Stranger in the Night (4 page)

“You can call me Joshua.”

“You’ll enjoy lending a hand, Joshua. Lots more fun than dealing with squabbling sheikhs.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the return of Reverend Rudi and his family silenced the Marine.

Charity and Virtue, it became evident, had discovered Cheetos. Their lips and fingers coated with orange dust, the two children sidled into the cubicle. Liz struggled not to laugh and scoop them up into her arms, as she so often did with the precious little ones who came under her wings of care. But she couldn’t afford to melt. Not now.

Sergeant Duff needed to take responsibility for this family. His wad of cash would surely buy bus tickets back to Atlanta. He was a good man, kind and concerned. But he had just returned from the war, and his home was in Texas. The last thing he would want to do was take on a group of Pagandans.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked, hunkering down in front of Virtue. “Let me see those fingers, kiddo.”

The child glanced up at his father. Pastor Stephen said something in their native tongue, and Virtue held out his hands. When he noticed his orange fingers, the boy gasped and then burst into a gale of giggles. His sister looked at her hands and started laughing, too.

“Cheetos,” Duff informed the pair. “Puffed or fried, can’t beat ’em. My favorite.”

He rubbed his stomach and made smacking sounds. The kids joined in, rubbing and smacking, clearly enjoying a moment of silliness in the midst of such a solemn day. Pastor Stephen held up the empty cellophane bag.

“The food is very…pink,” he told Liz. “Pardon me…orange. Yes, orange. Can it be washed?”

“Certainly,” she told him. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. You can stop by on your way out. I believe Sergeant Duff is going to help you contact Global Care and make sure you’re safely on your way back to Atlanta.”

“Am I?” Joshua stood, again filling the cubicle in a manner that seemed to dwarf everyone else in the tiny space. “I don’t remember telling you that, Ms. Wallace.”

“Liz. And I told you I couldn’t help them.”

“But you said you’d help
me.
You’ll tell me the steps, and I’ll settle the family here. Right?”

She couldn’t believe she had heard the man correctly. People didn’t do this. Volunteers might take a few hours out of their lives to assist refugees. A church might adopt a family or two. But no one dropped everything. No one single person simply gave up the weeks and months it took to acclimate an entire group. Liz was paid, and even she had to rely on other aid workers and volunteer helpers.

“You told me you live in Texas,” she said.

“Texas can wait. I’ll stick around here for a while.” He set his large palm on Virtue’s round head. “We’ll go to the airport with you and meet family number twenty-four. You can explain your system to me on the way.”

Liz bent her head and rubbed her eyes. This was absolutely not the way her morning should go. She had files to sort. Forms to fill out. A plane to meet. Clothing and food to deliver. A refugee patient to visit in the hospital. She did not need a U. S. Marine and four Pagandans following her around like a flock of lost sheep.

Unable to bring herself to speak, she held up her hand. Instantly, Joshua’s fingers closed around hers. As she lifted her head, he tucked her hand under his arm, splaying her fingers against his biceps.

“I don’t want to hear your favorite word, Liz,” he murmured, leaning close. “
No
isn’t good.
Yes
is much better. Say
yes
to the Rudi family, Liz. If you say it, I will, too. And then we’ll make a difference together.”

Everything inside Liz begged to differ. But how could she keep arguing? The man refused to hear any of her very plausible reasons why his scenario wouldn’t work.

“Fine,” she said, pulling her hand from the warm crook of his
elbow. “Step one. Take the Rudi family back where you found them. Make sure they have a decent place to live with running water, flushing toilets and enough beds. Drive them to the grocery store and buy a week’s supply of staples and a few perishables. Then go to a thrift shop and see if you can find several outfits for each person. And look for coats. Winter’s coming.”

She picked up a couple of business cards and handed one to Joshua and the other to Pastor Stephen. “Here’s my number. Call me if you need me.”

Before either man could protest, Liz pushed past Joshua and headed for Molly’s cubicle, leaving the five wayfarers standing inside her own. If this was going to be a good day, she needed fortification. Her best friend would be happy to accompany her to the coffee shop down the street for a couple of lattes.

A few hours later, Joshua pulled his Cadillac into a parking space in front of the large brick edifice and switched off the engine. He knew he shouldn’t do this. If he were at all smart, right this moment he’d be on his way back to Amarillo. After a couple of easy days on the road, he would drive out to the ranch. As a matter of fact, nothing would feel better than to strip off his jeans and T-shirt, dive into the Texas-shaped pool and swim a few laps.

No doubt Magdalena would put on the dog for him—enchiladas, chile rellenos, carne adovada, homemade tortillas and a big serving of flan for dessert. The cook had been with the Duff family for years, almost a second mother to Joshua and his four brothers. During each of his deployments, she faithfully e-mailed him once a week to let him know the menu of every meal he had missed. Exquisite torture.

After Magdalena’s home-cooked dinner, he would sleep well in his big, clean, nonsandy bed. Then the following day…

As always, Joshua’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at the idea of driving into town and stepping into the Duff-
Flannigan Oil building. He could almost hear his boots squeaking down the long waxed hallway. His voice would echo as he greeted his father. The large corner office would still be waiting—as it had all these years.

Business. The oil business. That’s what we do, son. It’s a Duff thing. Your daddy did it. Your grandpas did it—both sides. And your great-grandpas. That’s why we sent you off to college to get that petroleum engineering degree. You’d be doing it right now if 9/11 hadn’t happened and made you want to serve your country. We’re proud that you did, but now it’s time to take your place here. Your big brother will be CEO one day. You’re our president of field operations. Duff-Flannigan Oil is counting on you.

