Grounded Hearts Page 8

  He raked a hand through his hair, peered into the straw-stuffed engine. The mice had done considerable damage. He found a wrench on the tool bench and poked out a giant nest. Two tiny mice jetted from under the car and scurried between the barrels where the cat sat. The tabby stood on all fours, then sat back down, continuing to lick his paw.

  “Like I said, Nan feeds you too well.”

  The cat jumped off the barrel and poked his nose around in a disinterested fashion. Then he began stalking. The mice were in for it.

  Pulling wires, inspecting hoses, Dutch lost himself in the rhythm of diagnosing each element that needed to work together with precision. The constant ache in his knee he ignored, but a searing pain in his arm stopped him. Twice.

  Push through, push through, he demanded. Now is not the time to whine about pain.

  Back in the rhythm again, he had to admit he loved working on cars. The wires, the mechanical parts, the smell of oil and gasoline. It’d been a while since he’d had to dig in and get his hands this dirty. Or hand, in this case; the wound on his arm kept his left hand pretty useless. Now he knew what his father must have endured all those years with only the use of his right hand.

  When was the last time he’d worked on a car? Oh yeah, about three years ago. His sister-in-law’s Chrysler Royal coupe. Two-door, five windows, the color black as her eyes. He’d had two assistants that day, his then seven- and five-year-old nephews.

  Dutch stooped and wiggled a tube. His mood darkened. The Nazis had become real last summer, when some of his sister-in-law’s Jewish relatives had shown up at their doorstep with only the clothes on their backs. The rest hadn’t shown up at all.

  Rachel kept asking, “Where is Grandpa? Grandma?” No one knew.

  The war had become personal that day, when Rachel had been inconsolable. Simon, through his newspaper connections, had discovered that her grandparents had been taken from their home, whisked off on a train, and sent to a concentration camp in Poland.

  The Nazi machine had taken away her loved ones. Dutch could no longer ignore the brutality, the suffering due to the war. The next day he signed up for the RAF. His mother refused to talk to him for a day, but she finally resigned herself to the fact that—like father, like son—Dutch was going to join the war effort.

  Fight for freedom.

  Right now, though, all he fought for was a way out of Eire.

  After a few minutes more of tinkering with the car engine, he stepped back. Hands filthy, he searched the tool bench for a towel, found a bit of yellow terrycloth, and wiped his hands.

  Not too bad, he decided. Mostly worn or chewed hoses and wires. What he needed next was a battery, and then maybe he’d get lucky and the engine would turn over. Nan would be pleased he had started the process. He could give her a list of parts tonight. Be on his way all that much sooner.

  At the sound of the gate creaking open, Dutch froze. Probably Nan. The cat hopped onto the bench, meowing.

  “I know. I hear it.”

  He turned off the lamp and limped to the window. Through a gap in the shutters, he peered out. And gulped.

  Some fireplug in a green uniform was at the cottage, his fist banging on the door. Waiting a second, the man banged again. Then he pushed down on the latch.

  Dutch’s stomach kicked around like a rotary fan. His throat tightened, and his breath turned rapid and shallow. No, no, no. He’d left his boots beside the fireplace. And that stupid cane. Game over if the officer walked in. But if Dutch went out there to stop him—

  Nan rode her bike into the yard. “Why, Officer Finn. What brings you out here again so soon?” She dismounted, wheeled the bike to the house, and leaned it against the whitewashed wall. Her smile could melt a bowl of ice cream. It seemed to daze Finn.

  “Trying to keep you safe is all. One RAF pilot is still unaccounted for, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”

  “Ah, isn’t it grand, you stopping by and all, but I can take care of myself. I have a gun. Remember?”

  “Then I hope your cat is around and ready to take aim at a combatant pilot if he happens by.” He stepped closer to her. “I do remember the gun. And everything about last night. In fact, I keep thinking about it. All night. All day. How about you invite me in for tea?”

  His fat hand moved toward her shoulder.

  She backed away before he touched her. “Sure now, I would, but sorry. I’ve a birthing to attend. I must get ready. Some other time. Maybe in a week or so.” Nan reached into her pocket and pulled out a key. “Good-bye. Be on your way.”

  “You won’t be needing that. You left the door open.”

  Nan swung around to face the door. “Did I? Oh dear.”

  “I’ll go in first, check everything out,” Finn said.

