By the time they reached the chieftain, Dara was ready to collapse. The sky was lightening now, a thin, pale pink taking the place of the gray line along the eastern horizon. The world was silent. Here, there was no wind blowing.
Dara saw a rutted, muddy street with homes on both sides and heard Matt talking at length to the chieftain, who stood huddled in his wool cloak.
Sorosh was nodding but said nothing. Once, he looked up at Hadi and smiled. The boy smiled back. Matt reached out, tugging at her hand.
“I need to introduce you,” he told her.
Dara stepped forward.
Sorosh bowed slightly to her and murmured something in Pashto.
“He’s welcoming you to his village,” Matt said. “Just give a slight bow, put your hands together over your heart, and smile. That should do it.”
Dara did as he instructed.
Sorosh smiled fully, gesturing for them to follow him.
Matt settled Hadi against him as Dara walked by his side in the wheel ruts in the mud. “We’re taking Hadi to his parents,” he explained. “Once that’s done, Sorosh has invited us to his home, and we’ll accept the invite. His wife is making us tea right now.”
Dara groaned. “Hot tea? That sounds great!”
Matt grinned. “Even better news. Sorosh said there are no Taliban around here. I did tell him we were probably being followed, but he said the local Taliban leader knows that this village and the surrounding land are off-limits.”
“Do you think they’ll find our tracks?” Dara asked, nervously chewing on her lower lip.
“No. He said that some of the other goat herders wear combat boots given to them by the U.S. Army. That means if the Taliban does manage to follow us and sees that U.S. combat-boot tread, they’ll probably assume it’s from the village kids, not us.”
Dara looked relieved.
“Besides,” Matt continued, “your tracks have been totally destroyed by forty goats walking over them.” He smiled.
“Does that mean we’re safe?” Dara asked, afraid of the answer. She saw Matt’s face relax a little.
“For now,” he cautioned. “Oh, one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“I told him you were my wife. And he only has one room and I told him we’d take it.”
“Oh.”
“Normally, men sleep in one room, women in the other. It’s their custom. But he has no extra room, and it’s not a taboo for a married couple to sleep together.” His lips twitched. “Lucky us.”
Dara laughed softly, reaching out, touching Matt’s arm. “I agree.”
“When I get a chance, I’m going to try to contact Bagram with my sat phone,” he told her.
Her heart leaped. “Fingers crossed,” she said.
“Yeah, but it’ll be iffy,” he warned her. “However, I’ll give it a try.”
Dara had never wanting anything more than for him to be able to contact Bagram. It would mean they would be saved. And maybe Matt could find out something about Callie and Beau.
CHAPTER 16
Dara was more than willing for Sorosh to remove the heavy ruck from her tired shoulders. He carried it into his house, telling his wife, Farhat, that they would all be back momentarily. Matt still carried Hadi, who was so excited that he was wriggling around, smiling, and eager to see his parents.
Dara walked at Matt’s side as Sorosh guided them down two muddy streets. Here at five thousand feet, there were about six inches of snow on the ground. While it was cold, there was no wind. People started peering out of their windows as the small procession passed, and Hadi waved at them, a huge smile on his face. Matt was grinning, too. So was Dara.
Her heart swelled as Hadi squealed, jerking his hand at the third mud home on the left side of the street. He wiggled so much that Matt almost lost him but caught the child at the last moment.
The door to Hadi’s home suddenly burst open and Dara saw Hadi’s mother, whose name, Matt told her, was Mahira. And behind her was his father, Zahir. They were both in their midthirties and came flying out the door, shouting their son’s name. Mahira’s black wool robe flapped around her like a raven’s wings as she leaped over the muddy ruts, arms out wide, screaming her son’s name at the top of her lungs. Tears were streaming down her face as she grabbed Hadi off Matt’s back, hugging him, sobbing, her arms tight around her son’s body.
Matt smiled and nodded to Zahir, who came running up to join his wife. He had tears in his eyes as he threw his long arms around his wife and boy, their heads all bowed against one another.
