“I must be dreaming because I can’t believe it’s you.” Sarai stood in the door, outlined by darkness, dressed in a rumpled sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, her blonde hair escaping from her braid, those green eyes blinking at him as if she might be trying to wake up.
Perhaps it would be better if she just kept dreaming. Especially if he could just join her with his own version of altered reality…right in the middle of the what-could-have-beens.
Waking up meant things were going to turn ugly.
Or maybe not. That startled look could mean she’d been…missing him? Even expecting him? That maybe she might trust him, just a little, and believe him when he told her she had to leave?
Except she didn’t need a hero. She’d made that plain thirteen years ago. And, by the look of her—hands on her hips, jaw tight, eyes hard—things hadn’t exactly relaxed in that area.
Still, Sarai Curtiss.
It simply wasn’t fair that he could wake her from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and she could still take his breath away, turn words to paste in his mouth. Meanwhile, he looked like roadkill, which he’d almost become trying to avoid the deer. He’d barely coaxed his mangled jeep to the clinic door.
He inspired truckloads of confidence. He should probably be grateful she didn’t slam the door in his face.
Epcot fiasco or not, David owed him big. Especially if—no, when at this rate—his boss discovered just what kind of midnight field trip Roman had taken. He’d hoped to be back in the office by, well, noon at least.
Sarai wasn’t the only one dreaming at the moment.
Roman braced his hand against the doorjamb and tried to compose himself. “Privyet.”
“Don’t you ‘Hi’ me!” she snapped. “I can’t believe you show up here bleeding.”
Uh-oh. Fully awake now and getting right to the point. Never mind a “Hey, how are you, Roman?” Or, “How did you find me?” Or even—in his wildest dreams—“Glad to see you!” Just…not good enough, as usual. He should have guessed.
“I’m fine, thanks, how are you?” He took a breath and slid the smile off his face. So much for trying to charm her.
She looked mollified. Her expression eased. “Sorry. I’m just—you scared me. You’re bleeding.”
He winced a little at that and she closed her eyes, rubbing them with a thumb and forefinger. “Let’s start over, okay?” She looked up. “Roman Novik. What are you doing in my neck of Siberia?” She smiled slightly, a gentle acknowledgment of their friendship, the kind he’d seen her give her brother when she was trying to hide fatigue. Then she stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Oy.
He took a breath, hoping she couldn’t hear how his heart pummeled his chest, as if trying to escape. Keep it cool, Roman.
He put his arm around her in a one-armed hug, hating the fact that while to her it was an “I know we’re old friends” gesture, to him it ignited all the hopes he’d been trying to douse for over a decade—especially the last two hundred klicks.
Of course she fit perfectly into his arms. Just like she always had.
And she smelled great—part lilac soap, part Sarai. He resisted the urge to smell her hair and instead stepped away from her.
Remember the mission. Right about now he wanted to strangle David Curtiss. If Roman was lucky, he’d only end up chipping ice and sweeping streets and not in gulag. What had he been thinking?
“I’m here because of the coup.”
“Were you trying to stop it?” Sarai turned on the hall light. “Is that how you got hurt?” She reached up toward his wound. He jerked away.
“I’m just trying to get a look at it.” She withdrew her hand. “It looks like you have some glass in there. I’ll need to irrigate and dress it.” She took him by the elbow, pointed him down the hallway. “I promise I’ll try not to hurt you.”
Yeah, right.
“Sarai, we don’t have time—”
“I thought you were in Khabarovsk.” She flicked on a light to an exam room and led him inside. He felt like a twelve-year-old boy being led into the principal’s office. Where was his voice? His reflexes felt like they’d been slathered in honey.
Then again, like some allergic reaction, Sarai always had a paralyzing effect on him.
How did she know he was in Khabarovsk? For some reason, her knowledge of that information shook him.
Certainly she hadn’t been tracking him like he’d been her over the years. “I am, I mean, I was— Oh, stop, Sarai. Listen to me. I’m not just passing through town and happened upon your clinic. I was looking for you.”
She turned, a frown creasing her face.
“There’s been a coup in Irkutsk.”
“I know.” She turned away and patted an examining table. “Sit.”
I know? She knew about Bednov’s deadline for foreigners? Then did that mean she would come along nicely? “I’m not sitting. I…you should be packing.”
She looked at him, frowning, and shook her head. “I’m going to clean you up.” She gave him a benign smile, then she crossed to a cabinet, opened it, and began pulling out supplies—antiseptic, an irrigation tray, tweezers, a needle. “Besides, I’m fine.”
