The cabin door faced the west, and I paused, shifting to clutch the water pail with both hands. The sun had already sunk behind the rolling line of hills, but its rays still caught the scattered clouds, painting them subtle shades of pink, lavender and slate in the clear Arctic twilight. Below, where the sloping bank met the broad expanse of the Tanana River, the smooth water reflected the colors of lucid sky, tracing a meandering trail of pastels between the dark hills.

The shortening days, the ragged line of sandhill cranes overhead, the frost-wilted vegetation, all marked the turning of the year. The birch trees burned a rich gold through the gathering dusk. The evening breeze, carrying the scent of dying leaves and wood smoke, had a decided bite to it. The earth was poised on the brink of the great night of winter and in my mind, I could almost feel the tilting axis preparing to pitch us into darkness toward the winter solstice. The cold echoed in the hollows of my bones. Was I ready to face the bitter emptiness that signaled the death of yet another year?

Death. So much death in the recent past...

The cold metal of the pail's handle cut into my hands, and the ache called me back to my chores. The cabin's interior, though cramped, held welcomed warmth. As I went through the motions of pouring water and stoking the wood stove, I found my thoughts flying southward on the wings of the cranes, remembering a time when heat had filled my world as cold now did.

Africa. It had only been six years ago, but the memories now seemed like half-recalled images from a previous lifetime. Basking in the heat from the fire, I let the memories come....

I had not been prepared for Africa. The intense sun, the heat that seemed to clog the lungs like water and the swirl of cultures, languages and history that was Cairo. Heady stuff for a sixteen-year-old. I bounced along in Kip's wake, overwhelmed and dazed.

I could have easy been infatuated by my father's younger brother-had I not known him too well. Hair bleached radiantly blonde from years under the tropical sun, bronzed skin kissed with gold, and smoky blue eyes--Christopher McGinnis left a trail of besotted women behind him.

He might have been arrogant if he wasn't so blindly unaware of his own attractiveness. A professor of geology at the University of Washington, his sole purpose for being seemed to be his research--that was the passion of his life. In the years I was his shadow, I never saw Kip involved with any woman longer than a month. His discipline was a jealous mistress, and demanded all his focus.

We had traveled to Egypt, in the closing days of 1941, in pursuit of ancient Ice Ages. Odd to look for traces of glaciation in the Sahara, but that was Kip 's mission. Based on the theories Wegener and Milankovitch, Kip was endeavoring to find evidence of ancient ice sheets in the geological structures of the desert. He had planned the journey for several years: taken a sabbatical from his classes at the University, purchased and learned to pilot a used Taylorcraft, even had the aircraft shipped to Egypt and outfitted with long-range fuel tanks. He wasn't about to let a war intervene.

So we found ourselves in a Cairo jolted from its timeless languor by the hustling of troops and the movement of materials. War raged over the portions of the Sahara Kip had planned to visit, so he spent his time compiling facts on the areas and seeking out similar regions in Egypt that were still accessible. Often he would disappear for a day or two, only to return with promises from governmental officials or mysterious maps bartered off some unnamed desert tribesmen. With increasing frequency, he conferred with soldiers who had traversed the areas he was interested in visiting. That was how Sergeant Jack Moffitt came into our lives.

My familiarity with Kip's handsome obtuseness should have inured me, been proof against my infatuation, but from the moment Jack Moffitt entered our world, my mind was clouded by his presence. In truth, I was overdue for an adolescent hormonal rush. In my role as Kip's protegee, I had affected a bored cynicism in matters of romance, a cynicism born of ignorance. That carefully crafted air of sophistication melted one afternoon in February of 1942.

As usual, Kip had staked out a table at the El Seraya Coffee House, not far from the Semiramis Hotel on the Corneiche El Nil. He covered the table it with books, papers, and maps while I curled in the corner, skimming a biography of Elizabeth Burton and nibbling an anise-flavored cake.

"Kip?" A tall, dark-haired man in the sand-pale uniform of British desert troops stood silhouetted against the brightness of the day.

"Jack!" My uncle's face split into a smile of genuine pleasure. He leaned across his scattered papers to grasp the Brit's hand in his own. "I can't believe you are really here!"

"I can scarce believe it myself at times..." His tone became wistful. "It's not at all like the old days, is it?"

"This will pass," Kip replied, waving our guest into an empty chair. "When the war is over, the desert will remain."

"Yes, the desert will be here-I just hope we are as well," the dark-haired man said with a flicker of humor. His eyes met mine in question.

"Oh, yes, Jack...my niece, Cameron," Kip made casual introductions. "Cami, this is Jack Moffitt, Ph.D. I met him when I was in Cambridge in '39."

To my adolescent eyes, he was too marvelous to exist in this dull, dusty world. Skin tanned the perfect shade to set off the whiteness of those un-Englishly perfect teeth, a mouth that curved into a sensuous smile of it's own volition, luxurious dark hair that showed a tendency to curl at its longer ends. But those eyes--liquid fire! Dark and knowing, intelligent, glowing with good-humor, and framed with lashes that I would have envied, had I not been too befuddled to think at all.

"Ah, Miss McGinnis," His hand--tanned, warm, strong--captured mine, and to my horror and delight, he leaned over it, lips pressing it's chapped skin with a stab of heat. "Kip neglected to mention that you were a budding beauty!" He turned to Kip, too soon to see the blush that made me feel ungainly, blotched. "Really, McGinnis, you shouldn't drag a pretty young girl around this part of Cairo!"

Yes, one would think that living as Kip's satellite had inoculated me against the charms of devastatingly handsome men. Not true. Perhaps, in his beauty, Jack Moffitt seemed exotically different from my young uncle, darkness to his light. I see now, in retrospect, that they shared many traits--not only physical beauty but also keen intellect, a certain passion for living...and a total inability to take me seriously.

That was the first of many meetings throughout 1942. Jack Moffitt, former scholar, was now a sergeant with the British Eighth Army and on loan to an American commando unit. When his duties and time permitted, he would look Kip up for intellectual stimulation. I got my stimulation just sitting in the shadows, watching and listening. I gathered from his conversations with Kip that he spent most of his time behind German lines, harassing and sabotaging the Afrikakorps. Dangerous work, but in my innocence, I thought it sounded exciting, just the sort of dashing thing Jack would do. As he recounted summaries of his latest adventures, I would watch the movement of the smoothed, tanned muscles of his throat, the eloquent gestures of his long-fingered hands, or just bask in the soothing sound of his voice. If Kip noticed my distraction, he said nothing.

---

In April, I had the opportunity to meet Jack's colleagues when Kip flew out to the edge of the Western Desert. At the time, my uncle told me he was surveying the lay of the land, getting a feeling for the geology of the Qattara Depression and its environs. I was too naïve to question him, even as we flew a mere hundred feet above the rippled sands and limestone outcroppings, out toward the wasteland where world powers were engaged in mortal combat.

A few hours out of Cairo, Kip put the Taylorcraft down on the gravelly surface of a narrow wadi and we were met by a band of scruffy-looking Americans...and Jack Moffitt. Later I would become better acquainted with his team, but then I only had eyes for the tall Brit. The others were just background noise. A lanky farm boy in a GI helmet sat in one of the Jeeps, watching with an air of infinite patience. A blonde, bespectacled college kid leaned against the other Jeep and its impressive looking armament, giving me the eye. The eye the team leader gave me from underneath his bush hat wasn't nearly as friendly. The wiry, dark-haired sergeant tossed aside the cigarette he had been smoking and marched up to my uncle with a no-nonsense air.

"What the hell is she doing here?" he demanded.

Kip looked momentarily startled. "She's my niece. She goes where I go."

The sergeant regarded me with undisguised hostility. "Your niece...?"

"Really, Troy..." Jack Moffitt said quietly.

Sergeant Troy turned back to my uncle. "Whoever she is, I thought you were supposed to be a smart man, McGinnis. This is no place for a kid."

A kid. Apparently, I looked younger than my sixteen years and throughout my African sojourn, my youth would shroud me as surely as a Muslim woman's chaddor. Resigned to being talked around, not to, I drifted away from the group of men, taking care to put the bulk of the aircraft between myself and the hostile glare of Sergeant Troy.

I was annoyed at Kip for putting me in this situation, so typical of him. I think he saw me as an extension of himself, and thought I should be welcomed anywhere he went. It never occurred to him that anyone would object to this. With a sigh, I trailed my fingers along the T-craft's skin, rubbing idly on a rough spot just behind the cockpit where two pieces of glue-saturated fabric were overlain. I was glad Kip had brought me. I had wanted to see Jack's world, the seemingly endless stretches of sand, broken only by wind-scarred limestone and the stunted black branches of camel's thorn. I wanted to understand what his life was like, out in the rough desert. I could endure the unfriendliness of Jack's colleagues for the chance to be closer to him.

My musing was brought up short when I recognized Jack's soft voice.

"I say, are you out of your mind, McGinnis? Bringing the child with you?" I took a quick peek through the cockpit windows. Moffitt and my uncle were standing near the wing on the opposite side of the plane, oblivious to my presence.

"It will be fine, Jack. We are in no real danger. And I do plan to do some exploring in the Qattara, time permitting."

"Kip, you know, this war has little respect for civilians..."

"Look, she makes an effective beard for me. Precisely because no one would believe I'd bring my niece along if I were engaged in anything other than scientific research."

Huh? What an odd thing for Kip to say. A "beard"? I was distracted from any questions this raised by the next bit.

"That won't save her from the SS if the Jerries get hold of you."

"Oh, don't worry, Jack. I'll keep her away from the lines. Besides, this is a wonderful experience for her. I couldn't leave her back on my folks' farm. Every adult in her life has run out on her. If I'd left her in the States, she'd end up married to some farmer, working on the land and old before her time. She deserves more out of life than that."

Sure I do, Kip, like being dragged all over the desert and subjected to the ridicule and contempt of the Allied soldiery... I heaved a sigh of frustration at my uncle's well-meaning attempts to manage my life. And Jack's reference to me as a child. Obviously, I would have to change his mind about that!

"Don't let Sarge get to you--his bark is worse than his bite."

I jumped, startled, by the voice behind me. I wheeled around. The blonde private leaned against the wingtip, one hand on his hip, regarding me with a speculative air and friendly grin. He was good-looking. But he was no Jack Moffitt.

"Thank you, I'll try to keep that in mind," I smiled politely and turned back to watching Jack.

---

Kip refused to be intimidated by Sergeant Troy, and I accompanied him on several other flights out into the desert for meetings with Jack. These never were lengthy affairs, usually a quick drop-off of supplies or maps, or a hurried consultation on some desolate, wind-worn terrain. In the interests of avoiding the American sergeant's acidic remarks, I tried to keep a low profile. I would sit by the plane while Kip talked with Jack or the others, just drinking in the tall Englishman with my eyes. When I asked Kip about the reasons for these meetings, he was vague and evasive, but I was so happy at the prospect of seeing Jack Moffitt, I didn't much care.