  She turned, pressed her back against the door, blocked the entryway. “Ah, no, you won’t. I’ve . . . put my underthings by the fire to dry. My unmentionables. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  Dutch swallowed, thinking about his boots. Set on the hearth. Lord, help Nan explain that one away, please. Please.

  Finn seemed stunned, his hands quaking at his sides. “I’m only doing my duty. I can go in if I want. The Emergency Act gives me the authority to investigate as I see fit.”

  “No need, but okay.” Still facing Finn, she opened the door. “Wait here a second. I’ll check. And yell if I need ya.”

  She bolted into the house, slammed the door behind her. The window opened. “All clear. Thanks. Now, be on your way. Give my regards to your sainted mother.”

  Finn stroked his double chin. “Who’s having the baby?”

  “Mrs. Kennedy.”

  He pulled down his jacket. “I’ll give you a ride. My car’s down the lane.”

  “No thanks. It’ll only take a few minutes on my bike.”

  He stepped closer to the window. “I could give you protection all day and all night. Just say the word.”

  “I’m knowing that.”

  “You need a man around, Nan. You’re only a bit of a girl. There’s no one else in town like me.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  Finn fingered his gun. “I won’t wait for you forever.”

  “Grand. Duly noted. Be off with ya. I’m sure other ladies need your protection from that big bad RAF pilot, but you’d think by now if the fella is alive, he’d be across the border.”

  Dutch wiped his hand over his dry lips. This wasn’t about a downed pilot. Finn had other motives. He wanted Nan.

  Leaning closer to the shutter for a better view, Dutch hit his knee on the stone wall. Pain radiated up his leg. He parted the shutter wider.

  Finn went to the cabin window. “Unless the belligerent is hurt. Bleeding.” His hand ran down the doorjamb. “I see you cleaned the doorjamb.”

  “He’s not here. Hasn’t been here. Now, off you go. I’d love to chat, but if you hold me up any longer, poor Mrs. Kennedy will have her baby without my assistance. And you know she’s great friends with Father Albert. You’ll have him to contend with.”

  Finn shuffled away. “I’ll be on my way, but I’ll be back to check on ya.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will.” She slammed the window shut.

  Finn paced over the cobblestone entry and took one long look at Nan’s cabin before he strolled away, whistling.

  How had Nan done that? Dutch wondered. Kept so cool. Unflustered. No surprise that fat lump was in love with her.

  A shiver snaked down his spine. What had she done last night when Finn had come to the door? How did she get rid of him? It worried him.

  Dutch moved away from the window to lean against the stone wall. Pressing his hands to the cold surface, he decided he’d wait a couple of minutes before he traipsed across the courtyard, in case Finn was lurking in the hedges.

  Nan would be happy that he’d made so much progress with the Ford.

  At the sound of her footsteps, he moved away from the wall. The door swung open, and light fused around her as though she were some a
ngel captured by the earth.

  “You stupid article. Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Nan stomped toward him with a glare that could scorch ice. The cat darted outside through the crack in the double doors.

  Dutch wished he could follow, but instead he backed against the wall. Her mouth opened, but he preempted her tirade with “I’m sorry.” His eyes darted to the car. “I wanted to work on the Ford. The sooner I’m gone, the better.”

  “You got that right. I told you to stay put. And to use the cane.” She stabbed the cane toward him with each word, the fox face appearing to grimace. “If I hadn’t come home when I did, Finn would have gone inside and seen your boots. Two seconds later, you’d be off to internment and I’d be off to jail. How could you disobey me? It wasn’t a suggestion to stay inside.”

  “Ah . . . God blessed us with perfect timing,” Dutch offered. He took the cane from her. The fox-face handle spooked him enough that he’d stopped looking at it.

  She folded her arms, her mouth a slash of disapproval. “That’s as good as you got?”

  “No. Yeah.” His arm burned. “I’m stupid.” His mouth tasted like tin. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

  “If you do, you’re gone. Understand?”

  “Understood.”

  She straightened her jacket, seeming to compose herself. “Well? Did you get my car started? Figure out what was wrong?”

  With a shake of his head, he said, “The mice had moved in. They chewed the wires and hoses. I need time to investigate.”

  “Tomorrow. Not a second before then.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I have a birthing. Mrs. Kennedy really is having her baby.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I have an hour before I have to go. We better eat something, and I need to change your dressing. I probably won’t be back until morning.”

  He was pushing his luck, pushing her temper and patience, but he had to ask. “Did you find out what happened to my crew?”

  “They’re all accounted for. I attended to them. Minor injuries. Cuts and bruises.”

