Yet, here she was, clinging to life when the odds were stacked against her.
At night, when the hunger became a monster that consumed her, she wondered what her fate would be. Would she die on the thin mattress of the creaky cot in Lina’s barren home? Would she somehow forge a new life in Germany after the war? Would the side that won allow her to? When exhaustion eventually overcame her worries, she dreamed of fire. Of seeing Marina in the wreckage. Of breathing burning flesh.
And then she’d wake to wonder, yet again, why she’d been given one more day.
One more endless day filled with hunger and fear.
Until it wasn’t.
On a bright afternoon, when the sun sat high in the sky, motor vehicles rolled down what was left of the village’s main road. There were several of them—more than enough to make a noise that jarred the landscape and drove Natasha to scream inside her head.
As they made their way down the street in a convoy, a voice called out in German over a speaker with words she couldn’t understand. And with Lina gone, she had no one to translate.
All Natasha could do was hide in the tiny house and peek through a crack in the boarded-up windows. Her heart racing and breathing shallow, she scanned the street, searching for a clue as to what she’d have to endure next. That’s when it registered—the symbols on the cars weren’t Nazi. Instead, one lone white star was emblazoned on the side of each vehicle.
The Allies had arrived.
Relief was a tidal wave that knocked Natasha off her feet. Hunger and exhaustion overwhelmed her as she fell, and she was unconscious before she hit the floor.
When she came to, she found herself surrounded by soldiers speaking in languages she didn’t understand. Gathering what little strength she had left, Natasha scrambled away from them and into the corner beside the empty cupboard. Her starved brain struggled to understand something, anything, about what was happening. Was the war over? Were the Allies fighting nearby?
Natasha kept her lips clamped tight for fear she’d blurt out information that would get her sent to Stalin. No one could learn she was Soviet. Not ever. The men held up their hands in a gesture of peace, their smiles hesitant in a way that signaled their intent to reassure. But all she saw was a group of soldiers she didn’t understand and the risk of being exposed.
From the back of the room, near the door, someone shouted in German. The only words she understood were ‘Lina’ and ‘Lithuanian,’ and then, as though the Red Sea parted before him, a man made his way toward her.
He crouched on his haunches in front of her, his smile gentle. “Are you Lithuanian?” he asked in the language.
Natasha didn’t trust that her accent wouldn’t betray her, so instead of replying, she nodded.
“We’re with the Allied forces,” he said. “The war is over, the fascists defeated, and we’re here to help. Can you tell me how you came to be here?”
She jerked back, her head striking the wooden shelf, but she barely felt it. The war was over? Could it be true?
The man seemed to know what she was thinking and addressed her concern. “The Nazis surrendered weeks ago. We”—he gestured to his colleagues—“are trying to deal with the mess they left behind. I swear to you. This isn’t a joke. The war truly is over.”
Natasha hardly dared believe him. She tried to wet her dry, cracked lips, to ask him to explain again, but it was impossible. The man turned to the men beside him and spoke in another language.
A few seconds later, one of them handed him a water canteen, which he offered to her. “Please,” he said. “Drink.”
Unable to look away from the impossibly blue eyes that had captured hers, she took the canteen with shaking hands. The water was heaven on her dry tongue, and she wanted to gulp it down, but she didn’t. Instead, she sipped at it, aware that others might need some too.
They had no water pump in the village, and the pipes were damaged, so rainwater collected in empty pots was their only water supply. Everyone in the village had suffered from the clear blue skies of the past week as their water rations ran out. Fearing she’d drink too much if she kept it, Natasha offered the bottle back to the man.
He shook his head. “You need more, and we have plenty. Drink your fill.”
It was a gift that would have made her weep—if she’d had any fluid to spare for tears. The man waited patiently while she drank, waving at his fellow soldiers to tell them they could leave. By the time she’d finished every last drop of water in the canteen, only the man who spoke Lithuanian and another, with a white armband emblazoned with a red cross, remained.
She handed him the empty bottle with a whispered thank you in Lithuanian.
“We have food outside,” the man said. “When you’re ready, we can get some. It’s only bread and soup, but it will help.”
He might as well have offered her manna from heaven, and Natasha found she could cry after all. Hastily, she swiped at the stray tear on her cheek.
“Can you tell me how you came to be in Germany?” he asked again. “It’s a long way from Lithuania.”
Panic almost stole her breath. She didn’t want to lie to the man who’d been so kind to her, but she couldn’t tell the truth. All she could do was give him Lina’s story. “When my village was wiped out in the war, I had nowhere to go but to my cousin Lina.”
A subtle shift in his expression that she couldn’t identify made her suspect he didn’t quite believe her. “Then you have no home to return to?” he asked.
Natasha stared into those clear blue eyes and gave him the truth, hoping her accent wouldn’t set off alarm bells for him. “There’s nothing left for me in my country. If I return, it will only be to danger and death.”