But it was best when his duties gave the British Sergeant time to visit us in Cairo. Then we could sit in the café for hours at a stretch, drinking potent Arabian coffee or tangy Indian Pekoe and eating spiced pastries in the lazy afternoon sun. Jack was unfailingly kind to me. He made me feel special and I glowed for days after his visits.

A child on the verge of maturity could be forgiven for reading more than was written in Jack's generous friendship. He was so splendid, it was hard not to be swept away. He gave us an anthropologist's tour of Cairo from the ancient Jewish quarter to the austere Coptic churches and elaborate mosques of the eastern bank. Or we might take a picnic lunch and drive west to Giza and the timeless ruins of Memphis, where Jack could recount intriguing tales from lives millennia past. Later, we three would sit in companionable silence watching the sun set over the western desert as if there were no such thing as war.

---

"When you come to London, I'll take you to the British Museum." Jack said with a smile. "There are exhibits there even more magnificent than what we saw today."

My heart turned over in my chest--when I come to London. I wouldn't need any museum or cathedral, if I had Jack beside me.

We were sitting in front of a small coffeehouse across from the Museum of Egyptology, waiting for Kip to join us. The late afternoon sun stretched cool shadows over our small table and along the street. The scent of spiced tea rose in steamy clouds as Jack poured out two cups. Kip stood across the street, on the steps of the Museum, lost in conversation with an dark-bearded Iranian scholar regarding pre-Cambrian deposits in central Persia.

Jack watched him with a fond twinkle in his hazel eyes. "He really is a marvelous teacher. It's a pity the war has taken him away from what he does best."

"What about you?" I asked, chin resting in palm, drinking in his dark good looks. "What would you be doing if you weren't fighting in Africa?"

His smile could only be described as sweet. "Oh, I am afraid my life would be stiflingly dull-pottery shards and old papyri--"

"Careful, Cami, don't let Jack sweet-talk you." Kip slid into the third chair as he clapped Jack on the back. "He's a rogue, he is, and I don't want to have to meet him at dawn with pistols at twenty paces."

Jack's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Professor McGinnis, I have no designs on your niece's virtue!" Yes, Jack, let that be our little secret...London and the British Museum and thou beside me--

"Uncle Christopher," I said in mock hauteur. "I am perfectly capable of defending my own virtue-" ...if I wanted to. I leaned back with a self-satisfied smile as my uncle and his friend bantered, basking in Jack's presence.

I had lived in the world of adults most of my life. I had few friends my own age, and tagging around with Kip, I wasn't likely to make any. I felt more mature than I looked on the surface. The mirror showed a lanky adolescent with plain-jane hair and a predilection for wearing unstylish pants and shirts instead of skirts and blouses. But in my mind's eye, I saw myself as an auburn-locked siren, a regular Kate Hepburn. So it didn't seem preposterous to me that magnificent Jack Moffitt might see me as a potential lover.

How many night did I lay awake in the subtropical heat, watching the desert stars through a window open to the night breeze, wondering--what's Jack doing right now? I imagined what it would be like to have him with me, his long body sharing my narrow bed, those long-fingered hands-a scholar's hands--caressing me.

I know now it was a child's infatuation. I wanted Jack because he was beautiful and brilliant. Not because I knew him, not for who he was inside, but for what I wanted him to be. I constructed a fantasy Jack Moffitt in my mind, an English gentleman, an Arthurian knight who would gently court me with poetry and flowers. I re-created him anew, with no regard for the person he already was. What did I know of the sweat-stained commando? What could I know of his secret dreams and demons? As it turned out, very little...

Through the rest of 1942, our lives continued in much the same vein until a week in late November, when everything changed. Kip disappeared. Now, he had been in the habit of dropping from sight on occasion, often for two or three days. Our life was casual and unstructured enough that these absences rarely cased me concern. But as the days stretched into a week, I became worried and began to look for him in the out-of-the-way haunts he had in Cairo.

The Taylorcraft sat in its usual tie-down on the ramp of the small civilian field Kip used, a few miles outside of town. I sat perplexed behind the steering wheel of our battered, second-hand Renault, regarding the aircraft. Could Kip have gone into the desert without either the plane or our car? Would he have gone out to meet with Jack without telling me? I had been confused by his frequent reticence to discuss where he'd been or what he'd been doing during these little absences. He spent so much time with Jack; maybe Jack would know where to find him. Heck, in all likelihood, Kip was out on patrol with him right now.

There was one way to find out...

As I buckled myself into the cockpit, I knew this was probably a bad idea. But I didn't know what else to do. I only had the vaguest idea of where I might find the commandos who called themselves the Rat Patrol. In my inexperience, I never considered who or what else I might find in the deep desert.

I flew west for about two hours. At four thousand feet, with the cabin windows open, the air was smooth and cool. Once I figured I was near the last place we had visited the Rat Patrol, I dropped down to about a hundred feet above the terrain, and the breeze became hotter. I scanned the scrub-dotted, slightly rolling landscape.

I could have been the only person in the world.

After maybe forty-five minutes of crisscrossing the desolate country, I spotted a faint plume of dust off to the northwest and turned in that direction. Sergeant Troy would be livid with me for coming out this far on my own. So would Kip, if he were with them.

But as I passed the last ridgeline, what I saw on the narrow desert track were not the two jeeps I expected, but a German half-track and a Kuebelwagon staff vehicle.

As soon as the stark black crosses registered on my brain, I twisted the control yoke sharply to the left and pulled back to turn and climb. The German reflexes were as fast as mine were and I heard the chilling sound of bullets whizzing past (and through) the aircraft. If I could climb out of range before taking any damage, I vowed I would head straight back to Cairo.

That vow became moot when the engine suddenly quit. The rush of wind and sound of gunfire became very distinct.

Oh, shit, I've really messed up this time.

My grip tightened on the control yoke. I could fight it, but one way or another I was coming down. I didn't even have enough altitude to be picky about where I landed--the Taylorcraft couldn't clear the approaching ridgeline. I banked to the right. If I came down on the rough roadway far enough from the German vehicles, I might be able to disappear into the hills.

I'd worry about what to do next later.

I outdistanced the sound of gunfire but in the thin desert air, the aircraft was sinking rapidly. The rutted surface of the road stretched out before me. I wasn't all that good at landing on a prepared surface; I didn't want to consider how badly I might botch this up. I checked my safety belts and tucked Kip's revolver into my waistband. I can't believe this is really happening....

Then the ground was at me and I pulled back on the yoke to slow my impact. The stunted brush on either side of the narrow track whipped past at a sickening speed. Then the landing gear made contact. One bounce, then another--harder.

Just as I thought I was going to pull it off, I hit a rut and the aircraft canted sideways, tilting to touch a wing tip to the ground. Before I could comprehend what had happened, I was pitched roughly against the yoke and the wind knocked out of me. My right knee caught the edge of the control panel and twisted painfully. A deafening crunching sound filled the cockpit then there was only silence and dust.

My right leg pulsed with agony. I fumbled for the door latch and pushed--I tumbled awkwardly out of the compressed cockpit. By grasping the door handle I could balance on my good leg. I felt a clutching fear in my stomach at the sound of approaching vehicles. I tried a tentative step-my knee was a bleeding mess and when I tried to put weight on the leg, the sickening slip of bone against bone was excruciating.

The world spun slowly around me as I leaned back against the battered fuselage, my jaw tight against the pain. My heart's pounding nearly drowned out the grate of the braking tires on the far side of the wreckage. I felt the fear of a trapped animal hearing the approach of the hunter. Rapid footsteps crunched against the hard pan of the road. Then they were there.

Afrikakorps. An officer and two, three, four solders. They held rifles--the soldiers did-rifles pointed in my general direction. The officer, in an audacious show of confidence, merely strode between them, his hands clasped behind his back. The little party came to a halt about fifteen feet from me. As my gender, age and condition dawned on them, the armed men relaxed slightly. The officer regarded me with faint surprise, then murmured something to the nearest soldier, who tucked his rifle under his arm and came forward as if to search or secure me.

"Back off!" I hissed.

Without really thinking about it, I had wrested Kip's revolver from my waist and now held it defensively in front of me with both hands. The big Colt .45 brought them up short. The soldiers snapped their rifles to their shoulders, aiming them uncompromisingly at me.

At heart, I felt like some wild west desperado but I probably looked ridiculous, wielding the big ugly pistol as if I was going to do some serious damage. I doubt I looked too dangerous to those battle-hardened veterans. My hands shook--fear? Shock?

"Fraeulein, you are injured. Put your weapon down and we will assist you-" the officer said. Considering the circumstances, his voice was surprisingly calm.

I wanted to be defiant. I wanted to shout something brave and quotable. But darkness was nibbling at the edges of my vision and there was a distant buzzing in my ears. And I was scared. The German officer exuded an air of indefatigable patience, as if prepared to await my decision indefinitely. I looked from him to the soldiers, standing ready with rifles leveled at me, and slowly lowered the pistol. In defeat, I let it slip from my hand.

Sorry, Kip- Through a thickening haze, I saw the officer and one of his soldiers come toward me.

"Haende hoch!" The soldier motioned with his rifle. Helpless as a pinned bug, I balanced on my good leg and slowly raised my hands.

I wanted to run so badly that when the Germans got to within a few feet of me, I unconsciously recoiled. But when I tried to step backward, blinding pain burned my knee, and black spots danced before my eyes. As I wobbled, the German officer reached as if to steady me, but I flinched from his touch, inadvertently putting my weight on my injured leg. A wave of pain shot through me. The distant buzzing became a roar in my ears and the black spots expanded to engulf me. I was aware that I had started to fall. I never felt the sand when I hit.

No, I didn't hit--I realized dully. I was clutched against a warm body, my nostrils filled with the faint scent of tobacco, dust and sweat. I struggled to lift my head, open my eyes, but my body hung limply in that sure grasp and I briefly surrendered to the darkness.

Then I was lying on the dusty seat of the staff vehicle with the sun beating on my face. I threw an arm across my forehead to shade my eyes. The officer was bent over my knee-all I could see were his cap and goggles, but I felt steady hands wrapping my knee with bandages, while his subordinates stood nearby, their watchful eyes on me.

I supposed I could kick the German in the face, but then what? Aside from a predictable show of defiance, it would accomplish nothing. I wasn't going to be running very far-I wasn't even certain I could walk. Those soldiers standing guard would be on me before I got out of the car. And he was bandaging my injuries. I wasn't brought up to return ingratitude for kindly treatment, not even to my country's enemies.

