Bathed In Moonlight E-Book

Stacia Kaywood

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A wounded soldier at her doorstep. A secret beneath the floorboards.

Germany, World War Two. Jimmy O'Brien and Greta Müller must overcome a mountain of obstacles forcing them apart, while helping a young boy reunite with his mother.

With the war now threatening her safety, can Greta save the handsome GI, or will her act of charity lead to the discovery of a hidden past and the destruction of a young boy’s world?

Stacia Kaywood's debut novel, 'Bathed In Moonlight', explores the chaos at the end of a hard-fought war, when those who survived struggle to rebuild the lives they once had, redefining who they now are while putting to rest the skeletons in their closets.

Leseprobe

BATHED IN MOONLIGHT

STACIA KAYWOOD

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Stacia Kaywood

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For my children, you are my inspiration and greatest joy. Never stop reaching for your dreams. But perhaps, L, animatronic dinosaur parks might be better than live ones.

For my mother, thank you for believing in me.

Bee, thank you for answering the hundreds of phone calls, questions, and your encouragement.

CHAPTERONE

April 1945

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, Greta Müller blinked open her eyes and took inventory of how many mornings began this exact same way. 548 – has it actually been that many days?Impossible, but no. If today was the 10th of April, then it has, in fact, been 548 days. She groaned, flipped over, and tugged the quilt up over her head. “Maybe today will be different!” she whispered in anticipation. But, then again, different had all sorts of variations. Maybe today will be a touch different. Not bad “different,” definitely not that. Just different.

Maybe Ezra would not run into the room within the next five minutes, and she could get some extra sleep. Or maybe Liesel would stop in for a visit and bring real coffee. Or the war could end. She laughed. If she could simply wish for anything, it would be to wake up in her old bed in Berlin to a world where the war had never started! But that was not to be, so instead, she waited.

She counted the seconds: one… two… three, and there it was. Ezra’s soft patter along the hardwood floor, a poke on her shoulder, the sharp intake of air as he checked to make sure Greta was still there.

Stifling a groan, she rolled over with a wide smile on her lips. “I am up, Ezra.” Throwing off the quilt, she reached towards the ceiling, stretching her muscles after a night of rest. “Ready for another exciting day?”

His deep brown eyes sparkled with amusement, and he nodded his head, his dark locks tumbling across his forehead. Turning on his heel, he ran back out the door. Ah, so there’s my answer – definitely not different today. Thus, the morning would begin as it always did in their home, nestled away from the world.

The house was a perfect cozy hideaway, with woods on one side and an open field on the other. It had two small bedrooms, each with a comfortable bed and downy quilt. The kitchen and living room suited their needs: a fireplace to keep them warm and a table where they could fill their bellies from their limited pantry. However, the most important feature about this home wasn’t what could be seen, but rather what was hidden below. It was for this reason Liesel sent Greta and Ezra to stay here and not with her.

“I insist, Greta. You and Ezra cannot live here with me. It would only be a matter of time before someone started asking questions. Stay at my old home near the woods. No one goes near there. I’ll tell everyone I’ve leased it to my niece. And since I have so many, no one will question it.” Liesel patted Greta’s hand. “Trust me.”

The next day, they moved in, and Liesel revealed its secret. “Wilhelm didn’t like leaving me behind. He worried about the long cold winters and insisted on building a root cellar right here.” She pointed down to a burgundy and gold handwoven rug in the center of the living room. Liesel lifted the rug, pointing to the floorboards. “I know it doesn’t seem like much, but see that notch there?” She pointed at a knothole in the wood. “It’s actually a handle.” Greta leveraged her hand through the knot and tugged. To her surprise a few floorboards lifted up. It was a trap door. Underneath, a simple rung ladder led down to a dirt room. The walls were reinforced by wooden slats and shelves holding a few jars.

“Liesel, this is perfect.”

“Yes. You and Ezra can hide if need be. And we can stock the shelves, so you have food to last.”

Together, Greta and Liesel devised a method for rolling the rug back over the floor using strings threaded through the floorboards. This house, with its perfect hiding spot, was exactly what they hoped for.

Beginning her morning calisthenics, an odd tingling sensation crept up her spine. Perhaps today will be different after all. Except this feeling caused her stomach to lurch forward and beads of sweat to gather at the nape of her neck. “Oh, please, nothing bad! Not now, after all this time,” she cried out.

Inching across the room to the window, she peered out at the line of trees edging their yard. She heard the faint chirp of birds, saw the trees swaying in a breeze. Everything appeared as it always did. Yet, the feeling persisted. She waved her arms, trying to shake it off.