Dara saw more and more people spilling out of their homes, many racing down the street toward them, confused, until they spotted Hadi. Then there was instant jubilation. It spread like wildfire throughout the village, everyone coming to gather around the small family.
Matt had pulled Dara close to him, his arm around her waist, guiding her to the side of the street to stay out of the way. The women were weeping, the men slapping one another on the back, congratulating smiling Zahir, who repeatedly kissed his son’s wet, tearstained face.
If Dara had any lingering question about how much one child mattered to an Afghan village, here was her answer. Jubilantly, Zahir shouted and pointed at Matt. Instantly, the crowd surged forward toward him. He placed Dara behind him as Zahir and the other men pumped his hand, slapping him on the back and shoulder, thanking him. No one spoke English here, only Pashto. She pressed her back against the mud wall of a house and observed how well Matt interacted with the men of the village.
They immediately took him in as one of their own, ignoring her completely. But Dara didn’t mind; in fact, she had to smile, deeply touched by the men’s expression of utter gratitude for what Matt had done. Afghans fiercely loved their children, and she felt tears come to her eyes. She blinked several times, forcing them back. Her knee was now painful, and all she wanted to do was get off her feet. She wondered if they had furniture in their homes or sat on rugs on the floor.
Dara didn’t know and felt bitter that she was so uninformed about these people’s lives. She felt separated from all that was going on. On the other hand, she could certainly understand the radiance of joy and relief on everyone’s faces.
Many children came running from both directions of the street as word spread that Hadi was safe. They screeched, screamed, and danced around him and his parents. His father had picked Hadi up and now carried him on his shoulders so he was towering over everyone.
Shouts of joy came from every direction. Matt turned, drawing Dara against him, holding her, kissing her brow, and smiling down at her.
“How are you feeling?” he whispered.
“Happy, but exhausted,” she admitted.
“Your knee bothering you?”
“A little,” Dara hedged. “I’ll be okay.”
“Come on,” he murmured, guiding her gently down the slight slope to the roadway. “These people are going to celebrate all day long. I’m ready for hot tea and getting cleaned up a little, and then let’s hit the sack. I’m whipped.”
She slid her arm around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder. “That makes two of us.” Matt felt incredibly strong and she felt safe beneath his arm, wondering whether they were truly out of danger in this village.
By the time they reached Sorosh’s home, Dara was limping. Matt took most of her weight, his arm steadying around her. “I feel like I’m crashing,” she admitted, her voice slurred with tiredness.
“You are,” he rasped, kissing her temple, squeezing her gently. “Just lean on me.”
Farhat opened the door at Matt’s knock and smiled warmly, gesturing for them to come in.
To Dara’s surprise, the house was much warmer than it looked from the outside. There were four rooms, each with a curtain hanging over an entryway. There were beautiful, but very old, frayed Persian rugs covered the hard-packed dirt floor.
The room was fairly large. There was a flat griddle with a few red coals beneath it in one corner. Farhat wore a d
ark red scarf over her black hair, her almond eyes a deep brown. She was warm and welcoming, gesturing toward wooden chairs that sat at a spindly, deeply scarred wooden table in the corner. On one seat was a bright red silk cushion, which Farhat indicated was for Dara.
“Thank you.” Dara nodded, deeply touched by this family’s kindness. These people had so little that it broke Dara’s heart.
Matt pulled out her chair and she stiffly sat down, thanking him. Once he was seated, Farhat brought them an old silver tray. On it were two chipped cups and a copper teakettle. It needed to be cleaned, but Dara said nothing, giving the woman a grateful look as she poured the fragrant tea into the two cups.
Matt thanked her in Pashto.
Farhat hurried into another room. She came out with four honey cakes on a tray and proudly sat them down in front of them.
Dara reached out to squeeze the woman’s hand. There were just no words for this woman’s generosity. It was painfully obvious that she had so little.
Farhat beamed as she squeezed her hand in return, and when she smiled, Dara could see that two of her upper front teeth were missing.
Dara gave Matt a look of distress. “I know she can’t afford to feed us. What are we going to do?”
