But it never occurred to her to be afraid.
She felt safe on Midway. Safer even than in San Francisco. She didn’t lock her doors. Or windows. The wildlife refuge staffers and scientists were a close-knit group, always watching out for one another. It just so happened tonight she didn’t have backup.
Collapsing the tripod, she stuffed it and the video camera into the open sack, zipping it closed with an economy of movement. She kept the radio close at hand.
The prudent course of action would be to return to her boat and head back to Sand Island. Imprudent would be to retrieve her rifle and go after the poacher herself.
Having grown up on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, the city her mother still called Saigon, Tam was nothing if not resourceful. And more than capable of handling any situation that came with her job. She’d known real fear in her life and this didn’t even come close.
Opening a letter from her mother—now, that was scary.
Flinging the weighted pack over her shoulder, she made her way toward her boat. Toward her rifle. Ambient light from the full moon guided her cautious but hasty steps.
Eastern Island had not been inhabited by humans since the Naval Air Station moved to Sand Island in the fifties, before being downgraded to a Naval Air Facility in the seventies. A few years ago the Navy had closed its base of operation altogether—though they still used the base for refueling—and left the management of Midway Islands to the Fish and Wildlife service. That’s when she’d signed on as warden of the atoll.
The Navy may have abandoned them, but she could always count on the Coast Guard. It had small bases all over the Hawaiian Ridge. With any luck there’d be a patrol in the area. About to switch to an emergency frequency, Tam stopped just in time to catch the tail end of a garbled message.
“Warden?”
“Come again, Will. Over,” Tam answered.
“Yeah, Warden, I’m at the airplane hangar. You may want to get back here. Something’s up.”
0420 Wednesday
NAVAL AIR FACILITY
Sand Island, Midway Islands
IN A MATTER OF MINUTES Tam had tied off her boat at the marina and joined Will on the tarmac in front of the airplane terminal. Amber light from the open hangar bays spilled onto an unmarked military C-130 Hercules. The cargo plane had landed for refueling. Not all that unusual, except this one stood heavily guarded by soldiers in full-battle dress uniform, armed with assault rifles.
“What do you think is in that cargo hold?” Will asked.
“I think they don’t want us, or anyone else, to find out.” Tam eyed the milling flight crew and the refueling truck, then spotted more soldiers. Unlike the others they didn’t seem to be standing sentry; their weapons hung from shoulder straps while they talked and laughed.
Still, the whole thing gave her the creeps. Until age seven she’d lived behind barbed wire guarded by soldiers. Even after that, soldiers had been regular visitors to the two-room Ho Chi Minh City apartment where she’d spent the rest of a childhood that ended too soon.
Tam had learned a long time ago not to ask questions when she really didn’t want to know the answers.
And this was one of those times.
“I’ve got this covered, Will. You can get some sleep.” She couldn’t tell by his “bed head” if he’d been there already or not. He walked around with his blond-tipped brown hair mussed all the time. If it wasn’t for his usual rumpled shorts and T-shirt she might think her grad student actually put some effort into his appearance.
“Are you kidding? This is the most excitement we’ve had on the island in months.”
“No sudden moves, okay? These guys don’t look like they miss.”
Will laughed off her warning. “You’re the one who’s armed. And might I add, dangerous.”
And since Tam served for what passed as law enforcement on the island, she’d hang around for a while. “I’ll be inside if you need me.” She started to walk away, but stopped and turned around. “Will, how long has that plane been on the ground?”
“’Bout an hour.”
An hour. She really must have been lost in her own little world. Sound carried for miles at sea, but she hadn’t heard the approaching engines of this aircraft or any other craft.
An hour would give someone enough time to get from one island to the other. And leave a footprint.
Deep in thought, Tam headed toward the terminal, carrying her satchel and rifle. The cinder-block building still served as an air hub for all branches of the American military, but like everything else on the island was run by civilian contractors. The first level of spacious hangars housed flight operations, airport terminal, billeting office, maintenance and storage depots. The second contained more offices. And an air traffic control tower capped off the center.
Along the way she exchanged greetings with fellow curiosity-seekers. An incoming flight represented their only real contact with the outside world. But her thoughts revolved around Midway Islands at the moment.
Once inside the nearest depot, she set aside her rifle, dropped her sack on a waist-high stack of empty pallets and dug out the video camera.
Twenty minutes.
That’s how long it had been since she’d recorded the footprint. “Hmm…” She glanced over her shoulder at the cargo plane. She wasn’t one to believe in coincidence.
Maybe she wasn’t dealing with a poacher, after all.
She wished she’d thought to check the boats back at the marina for warm motors. Perhaps their military visitors had borrowed one. But for what reason?
Were there drug runners or smugglers operating out of the atoll? On occasion the Coast Guard and Customs agents tracked one down to the area. She’d make a point of finding out through her contacts.
Returning the camera to its proper case before putting it back in the sack, her hand came in contact with her mother’s letter once again. An omen she could ignore once, but not twice. She picked up the sealed envelope and read her own name in her mother’s careful print.