“You are letting the isolation get to you, Greta! Hearing things that aren’t there.” She quickly dressed and went to the kitchen to prepare their meager breakfast.

Ezra rolled his train across the floor, the squeaking of its wheels the only sound. Greta longed for the day when he would speak again, when she could hear him utter the barest of words. But it had been nearly two years since that fateful day and absolutely nothing – just silence.

As she gathered ingredients to make breakfast, the eerie feeling intruded on the pleasant morning once again; her shoulders tensed, her ears heated. This time something was different. “What was that?” she asked Ezra, rubbing down the tiny hairs prickling in fear along her arms.

He stood perfectly still, alert like a hunted deer. His eyes grew round. A faint noise rose from the woods behind the house… Hide! the voice in her head screamed, forcing Greta into action.

“Go! Now!” Greta cried out, as they both ran to the center of the living room, wrenching up the secret door in the floor. Down they scurried into their cramped hiding space, hunching against the wooden slats. Greta replaced the hidden door and yanked the string, moving the rug back in place over the opening.

Gunfire! The rat-a-tat-tat grew louder, as the fighting drew closer. Ezra leaned into Greta’s arms. She held him tightly, whispering words of comfort into his ear. “They will move past us quickly, Ezra. Have faith.” As the sounds strengthened in intensity, Greta’s fervent prayers became silent words whispered upon lips that soon stilled as they waited with bated breath.

The gunfire thundered around them. Voices passed by, then faded in retreat. Greta hitched herself up closer to the floor, trying to distinguish the sounds coming from above. Ezra shrank into a small ball against the dirt floor, covering his ears with his tiny fists. He’s been through so much, please, God. Let this be over quickly.

There was a jumbled mix of shouting and gunfire. A bullet whizzed above their heads. Porcelain shattered. Another bullet broke a window. Bullets zipped through the room above them. Greta situated herself next to Ezra, holding him close to ease his tremors.

She cooed softly into his ear, “It will be over soon, Ezra, I promise.” Silent tears soaked the knees of his tan short pants as he wrapped his arms around bent legs, clutching them to his body. The encounter brought back terrible memories, memories of the place they fled.

“We will wait here a while to be sure they leave. Keep quiet for now.” She hummed lightly into his ear, cradling him as she continued the lullaby. She held onto a fervent hope for the day he would feel safe again, when he would no longer hide from monsters who haunted his nightmares. As quickly as the fighting came, it left with an unnatural silence following in its wake.

Long minutes passed. The cuckoo chirped the hour. Still they stayed in the security of their hiding spot. Ezra stopped crying. They would wait until the cuckoo chirped once again. Then it should be safe for them to emerge and go on with their day as if nothing had happened.

Bang! The door slamming against the wall shattered the silence. Footsteps! Both Greta’s and Ezra’s hearts pounded with abject fear as they listened to the cacophony above. Someone walked heavily – one foot thudded, the next slid behind, step, drag, step, drag, step, drag. The tattoo of leaden boots echoed through their hiding place, each step punctuating the silence. Whoever entered the house collapsed onto the sofa above them.

Ezra instantly went rigid. They were both too frightened to move, holding in their breath as if the mere act of breathing would give them away. Who is it? The springs in the sofa squeaked. A gut-wrenching moan. The sofa shifted, a small scrape against the floor. A heavy thud and prolonged groan… and then he was silent. Is it a soldier? An American? She swallowed hard. Or could he beGerman?

The man coughed, moaned. She needed him out of her house. He could not stay here; someone would be searching for him, surely. And if he were found with them, if the Germans found Ezra? What would happen then? The war was fast approaching its end. It has to be if there was fighting this far inside of Germany. She could not risk anyone discovering the truth, not now.

She whispered to Ezra, “Stay quiet.” Gently, she rolled back the rug and pushed the floorboards up just enough to peek through an opening. Seeing no immediate threat, she carefully concealed Ezra and moved from her hiding place.

CHAPTERTWO

Resting his head against the back of a sofa, Captain Jimmy O’Brien tried to figure out what had gone so terribly wrong. One moment he was leading his small patrol of men through a wooded area, the next thing he knew, they were ambushed from the rear and front at the same time. The encounter quickly descended into chaos, but some quick thinking and convenient cover helped his patrol regain the upper hand. All, except for Jimmy.

The situation was totally FUBAR. He remembered the sensation of falling, a bullet piercing his shoulder, hitting the ground hard. Hearing the gunfire fade into the distance, he raised his head, seeing no one. He was helplessly alone. Rising from the mist in the meadow before him was a house, it called out to him. Help. He had to get help. At some point his men would return and take him back to their camp. For now he could only hope he had found the aid he needed.

