Come Fly With Me

by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  There was no way she would survive.

  Natasha’s breath hitched, a small whine of sound escaping her dry lips. She frantically swiped at her face, blinking back tears that would do more harm than good when her focus needed to be crystal clear. There was no time to cry, to mourn, to weep and wail.

  Taking Marina’s ice-cold hand in hers, Natasha held it tight. “Find peace in a better place, sister,” she whispered.

  Barely a second later, Marina breathed her last.

  Carefully, reverently, with a heart so heavy it weighed her down—pressing her deep into the ground—Natasha pushed Marina’s jacket aside and reached under the collar of her shirt. Tucked away and hidden on a plain gold chain was the religious medallion Marina had often rubbed as she whispered her illegal prayers.

  She tugged it from her navigator’s throat. “I will make sure your family gets this,” she whispered. “I only wish I could do more.”

  Then, with one last look at her fallen comrade, Natasha hauled herself to her feet. Swallowing groans of agony, she dragged herself away from the blaze and into the darkness. She needed to find somewhere to hide. To heal. Some way to communicate with her squadron.

  Hysteria bubbled inside at the thought of everything stacked against her survival. That voice in her head, the one that seemed to come from a part of her watching her predicament with an air of detachment, told her to give up. To sit down. To die. Anything else was hopeless.

  With a clench of her jaw, she fought to shut out the voice.

  Instead, she focused on placing one foot in front of the other, knowing she had to put as much distance as possible between herself and the plane. She had no other choice.

  She’d made it no more than a scant few feet before someone stepped out from behind a tree to her left. Natasha gasped and clutched her side. This was it. The end. Either she’d die here at the hands of the Nazis, or they’d send her home to the Soviet Union to die. Everyone knew Stalin interrogated those who were captured or ended up behind enemy lines. Anyone lucky enough to survive the interrogation ended up in Siberia—merely another death sentence.

  As she started to raise her hands in surrender, she heard it: a whisper of sound in a language she recognized as Lithuanian. “Night Witch. Come quickly. You are not safe here.”

  Relief sent Natasha to her knees.

  7

  “Why did you have to stash the plane on Baxter land?” Katya asked as she climbed out of the SUV Brodie had parked outside the barn.

  “Because I knew it would piss you off.” Brodie shrugged.

  Katya wasn’t even upset—she’d have done the same thing. “It doesn’t exactly make life easier.”

  “Kat,” he drawled, “just being you doesn’t make life easier.”

  He had a point. She did tend to create her own problems. “Let’s get this over with.”

  It had been a short, awkward trip to the farm, during which they’d barely said two words to each other. Now all she wanted to do was sneak in, retrieve her plane and get home to a nice warm bath, in the hope she could soak away the tension caused by breathing the same air as Brodie.

  But, as usual, the universe was against her.

  Because as soon as she set foot inside the barn, she found Catherine—never Kitty, at least not to her face—Baxter standing in front of the truck, with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.

  A sneer curled Catherine’s lip at the sight of Katya. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you came crawling up here to retrieve this.” She inclined her head toward the truck behind her. “Imagine my surprise when the morning crew informed me there was an airplane parked in my barn. You’re back in town five minutes, and already you’re disrupting everyone’s life. But then, disrespecting everyone around them is the Savage trademark.”

  Even though Katya had been raised to respect her elders, she was almost certain that didn’t apply to the Baxter witch. “I see you’re still the same delightful person you were ten years ago. When are you going to poop out whatever it is that crawled up your backside, unclench, and get on with your life?”

  Brodie made a choking sound as Catherine hissed her displeasure. “And you are still the embodiment of the Savage name. I knew you’d never amount to anything, and I was right.”

  Katya didn’t have the energy for a run-in with the Baxter matriarch. It was no wonder the Baxter cousins, who owned stock in the farm, were little more than silent partners. Spending five minutes around Catherine was enough for anyone.

  “Get out of the way, Kitty,” Katya said. “I’m taking my truck, and I will run over you if you don’t move.”

  She could have sworn steam came out of Catherine’s ears at being addressed by the despised nickname. It was well known around town that if you didn’t want your business boycotted or your social gathering to fail, you didn’t call Catherine Baxter Kitty.

  It never ceased to amaze Katya that someone as elegant as Catherine could spew such nastiness. With her lithe figure, long white hair twisted into a neat French knot at the back of her head, and smooth skin a woman half her age would kill for, Catherine looked like one of those late-in-life models who walked the catwalks of the world. Even dressed in jeans and a blue tartan shirt, she appeared ready to have her photo taken.

  “This”—Catherine pointed to the truck—“is on my property, which makes it mine. You are also on my property, which makes you a trespasser.”

  “I don’t have the energy for this crap,” Katya muttered before turning to Brodie. “Will my keys still work or did you trash the ignition when you stole it?”

  “They’ll work. But maybe we should talk this out, and you shouldn’t do anything rash,” he told her.

  “Like marry my boyfriend on my seventeenth birthday?”

  “Fair point. Just don’t run over Catherine. It’s not her fault the truck’s here.”

