Who Do You Trust? (17 page)

To belong somewhere.

Was it too late now? Was she too damaged to trust, as she’d always thought? Had he been alone too long? Was his love truly based in the past, for the girl she’d been?

Two days, Lissa.

All she knew was she wanted that same chance—a chance to make up for the past. She could give him what she had to give, here in this place where life could be snuffed out in an instant’s deadly hail of gunfire. “It’s beautiful, Mitch. Can I keep it?”

His deep, dark eyes came to life. “Always. It’s yours, Lissa. No matter what.”

She tilted her head, as the unmistakable strains of lilting viin and mandolin floated out to them in wild harmony. “Why are they playing Irish music?”

Obviously willing to be diverted, he grinned. “The owner’s an expat Irish-Australian with a stubborn streak a mile wide and a thirst for trouble. Paul O’Donnell built this place after the oil explorations started last year. He said he’d make a mint with the war sure to follow. Wait till you meet him—probably at dinner, since he sleeps all day. He’s the craziest guy I ever met.” He used a small towel from his backpack to wipe the makeup off his face, then handed it to her, waiting until she’d finished before opening the doors. “We have to be respectable now.”

She blinked when he pulled the bike up the steps and inside. Mitch raised his brows and tilted his head.

At least four people were following them, their eyes fixed with unabashed greed on the bike; but they stopped outside the pub, then slunk off when two enormous, rifle-toting men guarding the doors stepped forward, with menacing looks on their faces.

“Most of these people don’t have any form of motorized transport to get ’em out when the crap hits the fan,” Mitch murmured as they walked with Hana toward the makeshift reception area. “Push bikes are the traditional form of getting around in Tumah-ra. This bike, rough as it looks, is worth gold to families on the run…and those looters outside will do what they have to, to get this bike, to sell to someone or to escape on. Keep your rifle in sight at all times outside this pub. Those security guards could be militia sympathizers, and no matter who or what they are, they’ll grab the bike when it all starts, for an easy escape if nothing else.”

She felt sad, sick wanting to help but not knowing how. “Why don’t the people here get out while they can?”

“Where do you suggest they go?”

She looked at him, helpless and half pleading. “Surely there’s somewhere—”

“This is the last bastion. If the rebels grab it before the UN troops arrive—and that’s still not guaranteed until the next sitting—they’ll offer a deal for control of the oil that would make the West think twice about interfering in the war.”

It made appalling sense. She shuddered but remained quiet as Mitch signed them into the pub and lifted the bike up to their second-floor set of rooms.

Hana, worn out with the day’s excitement, fell asleep as soon as she’d eaten, had a bath and lain down on her bed. Freshly showered from her makeup and mud, Lissa watched her, aching.

She’d seen all this as a wonderful adventure only yesterday, a way to prove her courage to Mitch. Now she just wanted to see Jenny, Matt and Luke. To hold her little girl, to hug her boys. To be safe at home, where, if she didn’t want to know the realities of life for people living only a few hundred miles from Australian borders, she just switched off the TV. Where newscasts of war and destruction and rape still had the sense of Hollywood unreality and she could give comfortable donations to appeals and feel better about her own cozy existence.

Dear God, what did that make her?

“It’s okay, Lissa. We all go through this first time out.”

he turned to Mitch, just out of his own shower, not bothering to ask the obvious question.

He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “The grief. The self-hate for having in abundance what these people don’t—what so many people in the world will never have, simple peace and security. Hating yourself for all your petty fears and doubts, while these people struggle just to survive, to save their kids from rape, torture and gunfire. Hating that you’ve ever whined over not being able to afford a big-screen TV, while others dream of clean water and a bowl of rice, or for their families to come out of that shallow grave. It’s all too real here. You want to save the world—or at least this part of it—and suddenly you know you can’t. And you feel so damn inadequate.”

A single tear streaked down her face. “Does it go away?”

“It’s unpredictable. For some it gets less. They become angry or anesthetized—either works to help them do what they have to do to stop the war or get people out. It’s not much, but for that one person you’ve saved, that one family you’ve reunited, it means the world. And that’s the only world we can save.”

Hana stirred in her sleep, sighing softly. “Did it work for you?” Lissa whispered.