Evidently. He felt his chest tighten, yet he moved toward the exam table, propelled by the hypnotic hold she had on him. He slid on to the table just as she turned toward him, hands gloved, holding tweezers and a sponge.
“Hold still. I need to get the glass out. And then I’ll clean it.”
She stood so close he could feel her breath on his chin. He studied her face as she cleaned his wound. Tiny crow’s-feet around her eyes betrayed her years of stress and sacrifice. And she seemed thinner under that bulky sweatshirt, but maybe stronger all the same. He somehow knew that she would have changed, but this woman seemed even more determined, more resolute. He supposed years on the edge of civilization made her harder.
Oh, great.
“How have you been?” he asked softly. She didn’t answer, but dropped a piece of glass into the tray she held.
“You didn’t tell me how you got injured.” She took a bottle and ran fluid over his wound, catching it in the gauze pad, then mopping up the excess before it ran into his shirt. The silence of the building seemed to echo between them, and a chill ran under his parka, where before there had been a thin layer of perspiration.
“I hit a deer.” He didn’t add that he’d had to track it into the forest and destroy the injured animal. Nor that he’d hit the windshield and had been sporting a killer headache for the past three hours.
Or maybe he should attribute the headache to sheer dread over what he had to say next.
Please, Sarai, try not to be…so…independent.
Mother Teresa had nothing on Sarai Curtiss for pure guts and stubbornness.
“This might hurt a little,” she said as she dabbed on antiseptic. He closed one eye against a slight sting. She glanced at him, smirked. “Oh, don’t be a baby.”
Oh, don’t be a baby.
Without a second’s warning, memory swooped in for the kill.
He’d been playing street hockey with David, who checked him hard. He’d smashed into a park bench, skinning his leg down to the ankle. Sarai had draped one of his arms around her shoulder and helped him home—and he’d let her. Then, because she knew how, he’d also let her dress it.
She’d called him a baby.
He’d pulled her into his arms and showed her indeed, how ridiculous her statement was.
He looked up at her, blinking against the press of memory.
Her mouth opened slightly, and he noticed her blush. “I didn’t mean that.” She gathered up the used gauze pads. “I’ll do the stitches in a minute.”
“Okay. But hurry. We need to get out of here.”
She turned to him, frowning. “I told you, I’m fine. What are you talking about?”
He stared at her, a sick feeling in his gut. “What are you talking about? Of course you’re leaving, right?”
She stared at him.
Oh no. He sighed. “Sarai, I’m here because David sent me. Bednov put out an order for all foreigners to leave Irkutia within seventy-two”—he checked his watch—“no, make that sixty-three hours and seventeen minutes. Or you’ll be arrested as an enemy of Russia.”
Sarai said nothing. Just stared at him. Then light filled her eyes and…she laughed.
“You think this is funny?”
“Roman. I so can’t believe you.” She shook her head. Trust David to turn one little skirmish—okay, martial law—into a reason for her to go back home to America and get a “real” job as he’d said last Christmas. This little outpost of hope felt more real than any carpeted, air-conditioned clinic in Suburbia, USA. She picked up the suture tray and returned to the exam table. “I mean, really. I know you owe David from that stunt at Epcot, but I can’t believe you’d actually let him talk you into coming to Smolsk to try and drag me out of Russia. Do you think I’m stupid?”
He opened his mouth, as if in disbelief, and she only briefly glanced at it—stamping down the accompanying memories—before she picked up a needle and syringe. “Yes, I know about Epcot. Now hold still, I need to numb the area.”
“Stop.”
She nearly jumped as he grabbed her upper arm. “Roman, you’re going to get us hurt! I’m holding a needle for crying out loud.” She took a deep breath and set the needle down, pushing her heart back down her throat.
Or maybe her racing pulse had more to do with his grip on her arm. And the way his eyes sparked—so utterly macho, so utterly in control. So very Roman.
Except, she’d noticed from the first that this wasn’t the same charismatic young man she’d fallen for over a decade before. He wore hardness around his eyes and an unfamiliar clench to his jaw. She’d known him as an idealistic college graduate hoping to change the world. He’d charmed her with his smile, his humor, even his faith, so young, yet so vivid. For a short time she’d believed that together they might make a difference.
Sadly, the only difference he’d made was to break her heart.
Judging by his expression, that playful Roman had died under the double-edged choices of his job. Before her sat a man she didn’t know—a soldier, with sharpened edges and dark eyes and danger emanating off his demeanor like a hue. Just the man she feared he’d become. She suddenly felt like crying.
