the break shot. Two striped balls landed in the left corner pocket. “Spell it out for us, because I definitely picked up something between you two.”
Michael stalked around the table to position himself in front of the cue ball. “This is not what I expected your bachelor party to look like.” He rested the cue stick on his stump and aligned the shot. Scratch.
“What can I say—I’m a reformed man.”
Adam pulled his darts out of the board. “The love of a good woman is a miraculous thing, eh?”
Miraculous? More like torturous. Michael was dying a slow death with every hope-filled glance Jackie laid upon him. Every stray touch fire to his skin. Every note of laughter a stab to his chest. And yet the thought of giving in, shackling her with someone like him, pulverized his bones under the crushing weight of guilt. If only he could go back to before the pirate birthday party, when he had been delusional and thought his life was somewhat put back together. That he would be good for someone to have in her life in a romantic way.
Only a few more days. A few more days and surely NCIS would have accrued enough evidence against Mitch for an airtight case. Then…
He forced his lungs to take in air. Then he’d let her go. He had to keep thinking, reminding himself the best thing for her. That alone would keep him on the honorable path.
“Indeed.” Trent sank another ball. He straightened and looked Michael in the eye. “What’s going on with you and Jackie?”
“Nothing.” He said the word through gritted teeth.
“Liar.” Trent and Adam spoke in unison.