  She dug the truck keys out of her pocket. “No. That would be your fault. So how about I leave you two to sort that out while I unload my plane? The padlock?”

  “Is another issue.”

  In other words, it was still on the gate. Katya swallowed a scream of frustration and, leaving him to deal with the fallout of his own dumb idea, walked around Catherine to the truck. But, of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy. The bitter, stubborn woman moved to block Katya’s path.

  “You, young lady, are going to wait here until the police arrive to sort this out.” She pointed at Katya. “I will be prosecuting you for trespassing.”

  “Well, at least we agree that one of us is a lady.” Katya made another attempt to get around the woman, but Catherine blocked her again.

  After dealing with drug lords who’d wanted her to fly their product and hadn’t liked being told no, Catherine Baxter’s attempts at intimidation had no impact on Katya. “You don’t want to do this, Kitty. I’ve dealt with much bigger obstacles, and I have a mean right hook.”

  Before Catherine could say anything else that might piss Katya off further, Brodie stepped between them.

  “Get in the truck, Kat,” he said as he faced off against Catherine. “I’ll deal with this.”

  With a sigh, Katya rounded both of them, climbed into the truck and started the engine. As far as she was concerned, Brodie and Catherine could beat each other to a pulp. They both deserved it. But, as she drove out of the shed, she couldn’t help glancing over to make sure Kitty’s claws hadn’t taken out Brodie’s eyes.

  As soon as Katya cleared the shed doors, Brodie moved away from Catherine. “I’m sorry about stashing the plane here.”

  “As you should be.” She dusted off her jeans as though being in the presence of a Savage had somehow sullied her. “We’ll see what Officer Donaldson has to say about you assaulting me when he arrives. I called him as soon as my men told me you were heading up my driveway.”

  Tension turned Brodie’s neck solid and rubbing at it had no effect. “Don’t play it this way, Catherine. It won’t do anyone any good, especially you. You don’t
have a whole lot of goodwill left in town, so don’t throw what you do have away over some stupid prank I played on Katya.”

  Drawing Catherine into his argument with his ex-wife hadn’t been his best decision ever, and it wasn’t lost on him how immature and pathetic his actions were. He blamed Katya. She made him nuts.

  “This is the second time you’ve trespassed on my property, Brodie MacGregor. If I were you, I’d save my conversation for the police.” Disdain dripped from her every word.

  “We don’t need the police. I’ve already apologized about trespassing and hiding the plane in your barn. It was dumb, and I’ll own it, but don’t make this worse for all of us.”

  “Oh.” She folded her arms and tapped short bare nails on her shirt. “I intend to make it as difficult as possible for both of you. It’s time you made that separation of yours permanent and returned my land to the family estate—where it belongs. It should never have been gifted to you in the first place. My father wasn’t in his right mind when he did it.”

  “We both know that’s crap.” Brodie was fast losing patience. “You tried to prove it at the time, and Ben’s lawyers squashed the idea flat. What is your problem? Seriously? Why are you this desperate to get that land back? Is it sitting on an oil reserve? Does it have sentimental value? Is not owning it blocking your plans for the farm? Tell me what the problem is because I’m at a loss here.”

  “The problem?” Catherine barked out a nasty, mocking laugh. “The problem is the Savages. I don’t want even one inch of this land in their possession. They don’t deserve it. None of them. Not after what they did to my family.”

  “Nobody knows what they did to your family. Not even them,” Brodie said with exasperation. “Maybe if you actually spelled it out for a change, somebody could do something about it.” He had enough on his plate with Katya’s return; he didn’t need the cryptic, passive-aggressive accusations of Catherine Baxter.

  Her eyes flashed with fury. “Do you really want to know? Or are you just trying to make me back off?”

  “I’m serious—I want to know.”

  “Then come with me.” She stalked past him, and he followed her up to the house.

  He’d never been inside the Baxter farmhouse, and he had to admit, he was curious. The home had been in their family for generations, and they’d had the money to keep it in good condition. With its whitewashed walls, gray slate roof, and black-trimmed windows, the two-story building was a Highlands’ icon. But, unlike other grand homes, this one wasn’t open to the public.

  Catherine led Brodie into the reception hall, and he was immediately captivated. A peach and blue Persian rug lay in the middle of the polished stone floor. Antique wooden chairs, their overstuffed cushions designed for comfort, sat before a large open fireplace with baskets of wood beside it. To the left, a blue-carpeted staircase wound up to the second floor. However, Catherine headed for the far doorway leading toward the back of the house.

  As he followed her along the hallway, Brodie eyed the landscape paintings adorning the walls. He wasn’t an artist and knew nothing about paintings, but they looked expensive. They passed an open door that revealed what must have been the living room. Although the walls were painted a strange shade of salmon pink, the cornices and oversized white marble fireplace had him salivating. It was also strange to note that all of Catherine’s sofas were large, overstuffed, and appeared inviting. For some reason, Brodie had always pictured her perched on the edge of a stiff wooden chair—a voodoo doll clutched her in hands…

  When she pushed through a door at the end of the hallway and disappeared, Brodie assumed she meant for him to follow, so he did. It was an office, and apart from the huge wooden executive desk and the stuffed stag head mounted on the wall, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Turn your back,” she barked as she took a painting off the wall to reveal a safe.