My knee was throbbing with dull but bearable pain when at last the officer straightened from his work. My stomach clenched at the sight of my blood on his hands. I must have turned pale, for he spoke to me in English.

"Fraeulein, how are you feeling?"

His voice was baritone; his English flawless if lightly accented.

I tried to find my tongue in my cottony mouth. "I-I will live."

God, would I? What had I gotten myself into? I had just flown impulsively out into a war zone and right into enemy hands. Cairo was infinitely farther away from me now than it had been just half an hour earlier.

The German offered an open canteen. The water was warm and metallic, but it was wet and that was all that really mattered.

"I need to ask you some questions."

When I handed his canteen back to him, he noticed his bloodstained hands. He cleaned them on a bit of moistened gauze, his eyes already asking those questions.

"I am a civilian." That seemed important to establish first.

"I am Hauptmann Hans Dietrich of the Afrikakorps. May I ask who you are?"

"My name is Cameron McGinnis. I am an American." My head felt light. Despite the bright sun, my skin was unexpectedly cold.

"Where is your pilot?"

It took me a moment to realize what he was asking. "I am the pilot." When he looked doubtful, I repeated. "I was flying the plane." As an afterthought, I stressed again. "I am a non-combatant."

"Yet you seemed well-prepared to defend yourself," he observed dryly. "And the aircraft you were piloting was well behind German lines. Not a wise place for a civilian to be, I would say."

"My uncle is missing. I was looking for him."

"And what would your uncle be doing out here?" He clasped his hands behind his back, and tilted his head in question.

"He is a geologist--a professor of geology at the University of Washington." Maybe that would help-Germans were supposed to be impressed with titles.

"I see." He seemed unimpressed. "And he would be in the desert for--research?"

I wrapped my arms around myself and stifled a shudder. "Exactly."

"Miles behind enemy lines?"

"I didn't realize I had gone so far...."

"You are chilled-" Noticing my discomfort, he reached into the front seat to retrieve a jacket. When he leaned forward to tuck it around me, I saw his eyes were a medium brown--like his hair--and that close up, he looked younger than I expected.

"Even if your story is true, I am afraid I will have to take you to Sidi Barrani. We must get this sorted out and you need to see a doctor." His stern face suggested that sorting this out might not be as easy as it sounded. Wrapped in the jacket that carried his scent, I shivered with sudden cold.

For nearly a day, I lay in a fog--groggy, dehydrated, in pain. When I came back to myself, I found I occupied a narrow cot in a narrow room. The plain, whitewashed walls bore a simple crucifix. Against the curtain that covered the doorway, I saw the silhouette of a German soldier.

I watched him idly for some time, trying to recall where I was and how I came to be there. My brain was cluttered with frightening fragments of memory-gunfire, the violence of a crash, pain, rifles pointed at me. As I studied the back of the soldier through the filmy curtain, I had to conclude that it all had actually happened.

I had been, in one respect, stunningly lucky. The Taylorcraft's gas tank sat right on top of the engine. If a bullet had punctured the tank, the plane would have erupted into flame. As dire as the situation looked right now, I was alive, and where there was life, there was hope.

Still, my stomach ached in fear; my stupidity made my nauseous. What had I been thinking? It had all seemed so simple back in Cairo--just pop out to the desert and find the Rat Patrol. The war never seemed real to me until I heard the sound of gunfire directed at me, or faced the rifles of those German troops. And now... The foreign surroundings, alien smells and the indistinct murmur of other languages brought home to me just how far I was from where I should have been.

The soldier stiffened to attention at the sound of booted feet approaching. I gingerly pushed myself a bit higher on the thin pillow and tucked stray locks of hair back from my face. It would seem I was having visitors.

The Hauptmann parted the curtain and stepped into the room. Dietrich, wasn't it? My mind was starting to work again. Wasn't that the German officer that Jack and the other commandos were always talking about? He took a position near the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was tense, his lean face guarded. When the SS officer followed him in, I realized why.

"Miss McGinnis, this is Hauptsturmfuehrer Preitmann. He has some questions for you," the Hauptmann said.

The SS man regarded me with eyes the color of the North Sea. He radiated danger, an effect only partially attributable to the sinister black of his uniform. He was of an age with Hauptmann Dietrich; dark brown hair carefully combed back, handsome face without a trace of humor or compassion, and those chilling eyes. Be careful, my mind whispered. I realized that this was a good time to keep my knowledge of German to myself.

After regarding me with ill-concealed disdain for a half-minute, the Hauptsturmfuehrer pulled the battered chair from the corner, turned it around and sat, straddling it. I watched, fascinated, as he pulled a thin silver case from his pocket and--extracting a cigarette--proceeded to light it. He rested his elbows on the back of the chair as he smoked with a bored elegance, studying me. Despite his refined manners, his eyes held a hunger that came straight from his groin.

"She was in McGinnis's aircraft?" he asked the Hauptmann in their native tongue.

"She was apparently flying the aircraft. We found no evidence of any other occupant. She said she is his niece." Dietrich replied.

"Our man in Cairo says he is travelling with his niece. I have no doubt she is working with him." He flicked ashes to the floor, careful not to sully his immaculate uniform. " Ask her to explain again why she was flying over our territory."

Why did they know Kip? What had he done to draw the attention of the SS? Surely one more scholar roaming North Africa was not a novelty, even in wartime.

The German officer did as requested. "Fraeulein McGinnis, the Captain wishes to hear why you were flying over disputed territory, behind our lines." I told him the truth, then listened as he translated it for his threatening companion.

"She said Professor McGinnis is missing. She was searching for him."

"Ask her what she and her uncle are doing in Africa." The SS officer never took his predatory gaze from me as the Hauptmann translated his question. I focused on the young Hauptmann's face. Even though he wore an enemy's uniform, there was compassion in his eyes.

"My uncle is doing research into Ice Ages," I explained. "He believes that traces of ancient glaciers can be found in some of the bedrock outcroppings in the southern desert. He has prepared for this trip for years."

Preitmann's response to this was unsettling. "We have been watching McGinnis for some time. She knows more than she's saying." His icy eyes narrowed on me as he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "I think she is worth a more vigorous interrogation."

"She is barely sixteen years old," Dietrich murmured in protest. "You can't be serious."

"German youth are fighting for the Fatherland at such an age."

"Americans coddle their young. She is still a child."

I tried not to let my disgust show--why does everyone insist upon my infancy? Besides, whether in error or by design, the Hauptmann had my age wrong. I had turned seventeen in October. My indignation was quelled by Preitmann's next words.

"That child flew an unmarked aircraft well into our territory. This bears looking into, Hauptmann. How long before she can be transferred to SS custody?"

"You would have to ask the doctor." Regardless of the language spoken, there was no mistaking the contempt in the Hauptmann's voice.

"You have no stomach for this work, Captain?" The SS officer's tone was silken, taunting. The Hauptmann straightened imperceptibly. The look he shot Preitmann was pure loathing.

"I do not make war on children."

Preitmann smiled thinly. "Your idealism is commendable--but misplaced." He regarded me with something akin to relish as he rose to his feet. "I think I will get some answers out of this one."

As he turned to follow Preitmann from the room, Hauptmann Dietrich's eyes met mine, and I saw pity there. I felt a frisson of fear.

I swung my legs gingerly to the floor and struggled to sit upright. My once-presentable slacks and shirt were wrinkled and smeared. An impressive swaddling of gauze covered my right knee beneath the roughly cut pant-leg. I was barefoot--my sturdy shoes stood neatly aligned at the foot of the cot. The right one bore the stains of my blood. My knee throbbed painfully in rhythm with my heart.

I found my comb in a pocket and began working it through the tangled ends of my hair.

"I believe one of the nursing sisters might bring you a mirror-" The Hauptmann stood just inside the curtain, his peaked cap in his hands. He really was fairly nice looking. Not handsome. Not in the dashing way that Jack was handsome. But still-he wasn't bad looking. And he wore his uniform as if born in it.

"Uh-no, that won't be necessary," I said, lowering the comb as he strode into the room.

With a barely audible sigh, he pulled the chair Preitmann had recently occupied closer to the cot and sat down. He was almost as tall as Jack, though so slender that his presence didn't seem as overwhelming. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gazing down as he slowly turned his officer's cap in his hands.

"Miss McGinnis, I have a problem. I do not want to turn you over to the SS for questioning." He gave me a probing look. "I need some answers to give Hauptsturmfuehrer Preitmann. Can you help me?"

My mouth felt dry. "What do you need to know?"

"I need to know the real reason you and your uncle came to North Africa."

"I've been honest with you, Captain."

He lowered his eyes to his idle hands and silence hung between us like a wire. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft. "I am curious as to why someone of your age should be taught to pilot an aircraft. Surely this is not so common, even in America?"

"To help Kip-my uncle." I realized that could be misinterpreted. "I mean, with his aerial surveys. He taught me, so I could fly the plane while he watched for-uh-things. Rocks and ridges and stuff."

He waved this aside with a slight motion of his hand. "Our operatives in Cairo tell us that your uncle has spent a great deal of time in the company of Sergeant Jack Moffitt, a member of a particularly troublesome Allied commando unit. We are naturally curious as to why this may be."

"Uh-Jack? My uncle-he went to school with Jack. They are old friends."

He watched my face carefully. "Are you certain that is the only reason?" he asked.

Well, no-I wasn't. There had been incidents ever since we had arrived in Africa that didn't quite make sense to me. But I wasn't about to share my doubts with this German officer, no matter how decently he had treated me. "So far as I know, they are just colleagues, comparing notes."

"You have attended these meetings as well." It wasn't a question.

"Usually." I shrugged. "I wouldn't call them meetings--just a couple of scholars talking shop over drinks, really. Boring stuff for most people, I would imagine." Unless you found just looking at Jack Moffitt entertaining.

"But there have been meetings between Professor McGinnis and Sergeant Moffitt that you have not been party to? Where other topics could have been discussed?"

"I am not in a position to monitor my uncle's every move," I said with some exasperation. "If I knew where he was all the time, I certainly wouldn't have come out here looking for him."

"No, I imagine not." He looked down at his cap again, slowly rotating it. "Yet, I am sure you can see how the Hauptsturmfuehrer would be suspicious of your story."

"My impression is that the SS is suspicious of everyone's story."

"Hmmmm--." He fished a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one before continuing.

"Miss McGinnis, I do not believe you are aware of the seriousness of your situation." He leaned back, his eyes narrowed, challenging. "Even if I were to believe that you were so impetuous and ill-advised as to fly into German-held territory looking for your uncle, the question remains, why did you think to find him here-unless he is working in concert with the commandos of the Rat Patrol?"

"There are glacial escarpments to the south of here..."

"Which you were well away from..."