He gave her a tender look. “Eat your honey cakes. She’ll be devastated if you don’t. I’m going to leave them a thousand U.S. dollars.” Matt motioned to the ruck in the corner. “We carry all kinds of cash on us out in the field in case we have to bribe our way out of captivity. Or”—he grimaced—“buy some guys who can get us the hell out of prison.”
Matt sipped his tea with pleasure. He opened up one of the honey cakes, giving half to Dara. “Come on, sweetheart, you need to eat.”
Reluctantly she did, wondering if Sorosh and Farhat would go without a meal because of them. “Do these people ever get medical or dental help from the U.S. military?” Dara asked him quietly.
“Not often enough,” he said. “When we get back to Bagram, I’ll talk to my CO and see if we can’t get the base commander to aim some of their dental, optical, and medical people out this way.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m getting to admire your mother so much,” Dara said fervently, forcing herself to split her honey cake with Matt. “She has it right: help the poor, the uneducated, and those women who are in desperate need of rescue and support.”
“You’re already doing it by being over here and helping Callie and the Hope Charity,” he pointed out.
“I’m not doing nearly enough, Matt. One week a year?” She saw that Farhat had retreated to the corner, sitting down and knitting a bright red sweater that lay across her robed lap.
“There are a lot of people in the U.S. who need our help too,” he said. “My mother has many charities in impoverished areas in the States. You could probably feel pretty safe going and volunteering your services to one of them.”
Nodding, Dara said, “I have to do something, Matt. This is driving me crazy.” She shook her head. “My mom always said I wore my heart on my sleeve.”
Matt reached out, grazing her hand on the table. “It’s one of the many, many things I like about you, Dara.” He held her frustrated gaze. “Don’t change anything.” And then a corner of his mouth drew upward. “Except, I’d sure like to get rid of that worrywart gene of yours.”
She managed a soft laugh. “Guilty. I try, I really do. But since my feelings are always at the surface, it’s tough to push them aside and ignore them.”
Matt gave her a slow, burning look. “Well, we’ll get washed up and then we’re going to sleep together. Hopefully, it’ll give you something nice to think about.”
“You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to it.”
Matt heard the quaver in her voice and understood that Dara needed to be held. Hell, anyone would in this circumstance. “Well, you know we can’t mess around while we’re guests in their home,” he warned, giving her a wicked look.
“No, not with thin fabric acting as the door to our room,” she agreed.
“I’m going to help you wash up and then check out that knee of yours.”
“It’s aggravated, I’m afraid.”
“Because of the weight you carried?”
“Yes. I don’t know how you do it, Matt. I really don’t. That ruck is heavy.”
He held her gaze, and then, pressing his hand to his heart, explained, “My focus in life is saving people who can’t defend themselves, Dara. My mom once told us kids that passion is the fuel for our hearts, and I believe her.”
“The Energizer Bunny,” she said teasingly, her lips curving. Dara melted beneath his hooded gaze, wanting desperately to kiss that beautiful male mouth of his. Matt was far more emotional than she realized, and his true passion was in rescue work. He’d certainly rescued her, and he’d done everything possible to keep her alive and safe.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re that rare person, a true hero?”
“I’m not one, Dara,” Matt countered soberly. “The missions we go on aren’t always successful, and what we do is hardly glamorous. It’s probably the harshest reality I’ve ever experienced. Believe me, I’m no hero.” Then, softening his tone, he touched her nose with affection, adding with a twinkle in his eye, “Now you—you’re the consummate idealist.”
“Oh,” she said, arching a brow as she finished her honey cake, “I think you’re far more idealistic than you give yourself credit for, Matt Culver. You hold out hope for the hopeless. You fight for the underdogs of the world, too.”
He gave her a warm look, finished his tea and stood up. He spoke in Pashto to Farhat, who quickly got up and gestured for him to come into the other room.
Turning, he said to Dara, “She’s heated water for us to wash up with. That’s our room. Would you like some help or will your knee make the trip?”
She quickly swallowed the rest of her tea. “No, I’ll make it.”