“We have a place you can go until we find you a new home. We’ve set up housing for everybody we find displaced by the war. Once you’re there, we can look into sending you back to another part of Lithuania. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
No. No, it wouldn’t. The Soviet Union controlled Lithuania. It would only be a matter of time before someone discovered she’d been a bomber pilot shot down during the war. They would brand her a traitor and send her to Stalin. She’d be tortured to find out what, if anything, she’d told the enemy, and then, if she was lucky, they’d send her to the Gulag. If not, they’d execute her.
“Can you stand?” the man asked, rising to his feet. “Here, let me help. We’ll get you some food and take down your details before we assign you to a camp.” He held out his hand to her.
Natasha grasped it as if it were a lifeline. When he would have led her out of the room after the red cross man, she used what meager strength she possessed to hold him back. Understanding eyes met hers.
“I can’t go back. They’ll kill me. Please, don’t send me back.” It was only after she’d spoken and registered the shock on his face that she realized she’d used Russian instead of Lithuanian. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The lack of food had dimmed her mind, making it difficult to think straight.
“You’re Soviet.”
There seemed no point in denying it now—all she could do was nod.
He lowered his voice and spoke in perfect Russian. “There are no women in the Red Army. Were you spying?”
“I flew bombers.”
He blinked as though surprised. “I’ve heard about the female squadrons. You were a Night Witch?”
She nodded again, her hand tightening on his. “I was shot down, and that’s considered traitorous in the Kremlin. I won’t survive an interrogation.”
His jaw clenched and unclenched as anger flashed in his eyes. She feared he thought her a coward.
Natasha flinched. “Please, I can be useful. I’m an engineer. I’ll go anywhere except the Soviet Union. I’ll do anything.” Her stomach spasmed at the knowledge of what she was offering. What she would do to remain out of Stalin’s clutches.
“No,” he said. “You won’t.”
The man raised his voice and called to someone outside the building. Na
tasha didn’t understand what he’d said, but she suspected he was about to hand her over to the Soviets. Why would he do otherwise? She was nothing to him, merely another displaced person in a war that’d displaced millions.
“Let’s get you some food,” he said in Lithuanian as he led her over to the door.
“Why aren’t you speaking Russian?” she asked, confused.
“Why would I speak Russian to a Lithuanian?” His smile almost took her back to the floor. He must have felt her knees give way because he wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up. “We’ve been searching for an engineer. You’d better eat up and regain your strength—there’s a need in one of the camps. From there, we can find you a new home.” He paused, as though thinking something through. “A lot of Lithuanian refugees are relocating to Scotland. Maybe that would suit you too.”
Natasha clung to him as they stepped out into the dazzling afternoon sunlight. “Thank you,” she whispered in Lithuanian. “Thank you, Mr.…”
“Baxter.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Ben Baxter.”
12
“This is wonderful,” Delia gushed as she took the clothes out of the suitcase Katya had just put them into, refolded them, and put them back. “I knew if you and Brodie spent some time together, you’d want to patch things up.”
“It’s not like that, Mum.” Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell her mother they were faking their reconciliation, because Delia couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.
Her mother threw a T-shirt at Katya’s head while practically dancing on the spot. “Then what do you call this? You’re moving in with him! If that isn’t a sign you’re getting back together, I don’t know what is.” She picked up the T-shirt from where it’d landed on the floor and folded it again. “I can’t wait to tell everyone at amateur dramatics. They’ll be over the moon too. They all agree that you two shouldn’t have split up in the first place.”
“All of them?” Katya cocked an eyebrow at her mother, knowing full well she was exaggerating for dramatic effect. It was what she did best.
Delia waved a hand. “Away with you. Nothing you say could ruin my mood today.”
“This is a bloody stupid idea.” Her scowling father stood in the doorway as if planning to physically block her exit. “I have nothing against Brodie as a person, but he made a terrible husband. Why would you go back to someone who doesn’t support your dreams? I didn’t raise an idiot.”
“You didn’t raise her at all,” her mother said. “You were too busy painting.”
One look at her father and Katya knew there was no point in trying to reason with him—he was wearing his mourning tartan, the Black Watch.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” she assured him. “If it isn’t, I’ll go after Brodie with a shotgun.”
“Promise?” he demanded gruffly. “And not with that sissy buckshot—real bullets this time.”
“I promise.” She gave him a hug, breathing in that combination of turpentine and oil that had followed her through her childhood.
“Don’t worry, Mr. S,” Denise said as she sneaked past Fraser and into the room, where she opened the cupboard door in the corner and pulled out three suitcases. “I’ll be there to watch over them.”
Katya pointed at the cases. “Didn’t you arrive with two?”
“Didn’t you promise me you’d throw out all the shirts you own that have oil smudges?”
“I only said that to shut you up. If I didn’t have these shirts, what would I wear?” Honestly, Katya didn’t see what the big deal was with her wardrobe—it worked. It was functional, and none of her bits were hanging out. What more was there?
“Oh!” her mother said. “You’re right, Denise. How did I miss that? This won’t do. You can’t move in with Brodie without some pretty clothes and sexy nighties.”