“This is not a joke, Sarai. David did ask me to come, but because you’re in real trouble. Governor Bednov has declared martial law. And if you don’t leave with me tonight, you’re going to get trapped in Irkutia…and arrested.”
She took a breath and stepped away from him. “Yeah. Hardly. First of all, for your information, I treated Bednov’s son tonight, and while, yes, we were unsuccessful, Bednov knows what I do here and that my work matters. He’s not going to shut it down.”
Roman shook his head.
Her voice tightened and she shook her arm out of his grip. “Secondly, I’ve been in countries before that had political coups, and survived just fine.”
He raised his eyebrows and, just for a second, she had the urge to slap him.
Fine. She held up her hand in surrender to his unspoken point. “Listen, this is all going to blow over. Besides, Smolsk is about as remote as I can get. Bednov is not going to send an army of FSB regulars out here to arrest me.”
“But I could.”
She felt her mouth open and hated herself for showing shock. “You wouldn’t.”
He swallowed, sighed, looked away, and for a second she glimpsed the young man who had begged her not to leave, even if it had only been on her answering machine. “I don’t want to.” Then his eyes hardened, as did his voice. “But I might have to if you don’t come nicely.”
A beat of challenge passed between them, and she felt the last of her dreams swan dive. He’d arrest her?
Like a criminal?
Ouch. Her chest felt as if a caribou sat on it, and for a moment she felt light-headed. “Roman, I have work to do here. This clinic is due to officially open in three weeks. I can’t leave now.”
“You can come back.”
She couldn’t contain her disbelief. “It took me nearly a year to get a visa the first time. Do you seriously think that, especially after martial law, they’d let me return anytime this century?” She stepped away from him. “Look around you. My clinic has an ER, an operating room, a delivery room, five rooms upstairs for overnight patients. I have an equipped ambulance, a defibrillator, an ultrasound machine, an X-ray room, and even a dental chair. Do you have any idea the headaches and cash it took to get this stuff here?” She shook her head. “Roman, I leave town for even a week and this place will be stripped clean. The mafia will piecemeal out my supplies to the highest bidder, and if I ever make it back in, I’ll be starting from zero—if I can even get it started again.”
“You’re not safe here.”
She looked away, closed her eyes, fighting the angry prick of tears. “I’m just as safe here as anywhere. I’m needed here.” She wanted to add that God had put her here, but Roman wouldn’t understand that, would he? He knew nothing about personal sacrifice for the sake of the gospel.
“I can’t let you stay here.”
She met his eyes, the ones she’d once thought held love, even her future, and saw only resolve.
She swallowed hard and picked up the needle to numb his wound. “Fine. Arrest me. But hold still first.”
He caught her wrist halfway toward his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She stared at him, disbelief huffing out of her. “Are you scared of me?”
He narrowed one eye but said nothing.
“C’mon, trust me, Roman. If it’s one thing you can count on, I’ll do my job. Right. Even if it costs me my freedom.”
He didn’t meet her eyes as she numbed his wound and administered five stitches.
She finished in silence, snapping off her gloves. “When was your last tetanus shot?”
“Sarai, listen to me. I’m only trying to hel—”
“You can sleep in one of the upstairs rooms, if you want.” She turned toward the door, milliseconds away from tears. She could hardly believe her brother—and the man she once loved—would so belittle her dreams, her life’s purpose. Did they seriously think that after being held at gunpoint in a refugee camp in Somalia, or choppered into a burning village in Chechnya, that she would be the slightest bit ruffled by a little disturbance in a city two hundred kilometers southeast?
She found her composure by the time she hit the hallway, and broke out in long strides.
“Sarai!”
She didn’t turn. Wouldn’t turn. Ever. “Go back to where you came from, Roman. I don’t ever want to see you again.” Her words would have carried more emphasis if they hadn’t cracked at the end.
She entered her office and slammed the door, locking it as it shuddered.
Roman slammed his fist into the door. “Why do you always have to be a martyr!”
“Go away!”
She heard him hiss, perhaps holding back a few Russian adjectives. Well, she’d heard them all before, and frankly, with his chosen profession, she wasn’t surprised.
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t fair. David had kept her apprised of Roman’s desire to be God’s man in his profession. Still, he had so much potential to be more…and perhaps that was what hurt the most.
And she wasn’t a martyr. She was just doing something no one else could do. She didn’t exactly see people lining up for her job, did she?
If people like her didn’t stick around when life turned into a battlefield, who would?
Sarai sank to her knees with her back against the door, pressed her palms into her eyes, and refused to cry.