Bracing against the sofa, he attempted to push himself back to a standing position, but it was no use. Pain shot through his shoulder, dizziness followed, his vision tunneled. Warm, sticky blood pooled along the gash in his thigh. This is it. You have no choice, Jimmy, you must get up. There’s no one here to help you. But try as he might, he could not force himself to rise. He prayed for a miracle.

The creak of floorboards drew his attention. He tried to force his eyes open, but they stubbornly refused. He heard a faint clearing of a throat and a sharp intake of breath.

“Ach, du Lieber!” a soft female voice exclaimed. Whoever it was inched closer to him and fingered the name on his uniform. “English, yes?” When he didn’t respond, she softly prodded around his shoulder, then his thigh.

Did an angel of mercy come to my aid or is it an agent of my death? As she leaned closer to him, he caught the faint scent of lilacs and clean linen. Such a pleasant smell, with death lurking around the corner.

All too quickly, she left his side. Her absence left him cold. Jimmy released a frustrated moan. He wanted the warmth her proximity gave him, to smell her heavenly perfume. He called out to her, but the sound choked in his dry throat.

A clink, slosh, thunk next to him told Jimmy of the angel’s return. Her warm breath washed over his face as she placed her small hand against his chest. He felt her unbutton his shirt and her fingers explore the wound at his shoulder. “Here, let me take off your shirt.” Her sweet voice was lightly accented. He allowed her to tug the sleeves away from his shoulders and down his arms. Ever so gently, she pulled him forward while she removed his uniform.

“Hold still, please. This will be over quickly, as long as you do not move.” She spoke barely above a whisper, her voice a soothing balm. He felt the sharp edge of a blade, a tug, and then a shooting pain through his shoulder.

His eyes shot open from the pain as he gripped her hand with all the strength he had left. A triumphant smile greeted him, and she held the bullet out for inspection. His heart stopped beating as he took in the vision before him. Buttery blonde hair fell around her face. Blue-green eyes of a clear summer’s day. A pixie face with delicate features. She was beautiful.

“It’s over. Here.” She dropped the bullet into his outstretched hand. “It is out. Now, I need to sew up the wound, as it is too large to bandage. I will try not to hurt you.” His eyes darted from her to the blade to the bullet and back again. She repeated her promise, a placating hand resting above his heart.

I did it! Greta could scarcely believe her first aid worked, and the bullet was out. She had been terrified by his lethargy and the pallor of his skin, but the moment his eyes flew open, she breathed a sigh of relief. He should live, thank goodness.

He was too stunning to die; it would be too tragic, such a waste. His eyes, she had never seen such a color, two perfect pools of melted chocolate. And the rest of him! She felt like she was touching a Greek statue with perfectly defined muscles, firm jaw, and broad shoulders. But he was a real man, with a sprinkling of dark hair curling around the neckline of his undershirt, the sight of which caused her stomach to bubble rather pleasantly. It had been far too long since she last saw a man, let alone one so perfectly proportioned. Focus, Greta!

She applied pressure to the wound with a bandage, which helped staunch the bleeding. “Can you manage to put pressure here? I need to inspect more of you.” He placed his hand on the padding and remained still for the rest of the examination.

Next was his leg, where his hand clamped the fabric over a growing pool of crimson. Greta admired his long fingers, imagining how they could feel cradling her cheek, stroking her skin. She lifted his hand from his leg, resisting the urge to hold it for a moment, and instead inspected the wound. It was very deep. She needed a better view of his injury, but cutting open the leg of his pants was not an option, as he would have nothing to wear. There was no other way. Tentatively she reached for his belt and button fly. In a flash, his hand grabbed hers, his eyes flew open, glassy and confused.

A flush crept across her face, as she gestured to the injury. “I am sorry, but I need better access to the wound. There is no other way. Your pants, they must go.”

For a moment, he studied her face. She gave a wry smile and waved her fingers over his leg. He reluctantly nodded, but indicated he would take over the task of disrobing. Motioning to her to turn her head around, he began removing his clothing. She could hear the slide of the buckle, the rustle of his pants. The intimate sounds caused a blush to bloom over her chest as she tried not to envision what he might look like underneath. She folded and refolded the towel in her hand, concentrating on anything but the fact he was taking off his clothes.

Jimmy cleared his throat, and she turned around. A rag now covered his lap down to the wound. She moved his hand back to his shoulder and instructed him to hold the bandage again as it was still oozing a bit of blood.

He grimaced as she touched the skin near the tear on his exposed thigh. The wound was gruesome, his flesh red and swollen around a gash, running the entire length of his thigh. It was deep, possibly even to the bone, in need of stitches to keep out any infection.