He had me there. I tried another tack. "I thought perhaps Professor Moffitt would know where Kip was."

"And how would you know where to find Sergeant Moffitt and his partners?"

"I...I've heard him talk..."

He took a long draw on his cigarette, and let his eyes wandered idly around the room before returning his gaze to me. "Give it up, Fraeulein... This is deadly serious business, not some childish prank. You were found miles behind our lines, in an aircraft belonging to someone we strongly suspect of being an operative of the OSS. Both you and your uncle have been seen in the company of members of a commando unit working in this area. " His voice was very calm, though his eyes glittered with accusation. "Unless you can convince me otherwise, I will have to concede Hauptsturmfuehrer Preitmann his point."

"But I really don't know anything he would want to know --" I protested.

"And I am telling you that it doesn't matter," he snapped. He leaned forward, his face startlingly close to mine, eyes radiating repressed fury. "Do not think for a moment that your age or injury--or innocence--will buy you the slightest mercy from that man. He will hurt you enough that you will tell him what he wants to know. And then he will kill you. If you are fortunate."

If he was trying to frighten me, the Hauptmann had succeeded. Shocked by his anger, I could only stammer, "I just made a stupid mistake. I am not a spy-just a dumb kid."

He glared at me for a moment longer before pushing himself to his feet. He settled his cap on his head. "Miss McGinnis, whatever your uncle's activities, you may be unaware of them. Which is truly regrettable for you have placed yourself in an perilous position."

He replaced the chair against the wall, then paused before exiting through the curtain. "I will try to satisfy the SS that you are ignorant of your uncle's activities. I doubt it will be enough, but I will do what I can."

"Why?" The question slipped out and startled even me.

He raised his chin, straightening his back.

"Despite what you may think, Fraeulein, there is a code of honor in war. That is all that saves us from barbarity. My duty to my country as a soldier is to preserve that honor." He glanced away, as if overcome by the magnitude of that task before adding in a weary tone; "I will see you again in the morning." Then he was gone.

I lay very still in the empty room but my mind was racing like a rat in a trap, scrabbling at the walls with frantic claws. I have to get out of here. How was I going to get away? Could I even walk? I had only the vaguest idea of the direction of the Allied lines. I have to get away. That SS officer was capable of doing horrible things to me, things he would enjoy doing even if I had nothing to tell him. As the Hauptmann had made clear-I was in grave danger.

Sleep was elusive that night. Even after the ward became dark and quiet, my thoughts chased themselves in circles through the long gray hours. I didn't want to think about the SS officer or the fate that awaited me, but could think of nothing else. For all intents and purposes, I was as good as dead. All that lay between me and my inevitable demise was time-time that would be filled with unbearable suffering, if what the Hauptmann told me was correct. And I had no reason to doubt him. I considered throwing myself on Dietrich's mercy, begging him to protect me; but he had as much as said he was doing all he could and his power was limited. So any plea I made to him would be useless and degrading. It is a terrible thing to be helpless.

---

I must have dozed off at last, for I woke in early daylight to the murmur of German voices in the hallway outside my room. "Hauptmann, you can't let the Hauptsturmfuehrer have this girl..." That one, female and insistent, had to be the ward nurse.

"I may not have any choice," snapped a masculine baritone. Ah, yes, I recognized that voice.... I struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain in my leg, as the curtains parted to admit the Hauptmann and the nursing sister. He stood quietly just inside the doorway as she bustled about the morning routine, wordlessly sticking a thermometer into my mouth and snatching my wrist with cool fingers to feel my pulse. It probably jumped by twenty beats a minute as I locked eyes with the German officer. His dark eyes held a question and I knew I did not have the answer he wanted.

I gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head. The Hauptmann's disappointment was obvious. He dropped his gaze and gave a small sigh before turning, without a word, and leaving. By that evening, I had been transferred to SS custody.

Preitmann, a predatory smirk on his face, had overseen the transfer. As evening darkened the African sky, two of his men slowly guided me into a waiting vehicle and thence to another section of the city. The stark stone building that served as the SS base swallowed me into its maw and I was deposited in a narrow cell somewhere in the back. The very air was oppressive, thick with an aura of pain and fear and dark sickness of the soul.

The soldiers took my crutches and, at his curt command, left me to the thin mercy of their Hauptsturmfuehrer. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, but no humor in his pale eyes as he approached me. I pushed back as far as I could on the narrow cot and forced myself to meet his gaze, hoping he could see my defiance and not my fear. He slowly pulled the glove from his right hand, and reached out to touch my cheek. I repressed a shudder.

"So young and fresh," he murmured in German, tracing the line of my cheek down my face. I slapped his hand away before he could move it lower than my throat. With a growl, he caught my wrist, squeezing until I could not help but wince in pain. "You will learn," he muttered, with a nasty smile. "You will learn. I will teach you well...." He released me with an air of contempt and strode to the door. Pulling his glove back over his hand, he regarded me with thinly veiled pleasure. "Soon, little one, " he promised. And then he was gone, swinging the cell door shut behind him with a resounding finality.

Alone in the dark, I hunched up on the narrow cot and waited for whatever was to come. Despite my fear, I dozed off. I slept fitfully and uneasy.

A sound jarred me awake in the gray chill before dawn and I sat, listening, trying to recall what had woke me. There, it came again-a distant explosion. Were the Allies bombing us?

Footfalls retreated down the corridor and then a long silence. I almost fell back to sleep before the narrow door exploded inward with the force of a powerful kick, and light spilled across the uneven stones of the floor.

"C'mon," said Sergeant Troy, "We're busting you out."

Surprise jolted me to me feet before pain caused me to crumple back onto the narrow bench. Before I could push myself back up, Jack swung into the room, Thompson machine gun cradled against his hip. He took in my condition at a glance and effortlessly scooped me up. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hung on for dear life.

The rest was chaos-down the narrow hallway-Sergeant Troy at point and Private Pettigrew guarding our backs, then out into the alleyway where Mark Hitchcock stood guard over the squad's jeeps. Jack pitched me, none too gently, into the front seat of one, then leapt into the back to man the mounted gun. Private Pettigrew slipped behind the steering wheel as Troy sprayed the corridor with machine gunfire. Tossing a grenade into the building for good measure, he took firing position in the second jeep, and we were away.

I huddled in the jeep, scared to death and in pain, as we raced through the narrow streets of the city. Sporadic gunfire made me keep my head low. Occasionally, Moffitt would return fire with a deafening blast over my head. Violent maneuvers tossed me from side to side as Private Pettigrew fought to avoid enemy entanglements. I hung on desperately lest I be pitched out.

Then, the desert opened out around us, the lights of the city receded, and the twin jeeps gained speed, roaring through the dark as if the very hounds of hell were in pursuit. But it was a clean get-away. We were alone with the night.

Dawn colored the eastern sky a pale peach color by the time we came to a wadi sheltered behind a low line of hills. Private Pettigrew pulled the jeep into the dry wash and braked to a stop. Unfolding his long limbs from his perch behind me, Jack busied himself with a small stove and kettle. Pettigrew climbed out of our jeep and stretched then sauntered up to the ridgeline to watch for and signal our companion vehicle. Swaddled in a GI blanket, I pulled myself up in the seat and tried to make myself comfortable. The men were quiet, as if preoccupied.

In short order, Jack had brought me a cup of tea, and I had drunk about half by the time the second jeep pulled into the draw behind us. Private Hitchcock folded his arms across the steering wheel of his jeep and lowered his head wearily.

Sergeant Troy ricocheted out of his seat and came straight for me, eyes blazing.

"Alright, missy, just what the hell were you thinking?" He demanded. "Your uncle ought to tan your butt for pulling a stunt like that-for two-cents, I'd do it for him!"

That was just what I needed to put some steel back in my spine. How dare he treat me like some wayward child? It had been years since any adult had lifted a hand to discipline me. I drew myself up and returned his glare with all the fury of my injured pride. "You and who else, Sergeant?"

I heard rather than saw Jack choke on his tea. Troy shook a warning finger at me.

"Don't back-talk me, young lady! These men risked their lives to get you out of there. Any one of them could have easily been killed-just because you were stupid and got yourself in a jam." He gripped his belt with both hands, doubtless to keep from turning me over his knee right then and there.

"Troy..." Jack cautioned. His voice was only slightly hoarse.

"I was trying to find my uncle..."

"Looks like you found a hell of a lot more than that! If we hadn't intercepted those German broadcasts, the SS would be working you over right now..."

I wasn't going to cry. I'd been through too much. And damned if I'd let Sergeant Troy see tears in my eyes. "Fine-just leave me here for the SS if I'm such a damned burden!"

Mark Hitchcock visibly flinched at my words.

On his lookout atop a nearby rocky outcrop, Private Pettigrew's face grew somber. "No," he said very quietly. "We'd never let the SS get their hands on you."

Sergeant Troy looked from one to the other with a shaken expression on his face. When he returned his attention to me, the anger still simmered in his eyes but his tone was milder. "Well, your wings are clipped now, little bird. You'll be staying put once we get you back to our side of the lines." He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Far to the east, the sun rose, spilling fire across the desert.

---

Kip was, as always, unapologetic. "Damn it, Cami, why couldn't you just stay where I left you? You must have known I'd be back." He strode back and forth at the foot of the narrow hospital cot; his pacing bringing the memory the German Hauptmann, which I quickly put out of my mind.

"I was worried..."

"So you go gallivanting off, fly out over the war zone and lose my airplane!" He threw his arms up in supplication. "Then, as if that isn't bad enough, you get the Germans all stirred up and probably came damned close to being shot! You are lucky Sergeant Troy and his men put their butts on the line to rescue yours, or you could very well be dead!" He stopped his pacing to regard me with more anger than I had ever seen in him. "I don't know how I could have explained that to your grandparents!"

I twisted the bedcovers in my hands, studying the weave of the cotton. "I guess I really messed up..."

"Damn right you did!"

Kip shoved his hands into his pockets, then blew out his anger with a long exhalation. "Ah...gee, Cami...." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I guess this is mostly my fault. I should have told you some things before I brought you out here. But I figured if you didn't know, you couldn't tell."

"Tell what?"

In answer, he reached into his jacket and brought out some papers--the paperwork that listed his rank and position in the OSS.

"We have had our eyes on McGinnis for some time." Obviously the SS had known more about some aspects of my uncle that I had. What better cover than an absent-minded professor?

"...She makes an effective beard for me..."

It had taken a long time, but finally the truth was right in front of me. "Kip, they almost killed me because of this...because of you."

"Well, Christ, Cami, I never imagined you'd go running right into the arms of the Germans, offer yourself up like some virgin sacrifice."

That was closer to the truth than he could guess. "Well, maybe if I had known about this-" waving his papers, "--I wouldn't have panicked and gone looking for you."