Hadn’t Joshua just been fighting a war some said was based on a gluttonous thirst for foreign oil? Or had it been about terrorists and the need to quash insurgent cells? Was it about politics—or changing people’s lives for the better? Things could get confusing up in the high arid desert of Afghanistan.

There.

The object of Joshua’s latest quest pushed open the door of Refugee Hope and stepped out onto the sidewalk. At the sight of Ms. Liz Wallace, something slid right down his spine and settled into the base of his stomach. And this was why he should be headed for Texas.

Sam was right about his friend. Joshua had been too long without a woman. He needed to get home, find a couple of pretty gals, and…

What? He hardly knew how to go on an old-fashioned date anymore. Did people even do that these days?

He was thirty. Thirty and battle weary. And Liz Wallace looked so good he had almost dropped to his knees the moment he laid eyes on her.

Instead, he had bullied his way into her office and annoyed her to the point that she ran him off. Worse, he had hog-tied
himself to the Rudi family. Not only did he feel obligated to help the dignified Reverend Stephen and his traumatized little wife, but Joshua was positively smitten with Charity and Virtue.

Sighing, he unlatched his door and pushed it open. Liz glanced his way. Her face…for an unguarded moment…said exactly what he needed to know. She had felt it, too. That
something.
A palpable pull. The irresistible beckoning toward what was probably a huge mistake.

“Liz.” He called her name as she approached on the sidewalk. “Thought you’d take me up on my offer to drive you to the airport. Get a little more information from you about how to manage my new best friends.”

She swallowed. Her brown eyes went depthless for a moment as she met his gaze. Then she focused on his car. “Too small. I’m bringing back a family of five. Thanks, but I always take the agency van to the airport.”

“Good. Where’s it parked?”

“Listen, I appreciate your interest in refugees, Sergeant.”

“Joshua.”

“I don’t need your help picking up this family, and I can’t take the time to explain our system to you right now. It’s very complicated. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I’ll drive while you think.” He imitated her frown. “You’re not going to use your favorite word again are you, Liz?”

Letting out a breath, she shrugged. “Oh, come on, then. But I’ll do the driving. Agency policy.”

“You sure? You look tired.”

“Thanks.”

“Beautiful but tired.”

At the expression of surprise on her face, Joshua mentally chastised himself.
Bad form, Duff. You don’t tell a woman she’s beautiful right off the bat.

On the other hand, Liz Wallace was gorgeous. Slim and not
too tall, she had the sort of understated figure he liked. Nothing demure about that hair, though. Big, glossy brown curls crowned her head, settled onto her shoulders and trickled down her back. Her skin was pale, almost milky. Those melted-chocolate eyes stirred something deep inside him. But it was her lips that drew his focus every time she spoke.

“We have twenty minutes to make it to the airport.” She pushed back her hair as they approached a mammoth white van sprinkled with rust spots. “When we get there, we’ll be going to the area where international flights arrive.”

“Been through those gates a few times myself.” He smiled as yet another look of surprise crossed Liz’s face.

“I’ve seen the Army grunts at Lambert,” she said. “In and out of Fort Leonard Wood for basic training. I didn’t think the Marine Corps used the airport.”

“You might be surprised at what Marines do.”

She opened the van’s door and with some effort clambered into the driver’s seat. Joshua had all he could do to keep from picking her up and depositing her in place. But he knew better than to manhandle Liz Wallace. She might be small and delicate, but the woman had a razor-sharp streak he didn’t want to mess around with.

“I’ve flown out of Lambert, too,” she said as Joshua settled into the passenger’s seat. Starting the engine, she added, “I left the international area on my way to the DRC.”

At that, she glanced his way. The slightest smirk tilted those sumptuous lips. Clearly this was a test she hoped he would fail. A little global one-upmanship.

He fastened his seat belt and tried to relax. It wasn’t easy. Liz had on a khaki skirt that had seemed more than modest in the agency building. But in the van, it formed to the curve of her hip and revealed just enough leg to mesmerize him. He slipped his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

Concentrate on the conversation, Duff.

“So, did you land in Kinshasa?” he asked. “Or maybe you were headed for the eastern part of the country. A lot of people fly into Kampala and travel across the border from there, don’t they?”

She laughed easily. “Okay, you’ve been around. My group landed in Kinshasa. Have you ever visited Congo?”

“You mean the DRC?” He returned her smirk. “Nah. North Africa mostly. How’d you like it?”

“Interesting. It changed me. I’m planning to spend the rest of my life working with refugees in Africa.”

“Africa?” He frowned at the thought of settlements plagued with disease, hunger, violence. “You’re doing a good thing right here, Liz.”

“The people who make it to St. Louis are the lucky ones. All I do is mop up. Try to repair what’s already been broken. I’d prefer to go into the UN camps where I can really make a difference.”

“You’re making a difference now.”

The brown eyes slid his way for an instant. “How do you know?”

“I saw what you do.”

“Not what I
want
to do. My job is too much about lists and quotas. It’s all red tape and documents and files.”

“It’s people.”

“It was once. In the beginning, I thought I was really helping. But there are so many people, and the needs are overwhelming. I don’t speak anyone’s language well enough to communicate the important things I want to say.”

“What is it you want to say?”

Again she glanced at him. “Were you an interrogator?”

“Tracker.” That left out a lot, but he didn’t want to drag his military service into the open. “I did a little interviewing.”

She nodded, her attention on the traffic again. “What I want to say is…meaningful things. But I can’t. My Swahili is horrible. I’m doing well to meet my refugees’ basic needs. I don’t have time to follow through with schools to make sure the kids are adjusting. I can’t teach the mothers how to provide good nutrition. Most don’t know the simplest things about life here.”

“Like what?”