“I will be back. I need to retrieve a needle and thread. Keep pressure on your shoulder and,” she placed his hand on a folded rag on his thigh, “if you can, rest as much weight as possible here.” Keeping his head back and eyes closed, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply.

In the kitchen, a pot of water simmered on the stove. She disinfected her needle. After washing her hands in water as hot as she could stand, she fished out the needle, gathered a few supplies, and returned to the living room to see her patient.

“Here, drink this and take a few of these.” She handed him a glass of water and some aspirin tablets. He swallowed the pills and drank the water down in thirsty gulps.

Finally, feeling like he could open his eyes without becoming dizzy, Jimmy took in his makeshift hospital and the woman before him. The room was small, modestly decorated with lace curtains and a cuckoo clock on the mantel.

As for her, she was worth admiring a bit closer. He resisted the urge to sweep his fingers across the dusting of freckles covering the bridge of her nose. He wanted to feel her silky skin against his own.

His bewitching angel motioned to the kitchen. “I need a few more things.” She held her hand against his forehead. The touch was soothing as he leaned his cheek against the palm of her hand. She left again, leaving behind an odd coldness in her wake.

A floorboard creaked. He spied a curious face peeking up at him. Jimmy flashed a weary half-smile. “Well, hello there, little fella,” he rasped, as the boy carefully crept to his side.

“Your mom is taking care of me,” Jimmy said, pointing with his head behind him, but the boy said nothing in response.

Up onto the sofa Ezra climbed, plopping next to Jimmy, and beginning to inspect him with childlike curiosity. He reached for the shirt, which still rested on the arm of the sofa. His tiny fingers traced over the diamond patch for the 4th Infantry Division.

“Those are the green ivy leaves of my unit,” Jimmy explained. “Our nickname is Iron Horse.” Then Ezra’s fingers outlined his name patch. “O’Brien, that’s my name. You can call me Jimmy.” He lifted his hand off his wounded thigh, shakily extending it in greeting. The boy gripped his index finger in a shake before Jimmy lowered it back onto padding.

Ezra reached out to hold Jimmy’s face, clasping it in his little hands, turning it from left to right. Then he rubbed his palm over the salt and pepper stubble along Jimmy’s cheeks and chin. “Believe it or not, kid, my beard used to be all brown before the war. This war has made me an old man.” He laughed, and Ezra returned a small smile.

Her arms full, Greta returned and stumbled backwards with a startled cry in German, “Ezra, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, he’s no problem, ma'am. It’s nice to see kids.” Jimmy leaned back, the action causing more pain than he intended, and his dizziness returned.

“You’re not Irish?” She startled with brief surprise, as his voice reflected a distinctively American accent, not the Irish one she expected.

Jimmy opened one eye, concentrating on what she was saying. “No, ma'am, American through and through. Is that a problem?”

“I am sorry, I noticed the name on your uniform, and it confused me.” She sat down near his leg, rubbing his skin with soap and water. It stung and he shifted slightly. “I sometimes forget Americans have Irish names too.” She gestured to the towel she held. “This will hurt, but it is necessary. I have no way of getting you to a doctor or the Americans. And we certainly can’t risk an infection.”

“Were you hoping I was British?” he asked, wanting to distract himself from the discomfort of her ministrations.

She shrugged, as she threaded the needle. “I know not which of the Allies were in the area, I am just relieved you are not a German.” Pulling on the thread and needle, she began to sew up the wound. Moving the needle gently in and out, the action brought the ragged edges of the skin together. He shifted and gritted his teeth.

Jimmy winced as she stitched further. “Agh!” His hand clamped down on his thigh, trying to squeeze the pain away.

“I’m sorry,” she lamented with pity in her eyes. “I don’t have anything stronger for the pain.” Her brow furrowed and her teeth worried at her bottom lip as she concentrated on keeping the stitches straight and even.

Jimmy focused on her face. The pixie nose, wondering how she could breathe through one so dainty. Not like his somewhat large but ordinary beak. Such a delicate creature, this German woman. Why did she prefer the company of an American, versus her own countrymen? She was a puzzle, but a beautiful one. “I am very grateful to you.” He sucked in his breath as she prodded around a particularly tender spot. “Don’t worry, they will come looking for me.”

Jimmy liked this close proximity, having her so close he could smell her freshly laundered clothing. He could study her idiosyncrasies, the way she tilted her head from side to side when the stitching was difficult. The faintest hum of approval when the process went smoothly.

“Mister O’Brien, can you move your other hand, please? I need to sew up your shoulder now.” She leaned in toward him as she reinspected this shoulder wound.