"Well, I guess we both made mistakes," he snapped defensively. He snatched his papers from my hands and stuffed them back into his jacket, then shoved his fists into his pockets and considered me with a bemused expression.

"I'm going to have to send you home."

I opened my mouth to protest but the sadness in his eyes made me keep my objections to myself. "My position is just too suspect. The fact that you didn't confirm the German's suspicions about me gives me an edge, but I can't work here any more. And where I go from here-I can't take you along."

He lowered his long frame into the battered chair beside my bed and gently took my hand. "They're right, it's too dangerous for you-too dangerous for me if the wrong people get their hands on you." He squeezed my hand in answer to the unshed tears dimming my eyes. "It's been wonderful having you here. I hate to send you home. But I need to know you are safe. Where the enemy can't touch you."

I swallowed my disappointment. "I know...you're right."

"It won't be for a couple months yet," he said, patting my hand. His storm-blue eyes sought the narrow window and gauged the time. When he continued, his tone was brisker. "Look, I have to go. There is something I need to take care of, and I probably won't be back for a few days. I'll try to get back before they let you out, but if not, I'll have the boys look in on you."

"The boys?"

"Jack, Troy, one of them..."

Jack. I smiled. "I'll be fine, Kip."

"Just stay put this time, okay?"

---

Everything about Troy had been unexpected.

Beginning with his unexpected appearance at the door of the hospital, the day I was discharged. I had been anticipating Jack Moffitt's tall form standing in the hospital entryway-tanned, fit, smiling--exuding an air of masculine self-confidence, dressed in his desert tans. Against the glare of daylight, I could see a man approaching. But he was too short, too compact to be Jack...or Kip. The Australian bush hat gave him away.

Since our very first encounter in the deep desert southwest of Cairo, I had found the American sergeant intimidating. And now, after the fiasco of my foray into German territory and his obvious and vocal displeasure at having to rescue me, I could imagine no one whose company I wanted less. Even the German Hauptmann would have been more acceptable.

I am sure he felt as uncomfortable with our situation as I did. He awkwardly fumbled to put me at ease as he guided me toward the battered jeep that served as transportation.

"You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you."

"Where is...everyone?"

"Oh, Tully and Hitch are on R & R. And Jack's on leave, taking care of some personal matters." Troy flashed me a quick, self-conscious smile, "So you're stuck with my company."

Jack was on leave? Had he gone back to England to comfort his parents after the death of his brother? My heart sank, but I tried to keep my disappointment from showing. In the wake of his family's loss, I couldn't begrudge them Jack's presence for a week or two. "I am glad to see any friendly face, " I assured the sergeant, even if I was stretching the term friendly.

---

He dropped me at our rooms, promising to look in on me later. By the time he returned, my world had turned upside down.

I was supposed to be resting. "Take it easy," he had admonished me before leaving with a promise of meeting for dinner in the hotel's dining room. But I was restless after my long confinement. Armed with my faithful crutch, I limped out to experience the pre-holiday bustle of Cairo.

I was in the bazaars of the Christian quarter when I spotted him. He towered well above the after-work crowds, and caught my eye: my bold British explorer, my scholarly Sergeant--my heart jumped in recognition. He was supposed to be in England, but here he was, walking along the kiosks and cafes of the bazaar, laughter written across his face. And his attention completely focused on the woman at his shoulder. The cry of recognition choked in my throat.

Jack's on leave, taking care of personal matters...

She was everything I was not--dark, exotic, mature--with a woman's body. A full and lush body. I craned for a better look at the dark-haired woman while my brain fumbled for excuses. Maybe it's his sister...or an old family friend. But my heart could read the truth in the gleam of pleasure in his eyes, the way he draped his arm around her shoulders. It all denoted a fondness I had never seen from him.

The daughter of some Bedouin chief, perhaps? Or an Egyptian scholar of antiquities? Or a dancer from one of the cabarets? What did it matter?

What a colossal fool I had been! While I had been mooning over my chaste English knight like the Lady of Shallot, he had been--consorting--with this sultry cupcake in the back streets of Cairo. While I had been imagining that each of his smiles carried a secret meaning for me, he had saved his genuine joy--and more--for her.

---

By the time Sergeant Troy had found me, I was well on my way to drowning my sorrows in potent Egyptian beer. No questions asked in the tiny bar tucked across the street from the prestigious Shepheard's Hotel. I found the darkest spot where, safe from the well-meaning intrusions of soldiers on leave, I could revel in my despair and seek whatever oblivion alcohol could grant me.

"What the hell--?"

I looked up, dazed, from my third beer. Six feet away, Sam Troy stood, hands planted on hips, regarding me with obvious shock. I wasn't yet drunk enough to not feel a certain trepidation at the set of his jaw and the glint of anger in his eyes.

"Just what do you think you are doing?"

I raised my chin with intoxicated bravado. "Getting drunk, since you asked..."

"Like hell you are!" He spat. In two strides, he was beside me, grasping my arm and pulling me to my feet. Or foot-lacking the support of my crutch, I found I had to lean awkwardly against him while all my survival instincts were telling me to run-or at least hobble-in the opposite direction.

Nose to nose, and suddenly reminded of my infirmity, the faint flush of embarrassment crossed his sunburned cheeks. "Get your stuff," he ordered. "You're coming with me." He shoved me back into my seat so I could fumble for my crutch. Although I was trembling inwardly, I tried to maintain a cool air, and took the opportunity to reach for the last of my beer.

"Leave it!" he barked in a tone obviously used to giving orders. I left it.

He deposited me in his jeep, then flung himself into the driver's seat, glaring at me. The despair I had been trying to drown in alcohol came rushing in on me. Jack--and that woman. My eyes filled with traitorous tears.

"Do you want to tell me what this is about?"

"No," I sniffed.

"Christ--!" Troy hissed softly between his teeth. Without another word, he threw the jeep into gear and we jerked into motion. As I surreptitiously dabbed at my eyes, I noticed that he didn't head for the hotel. Instead, he headed south to cross the El Giza Bridge, then continued southwest, heading out of the city toward Giza and the desert. Once we were outside of the bulk of the city, he pulled the jeep into a small oasis of a park and slammed to a stop at a pullout overlooking a diminutive pool.

"Okay," he snapped, turning in his seat to face me, "spill it!" Though his tone brooked no nonsense, I clenched my trembling jaw tighter and shook my head. He slumped back in the seat, arms folded across his chest.

"Well, we're gonna sit here until you tell me what this is all about," he declared. I believed him. Another time, I might have tried to out-stubborn him, but tonight, my resistance was worn down by grief and beer and suddenly I didn't care if he saw me cry or not.

Eventually, I stammered out the story of what I had seen and how it had affected me. Sam Troy listened with a perplexed expression. "Wait--you thought you and Jack..."

"Yes!" I blotted my eyes with my shirttail. "Is that so damned impossible?"

"Look, I've known Jack for the better part of a year, and I can't believe he would take advantage of you, or lead you to believe..."

"No," I had to admit. "He never came right out and said anything--or did anything. But he's always been so nice to me--I thought he really liked me..."

"He does like you. Look, you are a nice kid--young lady, sorry--but Jack is nearly twice your age..."

"There's that age thing, again."

"Let me finish--. He can't think of you the way you want him to. You're his friend's niece, and you're only sixteen years old."

"Seventeen..."

He raised a hand in surrender. "Seventeen-it doesn't matter. Hell, Cami, like it or not, he's a grown man and a soldier, to boot. You are just too young to understand. He can't see you as anything but a kid that needs protection, not a woman he can...uh...." Troy's vocabulary began to fail him and he stammered to a halt.

I took pity on him. "I get the picture... But he talked about showing me around London, taking me to the British Museum. I thought--"

"I don't know how to say this, Cami, but Jack has been spending time with a lot of his time with...someone--"

"I know--I saw," I said bitterly.

"I don't know how serious he is about her--"

"He seemed pretty friggin' serious to me!" I snapped.

"What a mouth you have on you," he sighed, shaking his head. "Someone needs to talk to your uncle--" He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, then resumed. "So, you saw them together. I can't speak for Jack but it's plain he feels close to her."

"But I just don't see how he could... I mean, I really thought he had feelings for me and was just too shy to say anything." I felt the tears well up again. "He spent so much time with us, and he was always smiling at me and teasing. How could he not care?"

"Cameron, Jack is like that with everyone he likes. He's a friendly guy and I am sure he likes you. But you're just--"

"If you tell me I am just a kid, Sam Troy, I'll whack you with this crutch." I threatened, reaching into the back seat.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, oblivious to my threats. "Hey, let's get some dinner in you, okay?"

I didn't feel much like eating, but I couldn't help but respond to his unexpected kindness. He was trying hard to cheer me up.

---

We found ourselves in a cozy restaurant off the Corneiche el Nil Avenue. Troy ordered with authority from memory. The waiter asked," And a little wine?" Doubtless he assumed we were a couple. I watched Troy, daring him to make an issue of my age. He caught my expression and relented.

"Okay," he told the waiter. "Bring us a couple glasses." After the man had left, he shot me a look that was meant to be paternal but came across more like co-conspiracy, " But if you get tipsy, I'm cutting you off."

As our meal progressed, the waiter kept bringing wine, and we kept downing it. The evening took on a rosier glow and I found that I was actually, inexplicably, enjoying the company of this hard-bitten soldier. He could be surprisingly amiable as he regaled me with anecdotes and adventures.

As the waiter cleared away the last remnant of our meal, I leaned back against the warm muslin cushions and stared across the table at Troy. His eyes, a steely shade of blue, held an appealing honesty. He had listened to my woes as if they mattered--in spite of all the trouble I had caused him and his men, in spite of being embroiled in the midst of a vast global war. He had spent his evening trying to make me laugh.

Why had I never noticed how good-looking he was before?

Our eyes met for a moment, held, then he pushed back from the table. "Let me get you home."

When I stood, the room spun unsteadily around my head, my suddenly too-light head. I swayed against my crutch and then felt Troy's firm grasp, his arm around me, steadying me.

"Oops, guess I'm falling down on the job of stand-in uncle," he laughed. He was none-too-steady on his feet, either, but he'd had more practice at coping with the sensation.

"I think I'm the one falling down..." I giggled. I also hadn't noticed his nice laugh before. And his body was warm, solid, reassuring as he helped me from the restaurant, toward the jeep. I gripped my fingertips into the hard, ridged muscles of his torso, as the sensation of intimacy washed over me. The masculine scent of him, the wiry strength of his body-it was all strangely comforting.

Navigating up the narrow staircase wasn't easy for a drunk, crippled teenager and tipsy soldier. By the time we were safely to the rooms, we collapsed in relieved laughter side by side on the daybed. I lay my head against the bolster as the laughter faded and something more serious hung in the evening air. Troy pushed himself upright, turned to me, his face inches from mine.