Tam’s guarded expression softened to a smile. Her mother learned to read and write, as well as speak English, several years after Tam had already mastered the language.
The return address was San Francisco.
Home sweet home. Once Tam had been recognized by both the Vietnamese and United States governments as a U.S. citizen, she and her mother had been allowed to leave Vietnam for the States as part of the Orderly Departure Program fourteen years ago.
Some fifty thousand children born of Vietnamese mothers and U.S. servicemen fathers had been left behind after the war. Tam was just one of them.
Fathered by a man she’d never known.
With only a picture to remind her he’d ever existed.
But even after three decades her mother still hadn’t given up hope. In the past year the woman had redoubled her efforts to find him. Tam couldn’t foresee a positive outcome from that. If the man was alive he had abandoned them. And if he was dead…well, he had still abandoned them.
Tam could only hope her mother didn’t get hurt any more than she already had been. So far the woman had spent thousands of dollars, all leading to the same dead end.
What did her mother really know about the man?
She claimed she’d married him, but couldn’t produce documentation. She knew him only by a single name, probably a nickname. She didn’t know his branch of service or the most crucial information for tracking him down, his serial number.
And what if her mother did manage to find him after all these years? In all likelihood he’d made a new life for himself that included a wife, kids…a family.
What if he’d always had one?
Only a double life made a man that hard to find.
So what was Tam really afraid of, that her mother would never find her father, or that she would?
With the slightest tremble she forgot all about poachers and drug runners and soldiers underfoot. She ripped open the envelope on what she knew would be th
e latest progress report.
Unfolding the single page, she began to read….
“Trouble in paradise?”
Tam spun around.
Trouble? Oh, yeah. And she was looking right at him.
He stood just inside the open hangar bay, at the Coke machine. Like the rest, he wore a combat helmet and the uniform of a seasoned soldier.
The jungle print was caked in mud.
He was caked in mud.
And judging from the stubble along his jaw, not only had the man not used a bar of soap in weeks, he didn’t even own a razor. She’d heard it said the uniform made the man. In this case, however, the man made the uniform.
He made it look good. Damn good.
Personally, she’d never been attracted to the type.
He nodded toward the letter and rephrased his question. “Boyfriend trouble? You look upset.”
“It’s nothing.” She folded the single sheet along the creases and stuffed it back in the envelope, then shoved that into her jacket pocket.
“Why didn’t you just say it’s none of my business?”
“Because that would be stating the obvious.” Her hand shifted from her pocket to the butt of her Glock. He made her nervous with all that weaponry, a semi-automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, a handgun hanging from a utility belt slung low over his hips, a knife strapped to his thigh, and whatever else he carried concealed.
Her preoccupation with his equipment didn’t go unnoticed, however. He smiled, showing off even white teeth. Apparently he’d only run out of shaving cream and not toothpaste.
“Between the two of us we could start a war,” he observed. “Your finger isn’t itching to pull that trigger, is it?”
“You haven’t said or done anything to give me a reason to shoot you, yet. But I might decide to hose you down.” She’d caught a whiff of burnt hemp. “Been smoking something, soldier?”
His laughter was hearty and genuine. “Uncle Sammy doesn’t put up with that.”
“Probably just jungle rot, then,” she said with a trace of skepticism.
“Or something.” He sniffed at his shirt. “Pretty rank, huh? Trust me, I didn’t inhale.”
“I guess that makes you a Democrat.”
“Pretty. And witty.” He turned to the Coke machine, emptying his pockets of change.
“Excuse me?”
“Whoever he is, he’s a fool.”
He? He who? She followed the direction of his thoughts to the letter in her pocket. Did he think she’d received a “Dear John” letter? Or rather, a “Dear Jane?” His eyes were shadowed by his helmet. Unreadable.
She wanted to know the color of those eyes. Maybe blue or green to go with that scraggly blond beard. “What makes you say that?” she asked, choosing not to enlighten him.
“Either he is. Or I am. I’ve been standing here for the past few minutes trying to get your attention.” He punched a couple of buttons and two cans rolled out, one right after the other. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Trouble had the kind of voice that made even the simplest question sound like an invitation to the bedroom.
“No, thank you.”
Taking her rejection in stride, he set one can on top of the vending machine, then casually leaned against it while he popped the top on the other and took a swallow. “Not much of a soda drinker this time of day, but I could use the caffeine.”
She folded her arms in deference to his attempt at casual conversation. Or because the way he looked at her with those shaded eyes made her feel exposed. She’d added sandals to her attire, but still wore only her one-piece swimsuit and a loosely tied sarong under the Fish and Wildlife jacket. Not exactly the uniform for facing down your foe.
And she definitely considered all soldiers to be her enemy. “Look, I don’t know what you think you want—”
“What does any man want first thing in the morning?” He gave her a dimpled grin, so completely male. So compelling.
She arched a brow in response. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” So the way to this man’s heart was routed through his stomach. She pursed her lips to keep Trouble from getting the impression she found him amusing.