As she pressed closer, an ache grew within him. A need to touch and feel a woman again. Oh my God!What is wrong with me? He felt a mad compulsion to bury his face there, right against her milky white skin, resting his weary head against the pillowy softness, and sinking into blissful surrender.

She yanked a touch too hard on the thread, breaking through his lustful musings. “Oh, I am terribly sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Finally, she finished the stitches and began to clean him off. The wet rag was comforting against his skin. He studied her, the way she tilted her head from side to side. She kept chewing on her lip as she tenderly put the cloth onto his skin, gently rubbing the same spot over and over again. What was she thinking? The boy popped into view again, drawing his attention reluctantly away.

“What is your son’s name?” he asked.

Greta jumped slightly, appearing as guilty as he felt. “My son?” She looked at him quizzically. He pointed behind her. “Oh, Ezra. He’s Ezra.” Her voice trailed off. Warmly, she smiled down at the boy, and he regarded her with wide, excited eyes. Ezra chewed on a piece of bread, his cheeks rosy and full.

“I think, for now, you should rest for a while.” She laid the back of her hand across his forehead, then spoke in German. “Ezra, please find a blanket for the American.”

He ran from the room, then returned proudly holding up a quilt. Jimmy reached for the blanket. “Danke,” though it sounded more like dane-key.

She tucked the quilt around him, careful of his injuries. “Is this good? Are you comfortable?”

“Absolutely, couldn’t have gotten better care than I did here. Especially from a lady as pretty as yourself.” A faint blush spread across her cheeks. “My name is O’Brien, Captain James O’Brien. But I prefer Jimmy.”

“I am Greta Müller. It is so nice to meet you, Jimmy.” She placed her hand on his, giving it a squeeze. The tender sign of affection filled Jimmy with fervor, as he fought the urge to haul her closer to him, to let his mouth show how truly grateful he was.

CHAPTERTHREE

Careful not to disturb her patient, Greta picked up the uniform from the arm of the sofa and went to the kitchen. There she mended the holes and tried to wash it the best she could. It would never again be a proper uniform, but at least she could return him to his unit in a somewhat presentable state.

With Ezra’s help, she cleaned up the mess left behind from the firefight. She replaced the curtains with sheets, swept up the broken vase, and hammered a weathered board over the broken window. The armchair had suffered the indignity of a large rip in the fabric, but there was nothing she could do to fix it now.

Ezra and Greta both had the same thought. “Poor Liesel, this was her husband’s favorite chair.” She pointed to the stuffing falling onto the floor. “I won’t tell her if you won’t.” She winked at Ezra who gave a silent laugh.

Jimmy watched the way that Greta and Ezra interacted with each other with rapt curiosity. There was something strange in the way the two of them behaved, not as mother and son, but rather with a distance between the two. Jimmy noted the stark differences in their appearance. Greta was fair, with blonde hair and blue-green eyes, while Ezra had dark brown hair and eyes. Perhaps Ezra favored more of his father, but something nagged him. The longer he lay there, the more the situation puzzled him. There were secrets in this house, and he wanted to know the answers.

Ezra quickly became Jimmy’s guardian in Greta’s absence. Every time she left the room, Ezra would stand on his tiptoes and inspect Jimmy himself. After a while, Jimmy began to talk with the curious boy, but he never received an audible response. Nonetheless, Jimmy continued to talk, and Ezra listened intently, sometimes gifting the soldier with a bright smile or laughing silently. Jimmy was never sure if his new friend actually understood him or was reacting to the tone in his voice. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the company, as it took his mind away from the throbbing pain.

Regaling Ezra with a story about his driver, Corporal Tony Ricci, Jimmy received a startling surprise. “So there was Tony, covered from head to toe in flour saluting the General, like this.” Jimmy executed a perfect imitation. From the other side of the room, he heard a soft giggle. The sound startled Jimmy, lowering his hand as he peeked over at his tiny friend. “Did you just laugh, Ezra?” The cheerful boy nodded and ran over to Jimmy, handing him a storybook.

“You want me to read this?” As he scanned the pages, Ezra stopped him and pointed to a particular story. “I don’t know, Ezra. I haven’t read any German since high school, so it will probably be pretty bad!”

Smoothing out the pages, Jimmy attempted to read. “Es war einmal, once upon a time. Is this a fairy tale?” Ezra flipped a few pages, showing Jimmy the illustration of Little Red Riding Hood. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Es war einmal eine kleine süße Dirne, die hatte jedermann lieb.” A snort came from Ezra. Jimmy raised his eyebrow. “I told you my accent was bad. OK, where was I? Oh yeah.” Jimmy cleared his throat, his distinctive nasal accent impossible to hide. “Der sie nur ansah, am allerliebsten aber ihre Großmutter, die wusste gar nicht, was sie alles dem Kinde geben sollte.” Ezra could no longer hide his mirth and broke out in giggles.