His eyes met hers. “Would you like a nice lie here? If I give you a catalog of my dreams and nightmares, will you accuse me of trying to push you out of the Nighthawks so you’ll live a nice, safe life in Breckerville with me?”

She sighed. “I don’t think I need a word picture.”

“No. Trust me, you don’t.” He drew her out of the bedroom into the sitting area. “Hana’s safe enough here. Let’s go down and eat—Sarah.”

“Are you sure Hana’s safe?”

“The maid on this floor’s coming to sit with her. She’ll get more food if she asks for it or bring her down to us if she gets distressed.” He held out a hand to her, his gaze questioning.

You’re on your honeymoon. You can’t keep your hands off each other.
After a moment she put her hand in his. “Okay, Alan.”

The back of the pub looked like an ordinary Australian beer garden, a small wilderness with a long open deck and wooden trestles set up in rough table-and-chair mock-ups. The place was all but full, with people of almost all nations laughing, smoking, eating and drinking, clapping along with the sweet wildness of the violins, piano and percussion being played just off center of the deck on a ministage. A few children danced with each other, or were swung by their smiling fathers. Wildflowers grew all around, adding a gentle scent to the steamy jungle town.

Just like any ordinary Sunday afternoon at the pub—except for the dull booming sounds and guns clattering. Far enough to be safe for now…but not for long.

The hidden desperation reflected beneath the laughter in everyone’s eyes.

Mitch sat at a spare table as if nothing was abnormal—but then, war zones were almost an everyday occurrence for him. “I can recommend the steak and Guinness pie. It’s an Irish specialty I can never resist. You want a beer, Sarah?”

She thought quickly, then clucked at him. “You know I don’t like beer, Alan.”

“When in Rome, sweetheart. Come on, you wanted an adventurous honeymoon—and trust me, there’s no wine here you’d care to drink. It’s beer or cola, basically.”

“Okay,” she sighed. “Let the adventure begin. Beer it is.”

With a smile he chucked her under the chin. “Good girl.” Gently, oh, so soft, he claimed her lips.

Mindful of their mission, “Sarah” snuggled into his lap and kissed him back…but Lissa was the one who gloried in the feel of his swift, hard reaction to her touch, Lissa who wriggled against him to take in more.

“Baby, we’re in public. There’s kids watching us,” he whispered into her mouth.

Panting a little she nodded. “Tonight?”

“What’ll you folks have—besides each other, that is?”

Mitch grinned up at the laughing publican, a tall, lanky man who reminded her of a big, red-haired, brown-eyed, cheerful dog. “G’day, Paul. Besides my wife, I’ll have a heavy-duty beer and the Guinness pie special.”

Lissa smiled up at the cheerful man in his early forties. “Light beer and the pie, please.”

“Righty-ho, Missus Sinclair.”

The pie was as delicious as Mitch claimed, and the strange combination of dark-beer gravy and melt-in-the-mouth steak with chips seemed to fit the pub, the people, the life they were living, holed up in a little town awaiting devastation.

Paul returned after a waiter took their plates away, handing Mitch a beer and a cola to replace Lissa’s almost untouched drink. “So, you up for a game of pool anytime soon, Al?”

Mitch gave him a withering look. “I’m on my honeymoon. What do you reckon?”

Paul laughed. “Ah, but I have a few tricks you don’t know—new tricks for the game of the century.”

“Right-oh,” Mitch grumbled. “Later. Now can I get back to kissing my wife?”

“Not yet, matey. You’ve got to sing for that supper. Hey, everyone, look who’s back for a song!”

Mitch groaned as the raucous clapping chant for a song began. “You love to do this to me, don’t you?”

Paul grinned, unrepentant, just like a big, loping dog with a Frisbee imploring its master for a game. “Bet your lovely wife doesn’t even know your talents, does she?”

“I’d like her to know
some
of my talents, if you get my meaning. And trust me, we don’t need an audience.”

Paul spluttered with laughter, then turned to Lissa. “Did you know your husband has the voice of an angel?”

Lissa turned to Mitch. “And you hid this from me for seventeen years, for what reason?” Correctly interpreting his red-faced, she joined the clapping. “Song. Song. Song!”