Matt followed Farhat to where she stood in the doorway with the curtain drawn aside. He nodded and thanked her, slipping into the bedroom after retrieving his ruck and setting it to one side in their room. There was a dark blue and gold Persian rug on the floor, with rolled-up blankets that comprised a bed. A small table at the end of the room held a huge aluminum bowl. He heard Dara enter and turned toward her.
“I’m going to get soap and a washcloth out of my ruck.” He motioned toward the stand with the white basin sitting upon it. “Go ahead and start getting undressed. I’ll loan you one of my clean T-shirts, a pair of my boxer shorts, and a set of clean socks.” He gave her a wicked, playful look. “Not exactly pajamas, but they’ll do in a pinch.”
“I hope the fashionista police aren’t around. They’d lock me up and throw away the key,” Dara said, lips curving in a grin.
“I like that you’re getting your dry sense of humor back.” He halted at the doorway. “You can be really funny. I love that you know how to make me laugh.”
Matt was right about one thing. She did have a deadly, dry wit. It was probably her MD modus operandi, which seemed to present itself when she was under pressure. She knew how to suppress her emotions when necessary, when another’s life depended on her being cool, calm, and clearheaded.
Dara climbed out of her damp clothes and stripped down to her bra and panties. The house wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm, either. She got goose bumps and quickly washed her hands in the heavenly hot water.
She heard Matt enter and draw the curtain closed. “Hmm, I like this,” he murmured, coming up to her and placing the T-shirt and boxer shorts to one side. Running his hand down her shoulder, he saw her eyes begin to soften. He wanted Dara, badly, but it would be impossible under the circumstances. Leaning down, he pushed her golden hair aside, kissing the nape of her neck and hearing her breath catch.
Handing her the soap and washcloth, he gave her the space she needed. Matt crouched down and looked at the knee he’d sutured. The dressing, once white, was now leaking blood. Frowning, he moved his hand lightly above
it. “You in pain?”
Dara eagerly wet the cloth and ran it across her face, sighing. “A little. I don’t think the stitches are torn. I think the weight I carried made it bleed.”
His mouth thinned as he pulled the dressing away. “The stitches held,” he said. Wrapping his hand around her calf, he gently stroked her chilled skin. “I’m going to take off your bra. You need to get your back washed, too.”
“Okay,” she mumbled, her face lathered with soap as she scrubbed off the sweat and grime.
Easing to his feet, Matt unsnapped her simple white cotton bra. He eased it across her shoulders and she pulled her arms free. “I wish we were anywhere but here doing this,” he told her, kissing her shoulder, pulling the bra away from her.
“Me too,” she whispered as she soaped down her arms. “But this warm water feels heavenly, Matt. I never thought I’d value hot water until right now.”
He nodded. “You begin to value the small but important things in life when you live in a place like this.” He placed her bra aside, eyeing her white cotton panties. They weren’t silky or pretty, but he understood the need for utility out here. Still, he had fantasies of her one day wearing silky lingerie that he would slowly peel off her.
Dara made quick work of washing her upper body. “Can you pull down my panties for me?” she asked, giving him a playful look.
“You’re such a tease, Dr. McKinley.” He slid his fingers down below the elastic, easing them off her. Matt made sure the panty leg didn’t brush her knee. He knew she had to be in constant pain.
“I’m a tease?” Dara laughed softly, stepping delicately out of them. “You’re the one who keeps kissing me, Matthew Culver.”
“And you like it,” he growled, placing the panties with her bra. “Here, let me wash your back and legs.”
“I’d like that, thanks.” Dara closed her eyes as the soapy, warm cloth moved across her shoulders and back. When Matt rinsed and soaped the cloth again and moved lower, she gasped. She felt his hands touch her cheeks, sending wild, heated tingles directly to her moist entrance. Matt’s touch did nothing but set her body on fire. As tired as she was, she could still become aroused in two minutes flat! The man was sensual, more animal than man, as he looked at her through those lion-gold eyes of his. Now he crouched down, beginning to move the cloth slowly between her thighs.
Forged in Fire (Delos Series Book 3) Page 22