His laughter was infectious, and Jimmy joined in. “It was bad, huh, little fella?” Ezra wiped a tear from his eye, nodding. Tousling his hair, Jimmy leaned back against the back of the sofa. “I’m tired now, I think I better rest for a minute.”

Greta returned, taking in the sight of Ezra’s delighted face. “Are we having fun?”

“Yes, I think he was making fun of me, Greta. He wanted me to read, but my German wasn’t up to his standards.” Jimmy rested his good arm behind his head.

“Oh, it wasn’t?”

“No, he laughed at me,” he said with a touch of self-mockery.

The smile faded from Greta’s face. “Pardon? He laughed?”

“Yes,” he looked puzzled. “Doesn’t he laugh?” The mystery deepened. The more questions answered, the more questions he had. Who was this beautiful, enigmatic woman in front of him, and who was this child obviously desperate for company?

“No,” her answer was barely audible, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Why doesn’t he laugh?” That was the question he wanted to know the answer to the most. A darkness lurked in the shadows of the room, and he was determined to find the source.

She waved his question away and whispered something to Ezra. He picked up his book and train. Then, dragging his feet, he left the room.

“Your color has improved.” She inspected the bandages, satisfied since the bleeding had stopped.

Hearing the cuckoo chirp four times, Jimmy looked over at the clock. “I see it’s later than I thought.” His voice was a rich baritone. “I think, perhaps, my men must still be chasing the soldiers. It seems unlikely they will find me anytime soon. Can I stay here, would it be all right?”

“Absolutely, we would be happy to have you here with us. I made soup and baked bread for a light supper.”

“Anything you can offer would be most appreciated.”

Greta smoothed out her plain cotton dress. “I think it would be better for you to use my bed. I am afraid this sofa is not the best place for resting.” Jimmy started to protest, but she cut him off. “You will not say no.”

He pushed himself up but fell back. The movement sent pain shooting through his spent muscles and his head throbbed in protest. “I would like to put my clothes back on.” A light flush crept up his cheeks.

“They are currently drying. Do not worry, I will not look,” she teased, as he smiled wanly. Greta cleared the path from the living room to the bedroom. Trying to avert her eyes from the sight of Jimmy clad in nothing but his undergarments, she helped ease him up from the sofa.

“Here,” she wrapped her arm around his waist, draping his arm over the opposite shoulder, “give me your weight and I will help you into the bedroom.” Working together, shifting his weight, they hobbled from the sofa to the bedroom. He favored his injured leg, limping gingerly alongside Greta.

He lowered himself onto the bed, groaning painfully. “The hard part is over,” she said to reassure him. She fluffed a pillow, placing it under his head and covered him with a downy quilt. “Rest, it is the only thing you should do right now, but do not sleep. With your injuries, I would like for you to stay awake for a while longer to make sure it is nothing more serious.” Greta smoothed his hair over his brow, and he relaxed in response to her touch. “I will be in the next room, call out if you need anything.”

“I will,” Jimmy assured her. At the door, she turned and contemplated him one last time. The sight of her furrowed brow, her consternation, left Jimmy with an inexplicable feeling of contentment. He felt his eyelids growing heavy. He shifted his position, trying not to sleep. He relished the comfort of a regular bed after far too many nights on a cot with only a woolen blanket for cover. It was all he could do to stay awake.

He snorted and realized with a start he had fallen asleep. Greta stood at the door, her tiny shadow snickering. “Dinner’s ready.” She helped him sit up in bed. “I made vegetable soup. I thought it would help you regain strength. Then you should probably sleep.”

Ezra ran into the kitchen. A few moments later he returned with his bowl. Cradling it on his lap, he took a spot on the floor near the bed and began eating. Jimmy leaned over the edge of the bed. “Is it good, little fella?”

Ezra nodded in response and took a big spoonful. “Seems he likes your cooking.” Jimmy sat upright, as Greta slid a chair near the edge of the bed. She held the bowl for Jimmy, helping him eat.

“I’m glad Ezra isn’t a picky eater. What we have is rather limited, but he seems to like it all.” She spooned more of the soup for Jimmy. It was simple, made of bone broth and a few vegetables, mostly cabbage. It was meager, but the warmth and taste were comforting and helped to further settle his stomach.

He made silly faces over at Ezra, who erupted into peals of laughter. Every time he peered in Ezra’s direction, he saw the boy straining to make eye contact. Again, a funny face, then laughter.