“No way. Not in front of you. I can’t!”

Sensing he was about to bolt, she kissed him, gentle and sweet. “Sing for me?” she whispered. “For
me.
Don’t sing in front of me. Sing
to
me.”

He groaned. “Baby, don’t do this to me!”

She held his face in her hands. “My restless warrior and wandering prince, who flies into war zones and risks his life to save people, is afraid to sing a little song?”

“Song! Song! Song!” The chant went on, as a hundred wretched souls sought entertainment before they became living targets. Distant gunfire accompanied the lilting violins, adding a touch of wild despair every person wanted to hide. “Song, song, song!”

His eyes glittered. “I’ll get you for this, Mrs. Sinclair.” Aloud he yelled, “What about a dance first? My wife does a mean Irish jig and riverdance.”

It was her turn to panic as the enthusiastic chant changed to “Dance, dance, dance!”

“No! Mi—Alan, how could you? We’re in a war zone, and you want me to do a
jig?
I can’t do it. I can’t!”

He laughed and nuzzled her lips. “Hmmm. Courage deserts when you’re the one under fire, huh? So my brave Countrygirl who could kick my arse black-and-blue can’t do one little dance? I haven’t seen you dance since your parents took me to that Eisteddfod in Bathurst when you were fifteen.”

“I can’t! I haven’t danced in fifteen years. I’ll fall on my face.”

“Dance! Dance! Dance!”

The band struck up a classic jig.

Mitch pushed her toward the empty dance area. “Forget your fears, darlin’. Remember, these people could die tomorrow,” he murmured, pushing her along. “Dance for them. Let them enjoy it. Help them
live
what time they have left.”

Again he made terrible, appalling sense. She looked around, to the bright, laughing masks covering the hopeless despair, and found a courage she’d thought long dead. She pulled off her sandals and, barefoot and wearing a simple sundress, she walked to the makeshift stage.

Crazy. Surreal. Pitifully inadequate. But she did it. Fifteen years out of practice, she performed an awkward, half-forgotten jig for the audience as they stamped and cheered and laughed, and kids ran around her, trying to imitate her steps. Mitch watched her, his eyes warm and soft with affection and approval and faith. The faith that told her he’d known all along she’d overcome her insecurity over making a fool of herself and help these people forget the storm inching closer by the hour.

Like lightning in the distance, gunfire crackled.

So she danced again, a riverdance-style line dance. And one by one, kids came up to learn from her. Then the women. Even a few men.

Then Mitch got up to join her, still smiling—and his feet followed the steps she’d taught him long ago on a golden summer afternoon, in a foolish, half-embarrassed attempt to make him dance with her, if only once. Even if they didn’t touch. Making a memory to hold inside her when he was gone, long after he’d forgotten the steps.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

Sweetness shattered inside her, telling her lonely, stubborn heart how stupid it had been, holding on to the hurt of what had gone before. The past was there. It would always be there between them…and the beauty easily bore the pain on its shoulders. Their past held so much more of joy than rejection. Oh, how could she have forgotten the cherished memories of childhood love—the love that would always belong only to Mitch?

Dancing yet not touching, amid a crowd of desperate strangers in the last oasis inside a war zone, surely was the strangest time she would ever know for a personal revelation. But life was like that, strange and unexpected and horrific and lovely, comedy amid tragedy, laughter and tears intermingling.

And love.

She belonged to Mitch. It was as simple, as beautiful and as scary as that. That was why she clung to the idea of becoming a Nighthawk. She wanted to share every part of his life, his pain and sorrow and the memories he couldn’t outrun as much as his passion and joy. She wanted to be his woman, in every sense of the word. To be not just his haven or the mother of his children, or even his lover. Mitch and Lissa, Skydancer and Countrygirl. A partnership based in reality, in sharing all of their life—not the kind she’d had last time or the kind her parents had, even now.

If only in the next two days she could convince him of that—to make him
want
her to be a Nighthawk. Beside him at all times. Trusting her to be a true partner.

The music came to an end. “More! More!”

Needing to think, she laughingly rejected the attempt and sat at their table, sipping her cola.

“Try a sailor’s hornpipe,” Paul yelled, carrying out another round of drinks.