"Well, I should be going. Are you gonna be okay?"

Am I going to be okay? Suddenly, I remembered. Jack. A wave of sadness washed over me as I remembered my broken heart. I had lost my dream today. A dream that had been my precious secret for the better part of a year. There was not going to be any Jack and me. My handsome Englishman wasn't mine, had never been mine. My heart clenched in pain and I reached out, my hand on the warm skin of Troy's neck, just beneath his collar.

"Don't go...." I looked into his face, the sunburned skin of his nose, the weathered lines that crinkled his eyes, the scattered stubble on his cheeks. Despite all that, he was a very attractive man in his own right. "Stay with me--hold me--"

He pursed his lips-restraint? regret? -then took me in his arms and gently pushed me down onto the bed. Brushing the hair back from my face, he lightly pressed his lips to my forehead. His smile was kind but his eyes were sad.

"Cameron, I can't spend the night with you..."

"Oh, Sam, don't leave me." I slid my other arm around his waist and tried to draw him closer to me. Suddenly I knew what I wanted. "Love me."

There was a brief flicker of shock in his eyes, followed by a slow, gentle smile. "Naw, Cameron. You're drunk. You' don't know what you're saying. I'm not what you need."

"Oh, yes you are, Sam--"

"Look, you're a real nice k--, young lady. You deserve someone--"

Desperate to silent his excuses, I pushed my mouth against his, the taste of wine mingling on our lips. He stiffened in momentary resistance, then succumbed, returning the pressure of my mouth on his. I felt his hands move to cradle my head, holding me; aware of the strength of his compact body, the smooth movement of his tongue over my lips. Shuddering when his tongue parted my lips, entering my mouth. I pressed myself against him in entreaty.

"No," he murmured into the crook of my neck. His breath was warm, ragged. "I'm not going to-make love--to you." He rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes. "God, I'm drunk..."

"I know I'm not very pretty..." I began in a small voice. He groaned from behind the shelter of his arm.

"There's nothing wrong with the way you look."

"I don't expect marriage, Sam Troy...just tonight...just now."

"Damn, Cameron, you are difficult--." Pushing himself up onto one elbow, he surveyed me with bemused frustration. "Look, kid, it's not that I don't want to make love to you." He rested a hand on my shoulder, rubbing the thin cotton cloth of my blouse. "But it wouldn't be right..."

"I don't care--"

"Of course you don't. You're hurting right now. But I'm not the one who can make you feel better. Not that way, anyway."

"But-"

"No, listen to me-you would hate me, later, when you sobered up and remembered what we'd done. And I would hate myself, for taking advantage of you. You don't really want me-you want Jack. And Jack-well, it isn't going to happen. He has other things going on in his life."

"Just 'cause you think I'm a kid--"

"Damn it, Cami, you are a kid, with your whole life ahead of you. The last thing you need screw up your life right now is me. I can't take care of you the way you deserve--I can't be the kind of man you want me to be."

"I just want you to be yourself," I sniffed. "I just don't want to be alone tonight. Oh, god, it hurts so much-"

He silenced me with his mouth, his lips pressing against me with a fierce determination, as if he could kiss my pain away. His strong arms pulled me to his chest as the kiss deepened--it was both frightening and thrilling. Until that night I had never felt the keenness of desire. The vague longing I had held for Jack Moffitt paled compared to the insistence that now electrified my body. Desire charged my nerves--and I was so aware that I was a void that wanted filling. Of their own volition, my hips moved against him, closing the distance between our bodies, silently pleading for further intimacy.

With a curse, he pulled his mouth from mine. "Stop that, Cameron!" he gasped, moving away from me. "Shit...!" His chuckle was tinged with regret. "Cameron McGinnis, you are going to make some man very happy--but I pity the poor bastard."

For some reason, that made me feel better.

"D-do you really think so?" I asked.

"I have no doubt," he said. He rose up on his elbow and smiled ruefully down at me. "But not yet, not yet. Give yourself some time to grow up, okay?"

"O-okay," I sighed. Weariness washed over me. "I suppose you're right. I guess I'm drunk and my head is spinning and my feelings are all stirred up. But I really don't want to be alone right now."

He rolled over to press a kiss against my forehead. "Look, I'll stay here with you tonight, but you have to behave yourself." He drew me close in a friendly embrace, nestling my head under his chin. "Now, be a good girl and go to sleep." With a sigh, I surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and drifted toward sleep.

The last thing I heard was a soft sigh and a rumbling murmur: "Someone really needs to talk to your uncle, though."

---

Winter lengthened into Spring and the battle lines stretched far to the west. I limped through my days, dwelling on Jack's conduct, my injuries and my captivity among the Germans. As much as I wanted to languish in the memory of Jack's laughing eyes and easy grin, the German Captain kept haunting me. Images would flash before my eyes at the most incongruous times-his frustrated anger at the situation I had placed him in, his compassion as he stood over me with my blood on his hands, that steely core of disdain for the SS, and his own tragic but proud commitment to a soldier's honor. Yes, he troubled me.

By May 1943, everything had changed. The Germans had lost their bid for Africa, and deserted by the Reich, the last remnants of the Afrikakorps were captured or destroyed. I averted my face from the newsreel images of captured German soldiers in stark shades of gray. There was one face I couldn't bear to see shattered, defeated, staring with hopeless eyes from the theater screen.

The Desert Rats vanished, too, chasing the war across the Mediterranean and into Europe. My last glimpse of Jack Moffitt had been on that awful afternoon in December. I studiously avoided any further contact with him. I couldn't bear to see him and know he could never be mine. I didn't want to think of what Sam Troy might have told him. I didn't want to see pity in his eyes.

Jack...last I had heard, he had gone on to the perfect post-war life-- married, with children. Had that been the woman I had seen him with in Cairo? Or someone else--someone he had left behind--unknown to me--in England?

Twenty-four hours after Jack Moffitt unwittingly broke my heart, Sam Troy bade me farewell with a chaste kiss and strode out of my life as well. My night with him--the product of too much wine, too much war and too much sorrow-was a bittersweet memory.

He could have had me that night, could have so easily taken what I offered in my confusion. I expected it of a desert-weary soldier, and wouldn't have held him in contempt for it. But he had been, in the end, a friend I had not appreciated at the time. He held me in his arms, comforting the hurt child I was and ignoring the fledgling woman I wanted to be, ignoring the responses I tried to coax from him. He refused to play the rogue, to take advantage of me. He could have taken so much, but instead, he gave me simple affection that had soothed my battered heart.

He said I was too young for him. He was probably right-though I felt as if I had aged a lifetime in the desert, and I don't know if I'd ever been as young as he thought I was. The gentleman who had held me in the darkness seemed so at odds with the tough commando that I could treasure the memory of one, and let the other go. But I always wished him well.

My uncle was anxious to move on as well. With his effectiveness compromised in North Africa, other projects caught his interest: an ancient river valley in India, a dormant volcano in Micronesia, tectonic uplift in Central Asia. How convenient that every historic or geological site he wanted to study lay so near the intrigue and fighting...well, it was a world war, after all. These sirens called him hence, and he had to go on alone. Shaken by my desert mishap, he was adamant-I had to go back to the States.

In the years that followed, he circled the globe several times. Even the end of the war and freedom to pursue his research full time did not bring him home to Washington. No, there were sediments in Alaska, and glaciers in New Zealand that demanded his attention. And, finally, that great jagged line of mountains that transected southeastern Asia---the Himalayas.

The white peaks of Nepal and Tibet gleamed like beacons for him, marking a boundary between fact and fable. It was irresistible to him, and he had to go. In 1947, he joined a British expedition exploring a southern approach to Mt. Everest, in preparation for a planned ascent. His letters bubbled with excitement and anticipation, and I envied him his enthusiasm.

That proved his last adventure. In the spring of 1948, I received word that Christopher McGinnis was missing and presumed dead on an exploratory flight to the north face of Mt. Everest. No trace was ever found of him or his plane.

---

But that loss lay five years in the future when I dispatched unceremoniously back to the States in mid-1943. Suddenly my world shrank from the vast scope of desert war to the familiar rooms of my grandparents' farmhouses and the childhood pathways between the two. To reduce the impact I had on meager incomes, I split my time between my two sets of grandparents, going where an extra pair of hands was most needed.

The McGinnis apple orchards lay mostly fallow. My Grandfather and Uncle Richard were hard-pressed just to maintain the trees in some state so they might be profitable someday. A small backdoor garden and a handful of livestock kept them fed. The smaller Kirchenbach farm fared better. Tough and proud, my aging grandparents held to their timeworn routine, tending their gardens and dairy cows through hard times and war.

But the war seemed to cast a nearly imperceptible shadow between my German-born grandparents and myself. I don't know if they felt some guilt-by-heritage for the war, my injuries in the desert, or if the war years at home were hard on them. Grandpa Kirchenbach retreated into uncharacteristic silence, and my usually jovial grandmother's smile grew thinner and less frequent. Later, when the POWs came into the fields and orchards, they held themselves rigidly aloof, as if fearing to become too familiar with their former countrymen.

As I walked the dusty trails through the piney woods or down shadowed country lanes carrying a basket of eggs to the McGinnis holdings or apple pies to the Kirchenback farm, it was hard to believe I had ever stood in the sands of North Africa pointing a revolver at a cluster of German troops. My adventures faded to half-remembered dreams and I trudged through the routine of daily life on the family farms, never suspecting what Fate had in store.

I still vividly recalled the day I limped into Franklin's Store in Chelan, weighed down with an armful of parcels. As I wove through the unusually large gathering of men outside the store, I silently cursed the luck that had made me the logical transport for the tractor parts Pete had ordered from Wenatchee. I didn't want to drive after dark, and couldn't afford to get hung up here.

I heaved the packages up onto the worn plank counter. "Here's those parts you wanted from Wenatchee, Pete."

Pete Franklin, dried by long years in the sun and grizzled by too many winters, gave me a gap-toothed grin. "Thanks, Cami. Didn't know how I was gonna get down there to pick them up, and the Grantley's have been a-waitin' on these for a week." He placed the boxes carefully on the shelves behind him. "I do appreciate you bringin' 'em by."

"No trouble," I blithely lied. "I had to go down to pick up some things for my Grandpa. Wasn't like it was a special trip." I cocked my head toward the cluster of men outside the door. "What's up?"

"Didn't ya hear? They brung some of them German POWs over from Puyallup. Gonna put 'em to work on the farms 'round here." He peered meaningfully at me. "Hear tell they're looking for folks what need help on their farms, with all the young fellers gone. Your Grandpa's been working his spread pretty much alone, ain't he?"