“Enough you two, time for bed.” Ezra was reluctant to leave the room. He ran up to Jimmy and threw his arms around him. Drawing him close, Jimmy kissed the mop of brown hair covering his head. Greta let out an audible gasp. Her voice wavered when she said, “I will be back in a moment. Help yourself to more food if you want.”

Jimmy sipped another spoonful; however, the queasiness from earlier returned. He closed his eyes as he waited for Greta. When she was near, everything came into focus. He didn’t understand these feelings and how she was able to stir them up. But there they were, emotions he didn’t want to name, boiling so close to the surface. He ran his good hand over his face and blew out the breath he held. What’s happening to me?

Greta returned to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a faint click. Jimmy tried to stand, but his leg could not bear any weight at all, and he crashed back down onto the bed. Greta ran forward. “Here, let me help you.”

“You know, I am still not wearing pants,” he said grimly, as she placed herself under his good arm to support him.

She smirked. “Well, we can’t very well do anything about that now. Your clothes are still wet. Where are you wanting to go?”

“Er, the bathroom would be nice,” he said, uncomfortably.

“It is ten steps this way.” She showed him to a small room nestled between the kitchen and bedroom.

As she closed the door behind him, Jimmy gripped the sink with his hand and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The person staring back was not the man he remembered. Gone was the carefree smirk and perfectly quaffed hair. Instead lines now bracketed his eyes, his hair was in desperate need of a cut, and the long, jagged scar running across his left cheek served as a constant reminder that he’d changed, never to be that man again. He splashed water on his face and took a steadying breath.

Greta returned to the bedroom and righted the bedclothes. She had enough time to clean up the dishes before she heard him call out to her.

“I am ready now,” his voice muffled through the wood door.

She opened it as he braced himself against the wall. “Use me as support again.” He draped his uninjured arm around her and limped with her back to the bed.

As he lay down, she covered him with the quilt, tucking it around him. She placed her cool hand against his forehead, feeling his skin and noticing it was now warm and dry. He relaxed, comforted by sweet ministrations.

“Stay.” He reached out to her and clasped her delicate wrist with his hand. It was dwarfed by his strong fist. Conflicted, her head shifted from him to the doorway and back again. “Please, stay. It has been so long since I’ve talked with a woman.” Sighing, she sat down on the chair. “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

It had been over a year and a half since she had last spoken with a man, any man. She felt utterly inept. Looking into the depths of his chocolatey eyes, she relented and decided it would do her no harm to talk to him a bit. “Berlin, and you?”

“Reading, Pennsylvania.” He flashed his charming smile, and her breath caught in her throat. “How do you know English?”

“I learned it in school.” She relaxed slightly as she shifted in her chair. “I am very good at language learning. I speak Polish and Danish as well. I was working translating documents when everything started, before I…” She stopped suddenly; she was revealing too much. Would her job from the past put her in danger with the Americans? Would she be considered a criminal, or could she answer these questions freely?

“Before what?” he asked.

“It is nothing.” She shook her head. She did not wish to talk about her past and changed the subject. “You are so kind to Ezra. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“It isn’t nothing, Greta, and that boy needs kindness. You both do.” Their eyes locked as they tried to break through the barriers they both had erected. She crossed her legs and rested her elbows on her knees. He reached across the quilt for her hand, but she jerked back, pushing the long sleeves further down her arms. “What are you hiding?”

Everything, she wanted to say. “It isn’t safe to tell you, not now.”

“You can trust me, Greta.”

“Can I, Jimmy? Can I trust a man who was sent here to kill me?” She was absolutely torn by the need to finally unburden herself to this enticing man sitting before her, yet terrified to reveal the secrets she had long held. Hers, Ezra’s. How could she trust a stranger with the truths that had long prevented Ezra from speaking?

“I wasn’t sent here to kill women and children, Greta.” His voice hardened. “I have no desire to kill anyone, least of all innocent people.”

“Am I innocent?” she whispered.

After a long moment, Jimmy answered, “As innocent as I am.” So many shared feelings existed within those few words. “Where’s Ezra’s father?”

“I don’t know.” She shifted again, stating the fact without elaboration. Each time he asked these questions, the ones she wanted to answer so desperately, she felt more restless.

“Don’t you worry about your husband?”

“My husband? I have no…” She stopped suddenly.

“No husband,” Jimmy finished her sentence. Greta stood quickly, walking over to the toys Ezra left in her room. “Who’s Ezra, Greta?” She bent down to collect them.

“I think you’d better get some sleep.” She started for the door, but stopped as she heard Jimmy groan. Turning around, she saw how he tried to get up and follow her. “Lie back down, please.” She dropped the items from her hand and returned to his side, tucking him back under the covers.

