I suppose, for a promise of protection.”
“They?” She had squatted down, balanced on one knee, and was gazing again at the child, who still had her face buried in Hunt’s long chapan.
She thought, My God, a bride? She’s so small...
“Her family.” His voice had an edge of steel. “Of course.”
Yancy glanced up at him, but all she could see of his face in the dim light and behind the dark curtain of beard was the glitter of his eyes. So familiar, and yet I’ve never seen him look like this...
Swallowing the knot of rage and sickness that had lodged in her throat, she spoke quietly. “Does she speak any English?”
“A little. Probably understands more than she speaks. When she speaks. Right now she’s not saying much of anything.”
She straightened up, letting out a breath. “Hunt, I don’t know what you know about the organization—INCBRO. We’re more about trying to intercede diplomatically—you know, educate and persuade family members, get them to understand they can do better for their daughters by letting them go to school instead of marrying them off as children. If they don’t have the money to do that, we try to help them. We don’t usually take a child out of the culture and environment they’re accustomed to. We don’t just...pick them up and carry them off—not that we don’t wish we could, sometimes...”
“But you’ve done just that, in certain cases. As a last resort? When the girl’s life was at stake. Haven’t you?”
“Well, I—”
“Her mother’s name was Zahra.”
She heard an edge of flint in his voice—and something else she couldn’t name. It stirred conflicting emotions and swirled them together in her mind like a wicked little dust devil—fear, compassion...a hint of jealousy—making her heart stutter and her breath catch. But for only a moment. The thoughts and emotions settled like leaves when the wind has passed.
“So you knew her?”
“Yes. I knew her.” His hand rested on the child’s turbaned head, so gentle in contrast to the cold rage in his eyes. “I thought I’d found a safe place for them, but they—” He broke off with a meaningful glance at the child and stepped away from her, turning his back to her before he continued speaking to Yancy in a low murmur. “The male members of her family killed her—killed Zahra. How they found them I don’t know. Thank God this one managed to hide. Look, I don’t have time for details. I just know if she stays here they’ll find her again sooner or later. In fact, the longer I stay here the more danger she’s in—and you, too. I know your crew is about to wrap up—pulling out tomorrow, right?”
She nodded and again didn’t bother to ask him how he knew.
“Okay. So take her with you. Get her on that underground railroad you help run. You’re the only one who can get her out of Afghanistan. You can keep her safe.” He pulled in a breath. “If you need money—”
“Not a problem. INCBRO is very well funded,” Yancy said tightly.
He nodded and for a moment seemed to hesitate—that unfamiliar uncertainty again. Then he turned abruptly, went down on one knee and took the child by the shoulders. He spoke quietly to her in Pashto, a language Yancy was still struggling to learn. The little girl made a whimpering sound and reached for him, but he held her firmly away, still talking to her.
Then, in an abrupt change to English, he said slowly and clearly, “Laila, this woman is my friend. I told you about her, remember? She’s going to take good care of you. She’ll keep you safe. Okay?”
Laila kept her head bowed but silently nodded and, after a moment, lifted small clenched fists to scrub tears from her cheeks.
“That’s my girl,” Hunt said in a husky growl. “I’ll come and see you, soon as I can, I promise.” Unexpectedly, he drew the child into his arms and held her close. Yancy’s heart did a slow flip-flop. “But for now, I want you to go with Yancy. Can you do that?”
After a long pause, Laila nodded. Hunt released the child, rose to his feet and turned her toward Yancy. The little girl bravely lifted her eyes.
A smile of reassurance froze on Yancy’s lips. She sucked in an audible breath. Lion’s eyes...golden eyes, tear-glazed but bright as flame...
Her own gaze flew to Hunt, who had paused at the door to look back at her.
“Yes,” he said gently, “she’s mine. Does it matter?”
Yancy shook her head, barely aware she did so.
“Put out the light, will you?”
Numbly, she reached for the lantern. As the room plunged into darkness she felt a chill breeze and knew he was gone.
In the silence that fell then, a small cold hand crept into hers.
Kabul, Afghanistan
Present day
Yancy tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand as they wove their way together through the sluggish river of shoppers, stepping around parked cars and top-heavy pushcarts and the knots of women who were pausing to examine displays of brightly woven fabrics, piles of fresh-baked bread or bins of cheap plastic trinkets.
“Look, Mom, Mickey Mouse,” Laila said, pointing, and Yancy smiled and squeezed her hand.
“Just like home.”
Her daughter lifted her golden eyes, eyes now sparkling with the smile that was hidden beneath the drape of her scarf. “Well, not exactly.”
Yancy laughed, feeling lighter in heart than she had since she’d made the decision to bring Laila with her on this trip to Afghanistan. She’d have preferred to wait until her adopted daughter was older before taking her to visit the country of her birth, but with the allied troops preparing to pull out for good, she knew there was no way to predict what the future might hold for the war-ravaged country. It might be a case of now or never.
Still, Laila was only eight years old. It had been three years since the traumatic events that had made it necessary to get the child out of Afghanistan for the sake of nothing less than her life.
Yancy hadn’t tried to erase her daughter’s memories of that terrible time—quite the opposite, in fact. Thinking it would be therapeutic for her to talk about it, she’d downloaded YouTube videos, which they’d watched together, Yancy answering Laila’s questions, talking about the ways her life was different now. She’d even probed gently, never sure how much Laila had witnessed or remembered about her mother’s murder. But Laila had never spoken of that day, and whether that was because she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, Yancy had no way of knowing.
Their first day in Kabul, Laila had clung close to Yancy’s side, shrinking closer still at her first glimpse of the mysterious blue burqas that sprinkled the crowds even here in the modern capital city. Last night Yancy had asked her about that, wanting to know why Laila was frightened when they’d already talked about the fact that some women in Afghanistan covered themselves completely