"Well, my uncle Richard's been helping, but he could be called up anytime."

"You really ought to talk to the government man about getting some help on the farm. With a few extra men, your Grandpa could put the rest of his acreage back into production." He rested his elbows on the planks, leaning forward conspiratorially. "They's lookin' for folks what speak the lingo--to help the farmers give 'em instructions and all."

"That so?"

"You speak that Jerry-talk, don't ya?"

Couldn't keep any secret in a small town...or a series of small towns. Even if they stretched over a two hundred miles from Kamloops to Lake Chelan. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my battered leather jacket before admitting, "Yeah, Pete, I speak a little German." And then, because in wartime, you had to justify such things-- "My Grandpa and Grandma Kirchenbach...you know."

Pete sensed my reluctance, and the thread of hostility that ran beneath it. "Well, I know you probably don't want nothing to do with Krauts, especially after what they did to your leg and all."

I suppressed a sigh. No matter how many times I had explained it, a local legend had grown up around my persistent limp. It wasn't that I couldn't admit my mistakes--I had been quite frank about how I'd crashed Kip's Taylorcraft and screwed up my knee in the process. But the myth-making impulse of small towns had refused such a mundane explanation, and so the local belief was, no matter how many times I had explained otherwise, that I limped as a result of a bullet wound suffered in the African desert under mysterious circumstances.

In truth, I hadn't told anyone that the reason I crashed the T-craft in the first place was because a lucky shot from a German rifle had severed the fuel line. Or that my knee might have healed properly had I not been liberated from German custody and shuttled between Allied field hospitals before landing in a hospital bed in Cairo. My friends and family knew Kip and I had been doing something for the war effort in Africa, and that I had come home injured, but they didn't know the half of it.

And with luck, they never would.

"...And these Jerry are supposed to be from the Afrikakorps," Pete continued, "so maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea."

"German prisoners from the Afrikakorps, huh?" The words brought a wave of sadness to my heart that I didn't want to examine too closely. I could sense someone standing behind me, patiently waiting his turn at the counter. I needed to be heading out, so Pete could get back to business.

"You're probably right. I doubt a bunch of battle-hardened veterans would pay any attention to whatever an American girl tried to tell them" I smiled depreciatingly at the storekeeper.

"They would if their officers ordered them to obey those instructions," came a baritone voice from behind me.

That how the line in Shakespeare went-and I knew what Juliet had meant. Oh, yeah--I knew that voice. I hoped the tumult of emotions inside me did not show on my face, as I turned toward him.

Hauptmann Hans Dietrich, late of the Afrikakorps, stood not three feet away from me, wearing a plaid shirt over what I could see now was obviously a set of POW fatigues. Those penetrating brown eyes studied my face for some reaction, the faint, ironic smile told me that he had already seen something I would rather have kept hidden. What perverse twist of fate had brought him back into my life, at this time and place, so far removed from the first time we had met, standing on the desert sands?

He looked in good health, and strangely younger without the uniform and the trappings of authority. Just a nice young man with a German accent, standing in the aisle of a little country store on an overcast May day. But I had been a prisoner myself, and my heart turned over when I considered how much he must have gone through to arrive at this place.

One of the soldiers from the porch stepped forward. "Is this man bothering you, ma'am?"

I couldn't take my eyes from Dietrich's. "It's alright. I know him from Africa." I glanced at Pete. "This is the officer who pulled me out of the wreckage of Kip's plane," I explained.

Pete looked from me to the Hauptmann and back again. "The government man is gonna be in Brewster on Saturday, interviewin' people," he volunteered.

"Thanks," I said, absently. "I'll look into it." Then to the German: "I'm sorry to see you so far from home."

He shrugged. "Fortunes of war. I must say I am relieved to see you, safe and well."

I bet you are. And what lengths did you go to see that Sergeant Troy and his men found me in time?

I felt Pete perk up and knew with a sense of resignation that the local gossips would be active tonight. I needed to get out of here, away from this man and his knowing eyes. I pulled my sunglasses out of my pocket and took shelter behind them. "Are you on your way to Brewster, then?"

He nodded. "It would appear so."

"Then, perhaps I shall see you there, Captain."

The moist air felt cool on my face. I stumbled out to the Ford and sank down to sit on the tailgate, waiting for the world to quit spinning so dizzily around me. Waiting for my heart to quit thumping so urgently against my ribs. What was this all about? Africa was far behind me. No point in being scared of the Germans now. Was it fear, though, or something else?

My dull gray life on the farms suddenly took on added depth and color. At that point, I think I already suspected the truth. The obscure machinations of Fate, having brought us into close proximity, now took every opportunity to throw us together. So it began, the weaving of the complex relationship that would grow between me and this German soldier so far from home. For two years we would cross and re-cross each other's paths. A handful of meetings that I recalled and caressed in my mind until the memories were as worn and familiar as prayer beads....

Just weeks after I was hired by the government as a liaison-translator, I found myself in Wenatchee, helping the peach farmers communicate with their newly-minted orchard workers. Unconsciously, I had scanned the orchards all morning for a particular figure, but by the time we had gathered in the mess tent for lunch, I had abandoned my search.

"May I join you?" Ah, that voice....

I looked up, flustered and could only nod. The German set down his tray and slid into the seat across from me. I had been hungry but suddenly, my throat was constricted and swallowing was difficult. His presence did that to me, and I found it disconcerting. Why did this man have such a effect on me?

He addressed his food for a few moments before addressing me. "I cannot say I am sorry that Sergeant Troy and his men were able to effect your release from the SS."

"If it had just been the Wehrmacht I had to contend with, I might have preferred captivity-Sergeant Troy offered to blister my butt once we got back to Allied territory."

"Indeed?" His eyes flashed with humor though he kept his face and tone carefully neutral. "I can see his point..." He chewed thoughtfully. "I struggled with that urge myself, as I recall."

"Captain!"

His dark gaze caught mine and the corner of his mouth quirked into the slightest of smiles. "But I managed to resist the impulse. I trust Sergeant Troy was able to, as well?"

For a moment a potent awareness hung in the air between us. The image of his hands on my body-the thought of him giving in to unacknowledged urges--was compelling and frightening. I couldn't let my thoughts linger there--.

With a depreciating laugh, I tried to defuse this strange, sweet tension. "Well, there was a long line of people wanting to paddle my butt after that little escapade." I took a mouthful of food that I never even tasted. "Luckily for me, no one could actually bring themselves to strike an invalid."

A brief memory of his hands marked with my blood as he straightened from tending my injuries flickered across my mind. I felt as if he could see right through me, him with that knowing little smile. "Hmmm-yes, fortunate for you."

"I got my ears blistered--if that's any consolation to you. Kip saw to that. And Sergeant Troy was no slacker in that respect, either."

He looked down, but not quickly enough to hide his smile. "I can imagine--"

An awkward silence fell. Troy had made it up to me, later--by being a friend when I needed one. And I figured I'd never know what this man had done to see that those American commandos found me before it was too late. But there was something I wanted him to know...

"I guess it doesn't matter now, but--I really didn't know about what Kip was doing in Africa--not until after I got back to Cairo. I wasn't lying to you, Captain."

"I know."

How could he know? Was I so transparent? Could he read me so well?

Unbidden, the memories came and there was that impassable gulf of the war again, lying right across the table between us. Like the first cold wind of winter, the specter of a man in SS black ghosted through my memory and I trembled at how lucky I had been to escape his attentions. The Captain's expression sobered as he read the thoughts on my face. But was he seeing my face, or the faces of other innocents, ones he had been powerless to save? What horrors had his eyes-the eyes of a soldier-been forced to witness? He must have suffered his own losses in this war. Family, friends--lovers? Losses I would never know about. My stomach twisted at the senseless cruelty of it all, and I found I had lost my appetite.

The chill of dawn still on the orchards. Wisps of fog rising from the river and from the exhalations of the workers, both civilian and prisoner, as we made our way among the rows of laden trees. By afternoon, the warm air would be fragrant with the wine-sweet scent of ripening apples but in the cool morning air, all I could smell was the leaf-decaying odor of autumn. Ladders and bushel baskets-the familiar accruements of my childhood, mingled with the foreign murmur of German voices from the branches.

There he was, standing with that unmistakable military school posture, back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind him, head slightly inclined as he listened to Uncle Richard's instructions. For a brief moment, he lifted his gaze and caught mine, watching him. I was dressed in Kip's old shirt and jeans, a faded kerchief holding back any wisps that escaped from my utilitarian braid. But his dark eyes glowed in appreciation before he returned his serious gaze to my uncle.

I perched on the back on a flatbed truck, slowly swinging my legs to keep the circulation going. I always felt the cold first in my bad knee. Around me, men in dark POW fatigues spread out across the frost-flattened field, collecting the last of the season's pumpkin crop. The GI guard, bored with trying to strike up a conversation with me, had retreated to the nearby farmhouse to warm himself in the kitchen.

Bareheaded in the late afternoon chill, the German swung a bushel of bright gourds onto the truck bed, then paused to rub his hands together. My services were largely redundant when the Hauptmann was on the scene. His English was demonstrably better than my own. Still, the farmers and growers felt more comfortable dealing with an American, even if it was Richard McGinnis's scrawny, rebellious niece. So here I was, once more befuddled by the presence of this man.

He seemed expectant, so I offered conversation. "They'll probably be taking you back to camp before too much longer. Before it gets much colder."

He nodded and leaned against the flatbed. After regarding me for a moment, he turned to look out across the valley to the snow-capped peaks rising in the west.

"This is a bleak time of year," I added, feeling almost apologetic for my homeland.

"No, it is very beautiful here," he demurred. "Very peaceful. So untouched." The wistfulness on his face tore at my heart. "Yours is a fortunate nation." He turned to catch my expression. I looked quickly down at my hands.

"I think it makes us arrogant at times. We don't realize how lucky we are." I looked up, across the field before daring to return my eyes to his. As always, I found his gaze disturbing, as if his eyes were asking me a question I did not know the answer to, as if he could see into my soul.

"No, not arrogant--" he murmured, "Perhaps innocent. That is not a bad thing." His voice was like warm honey. Something inside me quivered at the sound of it. I wanted to melt into the comfort of that voice even as my heart thundered to escape.

"I--I think we are in the process of losing our innocence," I offered lamely.

"I hope you find wisdom in return." He smiled that secretive smile before turning to his work.

The prisoners were digging out irrigation ditches that had collapsed in the spring rains. Stripped to the waist and glistening with perspiration, he looked so different from the desert soldier. I couldn't take my eyes from his lean, long body or the smooth play of muscle beneath his tanned skin. He paused, panting slightly to catch his breath. His eyes met mine and held. Aware of the heat of his body, the electricity of his presence--something twisted inside me and I had to look away.