“Woman!” Her dad’s head turned beetroot red. As far as he was concerned, his daughter couldn’t even spell the word sex, and that was how it would always be.
“It’s okay.” Delia patted Katya’s arm in reassurance. “I’ll go to the lingerie shop to pick you up something nice, and then I’ll drop it off later.”
Great. Her mother had already found a reason to come visit her at Brodie’s, and it’d only been twenty minutes since she’d informed her parents she was moving.
“Maybe you could pick her up something to wear that didn’t come free with a keg of beer,” Denise, the traitor, said to her mother.
The two women considered Katya, shaking their heads.
“I wish she had your dress sense,” Delia told Denise. “Honestly, I don’t know where I went wrong. By the way, I love that jumpsuit you’re wearing; that ruby color really brings out your skin tone marvelously. Wherever did you get it?”
“Right, that’s it.” Katya herded everyone toward her childhood bedroom door. “Everybody out. I need peace to finish packing.”
“Maybe we could shop now,” Delia said to Denise.
“I’m leaving in five minutes,” Katya called after them. “With or without you, Denise!”
Her dad lingered after the others had gone down the stairs. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
It was awful to see him so worried. “I’m doing the only thing I can do right now. Trust me, it will all work out.”
With an unconvinced shake of his head, he left Katya to her packing. She closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of her bed, letting out a long breath. Her visit to the solicitor had been one hit after another. First, the news that Catherine Baxter wasn’t done coming after the Savage family and the land Ben gifted Brodie and her. Then, the “suggestion” that she and Brodie reconcile—when they all knew Lawrence meant “fake being properly married.” And finally, the news that her great-grandmother—the war hero and woman Katya believed would bring respectability to their family name—was potentially a bigamist.
Any one of the things she’d learned in that office would send her parents into a tailspin they’d never come out of, but three bombshells? If they found out about all of them, her dad would lock himself in his studio and only surface to eat. And her mother, well, she’d probably write a one-woman show about the scandals that rocked the Savage family and then take it on the road.
“What am I doing?” she whispered to the ceiling.
Unsurprisingly, no wisdom was forthcoming.
With a sigh, she mentally reviewed Lawrence’s plan. A private hearing between the various lawyers and their clients would take place the following week. By then, Katya and Brodie had to be able to fool everyone into thinking they’d rekindled their relationship.
She’d have more chance of convincing everyone she could fly just by flapping her arms.
With a groan, Katya pulled her phone out of her pocket, opened her banking app, and checked her balances. Yep, she was still pretty much broke. If she couldn’t set up her business on that land, she wouldn’t be able to afford anywhere else for years. Which meant going off again to take jobs flying anything and anyone until she’d made enough money to return to Invertary and buy another piece of land—if there was even one available by then.
It had taken her years to scrape together enough to buy the Soviet bomber. Longer than it probably should have, but Katya had also been searching for other memorabilia to put in her museum, and that took cash too. Even then, when she’d finally managed to get her hands on a plane, the only one she’d been able to afford had been in such a state it’d taken a year to restore it. And that had included calling in every favor owed to her.
All she had left was a small amount of savings. Barely enough to cover the cost of building a shed large enough to house the collection of war memorabilia she’d built up over the years—and keep her plane out of the harsh Scottish weather.
Man, she needed to find a job. One flexible enough to allow her to run her museum and fly any tourists prepared to take a chance on a plane made of balsa wood.
She threw herself back onto the bed and groaned loudly. “W
hat am I doing?” she asked the empty room.
“I don’t know,” her brother replied through the wall. “Women are a mystery. Even when you’re related to them.”
Katya was still laughing hysterically when Denise came to see what was holding her up.
“I don’t quite understand why you think having you and Katya living with two of your brothers will convince Kitty Baxter you’re back together.” Bain leaned in the doorway, watching Brodie change his bedsheets.
“It’s here or Katya’s parents’ house. It’s no’ like we can go out and rent a place to share for the duration.” Brodie smoothed down his duvet. That was as good as it was going to get. “This is Invertary; there are no houses for rent right now, and unless we want to hole up in the hotel above the pub, this is the best we can do.” He gathered up his bedding and faced his brother. “You and Darach could always go live with Ma and Da until this is over.”
Bain was laughing too hard to answer, so Brodie pushed past him and headed back downstairs to shove his laundry in the machine.
When he walked into the kitchen, it was to find three more of his brothers seated at the table. He was fairly certain that if his oldest brothers had been able to get away from work, they would have made the trip to Invertary to be there too.
“If this is an intervention, you can take it elsewhere. Pretending our marriage is on the mend is the only play we have to keep the land.” Brodie crossed the room and stuffed his sheets into the front-loading washing machine under the counter.
“This isn’t an intervention,” Darach said. “It’s an audience.”
“Aye.” Kade, Darach’s fraternal twin, grinned. “We’ve got to see this.”
“We thought we’d act as judges,” Conall added. “Let you know how your performance is going and whether people will believe it.”
“I plan to make scorecards,” Kade added.
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