“Greta, I can help you,” he pleaded with her.

Why this man wanted to help her, she had no idea. What frightened her more was how desperately she wanted to accept. “Jimmy, you need to save your strength.” Again, she avoided answering him, but his words froze her.

“He looks nothing like you. Greta, tell me.”

Would others notice the same thing? How long can we continue pretending? She shook her head as she clasped her hand over her mouth, forcing herself to keep quiet. “I can’t,” she pleaded with him.

His eyes burned through her very soul, but she had to persist; she had to keep their secrets hidden for a while longer. She could see how sleep weighed heavily on his eyelids. He wanted to resist but could no longer fight it. “Sleep, Jimmy, please.”

Reluctantly, he nodded as sleep finally took hold. She watched his body relax, his breathing slowed. If only she could sit with him and finally unburden herself. To explain all that had happened. But no, it still wasn’t safe. Something about his manner spoke of a desperation she too could understand. There was no doubt in her mind he needed her, and perhaps, if she was truly honest with herself, she needed him a little as well.

CHAPTERFOUR

Jimmy blinked once, twice as his eyelids struggled to lift over his scratchy eyes. Pain radiated through his shoulder and thigh, preventing him from being able to stretch out his long limbs, leaving him feeling coiled and tight. His throat was parched, and he only had a dim recollection of where he was. The memories of yesterday replayed in a hazy blur. Sluggishly, his senses began to work and put the pieces of this fuzzy puzzle together. The quilted blanket. The pale-yellow walls. The noises from beyond the door. And then there was the scent on his pillow, a field of lilacs.

Not my tent. Not the Army camp. He relaxed against the headboard and thought of Greta. Her ethereal vision haunted his dreams like no woman before. Erotic dreams. But more than that, what he most remembered was her smile. The way her entire face lit from within, eyes sparkling, lips wide, her lilting laugh. The image burned into his mind, the vision he awoke to.

Jimmy heard the soft pitter-patter of Ezra’s feet and felt the boy’s fingers poke against the quilt. Smiling, Jimmy turned over. “Good morning.” Jimmy yawned. Wide-eyed, Ezra inspected the patient, then ran away as quickly as he entered, a brown head bobbing past the doorway.

Seconds later there she was, leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes were somehow brighter than he remembered, the smile deeper, more genuine. She reminded him of the Irish faeries from his grandmother’s bedtime stories.

“Good afternoon, Captain.” She then spoke in German to Ezra – Jimmy understood the word Wasser, she must be asking about a glass of water. She rested her cool hand across his forehead. “No fever. I think rest was exactly what you needed.”

It was ironic she claimed he had no fever. He, however, felt engulfed in flames. Each of her caresses caused his blood to surge, his pulse to race. When she brushed away the hair that had fallen over his forehead, he nearly came undone.

Ezra returned, handing him a glass of water. The liquid soothed his dehydrated throat. Fishing around the pocket of her tidy blue apron, Greta pulled out a small bottle with the label Bayer. She dropped two tablets into his palm. “Here, this should help with the pain.”

He swallowed the pain reliever with a large gulp of water, emptying the glass. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, his voice still rough from a long rest.

“I’ve lost count, at least fifteen hours,” Greta responded while examining the stitches on his shoulder.

Fifteen hours and he still felt exhausted. Once this war was over, he was going to sleep for a month. “Danke,” he said to Ezra, holding up the glass. The boy seized the chance to be helpful and fetched more water for Jimmy.

“I am afraid my stitching is not the best. You will probably have several scars.” She trailed her fingers down his arm. Jimmy closed his eyes, falling under her spell.

Her scent filled his lungs. It hung in the air, on his bedclothes. It even clung to his undershirt. “No worries, I already have lots of scars. Grew up rough.” He pointed to a long one on the side of his face. It ran the length from his left eyebrow through his cheek. “See? A few more won’t hurt me.”

He watched as she reached out her index finger, tracing along the puckered white scar. Her blue-green eyes seared through the walls he built around his heart. “What are you thinking about, Greta?”

“Your scar, it reminds me of a Schmisse.”

The way she tilted her head, biting her bottom lips sent waves of desire coursing through Jimmy. The need to feel her next to him, to touch her velvety lips against his boiled raging need throughout his body. I must kiss her. “What is a Schmisse?”

“A dueling scar. At university, men would give each other these scars while fencing. It was a badge of honor, showing how a man would be a good husband, how he was brave.” She stopped tracing the scar and reached over to straighten his bedding. “My father has one. But their popularity waned, and the Nazis outlawed them.” She shrugged and smiled up at him.