I knew he was aware of me, too, in a thousand subtle ways. The way his lip would quirk into the suggestion of a smile when he nodded to me in passing. The gladness in his eyes when they met my own. The rich, soft timbre in his baritone voice whenever he spoke to me. We seemed divided by an unbridgeable gulf, but I looked across it and wondered... He must have wondered, too.

The others noticed, of course. I could sense the disapproval my relatives radiated whenever I mentioned the German Hauptmann. I felt the keen eyes of the guarding soldiers on me whenever I paused to exchange words with him. Uncle Richard seemed to find endless errands to take me off the farm whenever the POWs came to work the family orchard, though he never expressed his displeasure out loud. I suppose I was fortunate in not having made any friends locally, or perhaps I was already regarded as such an odd bird that one more peculiarity caused little comment. If I was censured for being too friendly to the enemy, I never really noticed.

By August, the long, terrible war was finally over. Behind the wave of relief and celebration hung the memories, the losses, and the horrors. Human society would not heal overnight. Our boys would be coming home with broader horizons. But not quite yet. There was one more winter of separation and loneliness, one more winter the German prisoners would spend on foreign soil before returning to the dubious comfort of a ruined Fatherland.

The inevitable day came too soon. I walked with him between the brilliant rows of blossoming apple trees. I did not want to watch the stragglers from his work party congregate around the trucks that were to take them over the mountains, back to the camp at Puyallup. I did not want to see him leave. But I did not know how to say so. And nothing I could say would make the slightest difference anyway. He had to go.

My steps slowed to a halt near a venerable tree, its broadly arching boughs bending toward the ground in a cascade of pinkish blooms. He halted beside me, hands clasped behind his back. Even after four years of captivity, he carried himself with the distinctive dignity of a German officer. His eyes asked a silent question.

"They say you will be shipping out for home by the end of the week." I forced my tone into casualness.

"So I have been told-"

"I know you didn't have much choice about it, but having the help of you and your men made a big difference to the farmers hereabouts."

"I have found your company--a comfort, Cameron."

"So I guess this is good-bye-." Words clotted in my throat. I did not have the vocabulary to tell how I had come to look forward to our conversations, or how just making eye contact with him across an irrigation ditch or mess tent would lighten my heart. So I pulled blossoms from the twigs overhead and shredded them in my nervous fingers.

"Cameron-." He stepped closer, took my face in his hands-hands callused by manual labor. With infinite tenderness, he pressed his lips to mine. A sweet kiss, gently parting my lips to taste my mouth with his smooth, cool tongue before retreating. He tasted faintly of cigarettes and cider. Unbidden, my arms slid around the lean hardness of his body and I buried my face against his shoulder, reluctant to release him. His arms tightened around me--one fierce, desperate embrace, and then he relinquished me. His eyes held such sadness. Quickly, silently, he ducked out from under the sheltering branches and strode off -posture rigidly perfect-without a backward glance.

---

I couldn't stay in Washington. The fields and orchards were suddenly too empty when I knew there was no chance of catching sight of the lanky figure of a German officer far from home. Life had lost its savor of anticipation. The sweet scent of lilacs seemed unbearably poignant. Too late to tell him, I realized how much I missed him. So I fled north to claim my legacy from Kip and mourn my losses.

Shortly after sunset on the afternoon of the Winter Solstice, I lingered near my woodpile, arms laden with split lengths of spruce, my eyes drawn to the broad sky. Despite the cold, I found the subtle colors of the sky, as daylight faded into night, fascinating. Besides, I found my small cabin was haunted with ghosts of the past this winter. I was in no hurry to get back to them.

The stillness of the winter air held only one sound-the faint pulse of an aircraft engine-approaching from upriver, from Fairbanks. Must be a charter flight, this late at night. Or maybe someone coming home for the holidays.

The coming of the holiday season made me measure my losses.

I missed Kip and my life with him; I missed his gusto for living. Like a meteor, he had flashed briefly across the sky and then was gone, leaving no trace. Well, leaving me an heiress, of sorts, even if my inheritance consisted solely of a neglected cabin on fifty acres of permafrost in the middle of Alaska, the remnant of one of his last research projects.

In the wake of the War, mourning my private loss seemed selfish-others had lost so much more than I had. But I had grieved for him, in my fashion--my grief tempered by the suspicion that in his thirty-seven years, Kip had lived more than I would in twice that span. He lived on his terms and he had been well pleased to do so. I could find little to mourn, except that I was now more alone than ever.

The world I had know as a child was gone, too--swept away, like so much else, in the torrent of war and change. I had grown up in a wide, wild and peaceful world. On the surface, it still appeared to exist, but I knew: 65 million dead, the land scarred, the waters poisoned and over all, an ominous, mushroom-shaped shadow. I knew now that stability was inconstant and illusory.

Behold, all flesh is as the grass, grass that now lay bent and brown under the snows of an implacable winter. Often these days, it seemed that just living hurt.

As twilight deepened into night, the stars appeared, brilliant in the cold. The atmosphere seemed very thin, the relentless cold of outer space very near. I leaned back against the woodpile, let my eyes seek the stars. So serenely they curved in their stately orbits around the pole, unaffected by our petty human insanities, so far removed from the cruelty and pain of the past decade.

I imagined the great cry of anguish rising up from the Earth, travelling outward into space-the flames of burning cities, the smoke of crematoriums-all that was tortured on this poor globe. Travelling outward through space, an invisible sphere of grief and agony-farther and farther until it dwindled, defeated by the vastness of the cosmos.

I wished I could follow it outward to oblivion. There was nothing to hold me here. Nothing but a man somewhere in Germany who had doubtless forgotten me long ago.

I was twenty-three years old and I had nothing to look forward to. I had lost my heart to a handsome Englishman, who had broken it without even noticing the shards. I had lain in the arms of an American commando, one hot December night in Cairo, a man who had kissed and comforted me, but refused to be my lover. Yet the passionate sadness we shared was the closest thing to physical love I had ever known.

And then there was that German. Why did he dog my thoughts? Were we friends? Friends share their lives--I didn't even know where he was or what he was doing. I was certain I would never see him again. He could even die and I would never know. Surely he spared no thought for me, as he struggled just to survive in the harshness that was post-war Europe.

Were we lovers? Certainly not. We had scarcely touched in the time I knew him--sitting side by side in a pickup truck or at a mess table. But the first time we ever met, he had bandaged my injuries and the last time we had seen each other, he had drawn me under the boughs of an apple tree and kissed with startling intensity...and god help me, I had responded.

And he haunted my dreams and my quiet waking hours.

He had survived the brutalities of war with his integrity intact. He had borne adversity with dignity and good-humor. He had shown genuine concern for me. He had cared. Would he have done more than just care, if I had encouraged him?

Why hadn't I encouraged him?

I sighed-such questions were moot and only served to depress me. I watched the stars wheel above me in the cold sky. Six years ago at this time, I had been stifling in the heat of a Cairo Christmas, mourning the death of my dreams of love with a tall Englishman, barely aware of the existence of that certain German officer, never imagining how he would stride back into my life and become a part of it.

For what purpose? He had moved me; I could admit that now. When I dreamt of love, I dreamt of him. But he was gone like last summer's flowers, like September's cranes, while I stood on this snow-swept bluff, watching the stars overhead slowly pivot around the Pole Star.

Ghostly lights chased each other across the silent darkness of the sky. Winter Solstice. A pivot point in time when the earth shifted invisibly and began a long, summer-bound journey back into light. Was there ever going to be a summer in my heart?

I self-consciously wiped the tears from my cheeks. A mile or so down-river, I could see the lights of an aircraft making an approach at the airfield in Nenana. A gust of wind sent icy crystals of snow from the roof to melt against my cheeks as I made my way back into the cabin. I wrapped a quilted comforter around me and settled back near the wood stove, watching the pattern of dancing shadows against the wall.

Where is he now? Does he ever think of me? It's been a year-and-a-half...

I had lost my chance--. I had been too cautious, too reluctant to reveal my feelings. He had been a good man, an honest man. But I had been unable to offer him any encouragement, from fear that my heart would be savaged.

But I seemed to have lost my heart anyway, somewhere along the way.

In the dim light of the cabin, the jury of self-judgment convened. Yet another noble man who did not want me...Jack Moffitt, Sam Troy, and Hans Dietrich. I smiled wryly. An international assortment of rejection. Is it rejection? That contrary voice in my head demanded. How could it be rejection, if he never knew you cared?

Yes, I had been proud of that, so careful not to let my mask of indifference slip.

"What doesn't kill you outright will only make you stronger," Grandma McGinnis had always said. But had I become strong or just hardened? Jack Moffitt had broken my tender adolescent heart; I had made damned sure no one else would ever have the chance to hurt me again. I saw that as my fierce victory.

Then, the inner voice mocked, why are you alone and unhappy in this cabin on the desolate edge of the world? Is this triumph?

The sound of a fist on the cabin door startled me from my reflections.

I briefly toyed with ignoring the door-there was no one in the world I wanted to see tonight-but a vestigial sense of community prodded me to my feet. It had to be urgent to bring someone out on a night like this and I couldn't leave them standing in the darkness, battered by wind and snow.

I paused long enough to turn up the lamps, then jerked the heavy door open. A swirl of snow skittered along the floor before curling upon itself and collapsing. My eyes refused to recognize the tall form, bundled against the cold...but my heart leapt against my ribs, even as I told myself: It can't be...

I stepped back in silent invitation and he moved forward, dark eyes catching the lamp light as he threw back the snow-crusted parka hood with a toss of his head. Hans Dietrich.

Even swathed in a parka, he looked reed-thin, and tired, older. My heart hurt to speculate on what he had lived through these past two years... Even so, he looked damned good to me. Without a word, he opened his arms to me in invitation. I crumpled into them with an inarticulate cry.

So this was the gift Fate gave me that holiday season: that beginning with this night in the closing days of 1948 and for all my nights to come, I wouldn't fall asleep wondering where he was or how he was doing. That fact alone lent a wonderful comfort to my heart.

In spring, the earth was young again. The first tenacious shoots of grass were already pushing up past sodden clumps of melting snow. Their booted feet splashed through melt water puddles as the man and woman meandered along the single rusted strand of barbed wire that marked the fence line, then paused on a slight rise to look out across the fallow orchard.

"Well," she said, her breath a puff of cloud on the breeze, "it's ours now."

His arm slid around her waist, drawing her close to his side. "It is so peaceful." There was longing in his baritone voice. He rested his chin against her chestnut hair. "As if there never were a war..."

"Shhh--," she turned to embrace him, silencing him with her lips. "That was another place and time," she murmured against his throat. "This is a new beginning--our new beginning." Their arms tightened, holding on to each other as if they never would let go.