“Know where I can get a short stack of pancakes dripping with maple syrup? Bacon and eggs? Hash browns? About a gallon of coffee, strong and black?” He finished the last of his soda and tossed the empty can into a nearby recycling bin.
“Try twelve hundred miles southeast of here.”
“I’ll settle for an Egg McMuffin.”
“You’re two decades too late. The only McDonald’s on the island closed in the eighties.”
“Guess I’ll have to make do with whatever I can scrounge out of these vending machines.” Hitching up his untucked shirt, he dug into his back pocket and pulled out a billfold.
She couldn’t help but notice the rest of his equipment, a firm, well-muscled backside.
“You cook?” he asked.
Her mouth opened, but no retort came out. Did he just ask her to make breakfast for him?
“This is supposed to be where you take pity on me and invite me to your place for a home-cooked meal,” he confirmed, opening his billfold. “Last chance.”
“For me? Or for you?”
“Chocolate bars and potato chips it is.” He punched in the number combinations for his selections. Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through slicked-back, dirty-blond hair and squinted against the assault of the fluorescent light.
From what she could tell, his eyes were green.
He filled the helmet with breakfast booty, including the soda she’d refused. “Just don’t tell my mother,” he said in a conspiratorial aside.
He’d bought enough junk to feed an army. “Are you sure you haven’t been smoking something?”
“I’m sure.” He caught a bag of chips, then another as they threatened to topple. In the middle of his juggling act, he dropped his billfold. It fell open to a picture of a dark-haired boy and girl. Tam bent to pick it up.
“They must look like their mother.” Feeling disappointed in him, and herself, she dropped the leather billfold into his upturned helmet, crushing the chips.
He winced.
She should have checked out his ring finger before she checked out his butt. She drew the line at military men. A married G.I. was far across the line and in quicksand. As a final dismissive gesture, she flung her sack over her shoulder and reached for her rifle.
“Kids?” He recovered from his stunned silence. “No, thanks. Not married, either. Never been in one place long enough. This is my niece and nephew. Aaron’s ten, Mariah’s three.” He held it out to her for a second look.
She turned around to do just that and got a good look at his left hand. No wedding band and no tan line.
“Actually, they look like their father.” He flipped to a picture of a handsome couple in uniform. “Aaron’s adopted, but you’d never know it. Miller married my sister, Tabitha.” The pair were opposite another couple in uniform. “Brother Zach and his wife Michelle.” Then he flipped to the next photo and it all came together.
“I see you come from a military family.” His coloring came from his mother, while just about everything else came from his father.
“My brother’s no longer in the service. And my dad retired about the time I started school. But, yeah, I’m a military brat.” She studied the image of the older man. His most noticeable feature was a scar from temple to chin.
He continued flipping through more candid shots before coming to the end. He would have closed down the show then, but she stopped him, even took the billfold for a better look at the last picture. “Homecoming King? That is you with long hair and an earring?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Rebel without a cause. Or a clue.”
“But a girlfriend.” She studied the brunette in the photo, all perky cheerleader smile and perky cheerleader breasts. The kind of girl who would have called Tam a geek, making her tr
ansitional years when she first entered the States as a teenager difficult. “Still your queen?” she asked, gauging his response.
“Married my best friend when I was in my senior year at the Academy. Guess she got tired of waiting.” He shrugged.
But Tam thought perhaps the hurt ran deeper than that. He had quite a history in that worn wallet. Relations. Relationships. It must be nice to have a record of your past right at your fingertips. Did it make it any easier to forge your future?
She stood close enough now to get a glimpse into his eyes. They were deep, like the sea. Like him. Uncomfortable with the intimacy of getting to know this stranger through photographs, she handed back his billfold. So the guy had a family and tread marks on his heart.
So what?
So what was that look of expectancy in his eyes?
“I’m sure you’re a nice enough guy and all, but…” He wore a uniform and never stayed in one place for very long. Getting to know him would be a mistake. A big mistake. “I’m used to your kind just passing through.”
Tam picked up her rifle and stepped outside. Pre-dawn threatened to cut through the darkness, bathing the early morning in gray.
“Wait! Wait a minute. At least tell me your name?” he called after her.
“What does it matter? I’m sure your plane’s been refueled by now.” She kept walking, but he caught up to her in a few easy strides.
“Midway Islands, Where East Meets West. I read that off a mural in the terminal. Sounds kind of nice. And we haven’t really introduced ourselves yet.” She came to an abrupt stop. He put a hand on the small of her back, probably in an effort to steady her. Probably.
She felt the warmth long after he ceased to touch her.
“You’re assuming an awful lot. I’m as apple pie as you are. San Francisco, U.S.A. Ever heard of it? I have no ties to the east.” Not anymore.
“My unit has a motto—The Sun Never Sets on One Thirty-Three. We’ve traveled so far west from our homeport of Gulfport, Mississippi, that we’re east again.” He seemed to take care in choosing his next words. “I’m just returning from six months in Bangkok, Thailand.”
Midway Between You and Me (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 2