  Shaking his head, he did as she instructed. “Do you really think I have the knowledge to crack your safe? Or that I’d even want to?”

  “A woman living alone can’t be too careful.”

  “Aye, especially when that woman’s a crack shot with a rifle, has guard dogs wandering the property, and cousins living on the adjoining land.” A thief would have to have a screw loose—or a death wish—to take on Catherine Baxter.

  While listening to the safe open and then Catherine rummaging around inside it, Brodie studied the photos arranged on the bookcase beside him. They showed Catherine with her parents: Ben and Anne Baxter. They weren’t like the casual shots his family stuffed into frames and stuck haphazardly around the house. Instead, each was a formal portrait. A very young Catherine sat on Anne’s knee, both females smiling at the camera, while a solemn Ben stood to one side. A cold rigidity to the images didn’t speak of a close-knit family. But then, what did he know about portrait photography? Maybe these were normal.

  “Here,” Catherine snapped.

  Brodie took that as her giving him the okay to turn back around. She stood on the far side of the desk, an envelope in her outstretched hand.

  “Take this.” A spiteful smile curved her lips. “I’d planned on donating it to the Savage Museum when it opens. Or perhaps I should say if it opens. Goodness knows it will probably go the same route as everything else they plan. That family’s all talk and no action. Who knows, though. Now that Katya’s returned with that relic, maybe this idea will take off after all.”

  “You want me to take an old letter?”

  “Yes, Brodie, and I want you to read every last word in the envelope. That way, you can fully appreciate what the Savages did to my family. And when you’re done, you can hand it over to your wife. Let’s see if she’s as eager to set up a monument to Natasha Klimova once she’s read it.”

  He took the envelope. It felt radioactive in his hand. “What’s in the letter, Catherine?”

  Her answering laugh was brittle and anything but humorous. She crossed to the window and gazed out over her land to the small private loch at the end of the glen. “My lawyer will be in touch about the land.” Obviously, she wasn’t going to answer his question about the letter. “I won’t have it in the hands of a Savage. You can see yourself out.”

  Realizing he’d been dismissed, Brodie did as instructed. When he stepped out into the hallway, he found William McManus, the farm manager, leaning against the wall halfway down the corridor.

  The older man straightened as Brodie approached. “I hope you didnae upset her.”

  “I’m no’ exactly sure that’s possible.”

  Brodie had a lot of respect for William; he was a man who knew his job and never hesitated to help out a neighbor in need, but for some bizarre reason, he was fond of Catherine.

  “You’d be surprised, lad.” William clasped him on the shoulder as he passed, heading toward the office. “You’d be surprised.”

  As Brodie walked away from the elegant farmhouse, a sense of foreboding settled over him. Kitty had threatened them with her lawyers too many times to count, but the way she’d said it this time had felt different. It was as though she’d finally figured out how to get the land back.

  Seated inside his SUV, he considered the envelope resting like a bomb on the seat beside him. Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t just hand it over to the Savages and step away from the whole situation all together. Really, Catherine Baxter’s problem with their family was none of his business. He wasn’t part of it anymore—even though Delia would very much like it to be otherwise.

  But, in the end, curiosity won out over self-preservation.

  For twelve years, Brodie had wondered why Ben Baxter would gift an expensive piece of land to a couple of newlywed seventeen-year-olds, one of them from a family the other Baxters hated. They’d barely known the man, yet he’d turned up on their doorstep less than a week after their wedding.

  When he’d handed over the deed, all he’d said was, “This comes with conditions. Don’t screw things up, boy.” And then he’d left.

  N
ow, why would a man do something like that for strangers? For a Savage?

  Parked in the clearing at Lookout Point, high above the town, Brodie sent a text to Darach to tell him he wouldn’t be in anytime soon. He then switched his phone to silent. With some hesitancy, he picked up the envelope and pulled out its contents.

  In addition to a thick wad of paper, folded several times, there was a photograph. He studied the photo first. It was black and white, and someone had scrawled Invertary 1946 on the front left-hand corner. In it, two men and a woman sat on the rock wall beside the loch. The old pub hotel, now called the Scottie Dog, sat in the background—looking exactly as it did now. Brodie turned it over and read the back: Ben Baxter, Tom Savage, and Natasha Klimova—Katya’s great-grandmother. He looked at the photo again. They were laughing together, leaning into one another as friends do. The photo was interesting for sure, but it was Natasha who held his attention.

  It was the first time he’d set eyes on the woman who’d derailed his life from beyond the grave.

  8

  May 7th 1945

  The day before the end of World War Two in Europe

  East Germany

  * * *

  Natasha lay on a bare cot in the corner of a stone-floored kitchen. The windows were boarded up, as the glass had been blown out at some point, and despite the chill in the air, there was no fire in the hearth—because the smoke would attract attention.

  An overwhelming urge to use the bathroom had her struggling to sit despite the pain in her side. A low moan escaped her gritted teeth as her feet struck the cold stone floor, and she wondered how such an ordinary movement could cause her to break out in a sweat.