  The tension in his neck relaxed, and the tight spot between his shoulder blades released. “Where are they?”

  Her red curls swayed over her face. “At the Garda station, waiting for transportation to an internment camp.”

  He pulled away from the wall, ignoring the blasts of pain vibrating in his arm and knee. “We have to break them out.”

  Her laugh rang through the barn. “You and what army?”

  “Me, myself, and I. Whatever it takes.”

  “It’d take more than the likes of you. And how far do you think you’ll get, dressed like that?” She gestured at his getup. “Think you’ll blend in with the locals?”

  Not likely, he realized. Ripped nightshirt and rubber boots. Maybe he’d blend in if he were in Paris. Or Berlin. Pre-Nazi Berlin. “I do look a sight.” It was humiliating.

  “I’ll find you clothes that fit, more or less.”

  He looked down at the rubber boots, at the dirty concrete floor, the scraps of hay and muddy boot prints. “The authorities are still searching for me?”

  “Of course they are. They won’t give up until they find you. I’m afraid Finn can smell ya.”

  Nan wasn’t safe until he was gone. The thought punched him in the chest.

  She wrapped her arm around his waist. “Come on. We have a lot to do before I leave.”

  She peered in both directions before they scurried across the courtyard. Nan helped him inside to the comfortable chair beside the fireplace. “I hope you didn’t split your stitches.”

  “I’m okay.” His arm hurt something awful, though.

  He watched her put a kettle of water on the cooker. Her movements were graceful, smooth, supple.

  She kneeled before him to tug off the rubber boots, her hair falling around her shoulders in a cascade of curls. His fingers trembled for want of touching them.

  Placing his feet on the needlepoint footrest, he asked, “Tell me about the creep in the green uniform. Finn.” Even saying the name left a disgusting taste on his tongue.

  “Shamus Finn. Our village LDF officer. All we women hate him.” She placed a knitted throw blanket over Dutch’s lap. “I need to re-dress your wound.”

  He watched her walk to a tall cabinet with open shelves that held blue-and-white dishes.

  “What’d you do to Finn last night?”

  “Do?” She opened the lower cabinet drawers, pulled out clean linens, and stuffed them into her medical bag.

  “Yeah, I heard him say, ‘everything about last night . . .’”

  “Ah, nothing to concern yourself about.”

  Was she not aware? Or ignoring Finn’s expectations? That man would not settle for a brush-off forever. “Tell me about him. What’s with the louse?”

  “Long story.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not telling. Not right now, anyway. Don’t worry. It’s not important. I can handle him.” She paused, holding a bundle of cotton bandages. Gliding toward him, she focused on his arm.

  “Men with agendas can be deadly in their pursuits. Finn doesn’t impress me as the sort of man who plays parlor games. At least not for long.”

  “He’s a brute and an arse but not dangerous. Don’t give it another thought.” She stood before him, her eyes widening. “You’ve done it. You’ve ripped your stitches.”

  Dutch looked down at the stain of red weeping through the bandage. “No wonder my arm hurts so much.”

  “Yes, no wonder.” She pressed a wad of gauze to the wound. “Keep pressure on it. I’ll be right back.” She was off to the bathroom. The sound of opening and shutting cabinet doors, the whoosh of water, and the tinkling of bottles came through the rhythmic song that was her cottage. She was humming. Softly.

  She padded back with a medical kit, flipping it open with her long, slender fingers. Her wedding ring glinted in the lamplight. With expert movements, she snipped the gauze and removed the soiled bandage.

  A nauseating odor rose from his arm. Foul and yeasty. The wound wept with pus and blood through the sutures. His stomach turned aerial rolls. “Is it supposed to look like this?”

  “It’s not uncommon.” Her voice was calm, soothing. She seemed undisturbed by the wound’s appearance.

  “Your crew fared much better. Little cuts and bruises, but otherwise in good health. Except one boy, Rich Ryan. Physically he’s fine, but I worry about his state of mind.”

  “He should have been shipped back to his mother after the last mission, but the RAF is pretty desperate for gunners.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” He didn’t want to tell her they’d lost one of the crew in a particularly harsh way on their last mission, and Ryan had been inches from that death. The ground crew had tried to clean up the blood, but Ryan had turned green when he spotted the red pattern still clinging to a wall. “He’s a sensitive kid. Too sensitive for this war.”

  “We’re all too sensitive for this war. This might sting.”

  Whatever she poured on the oozing wound sent a current of stabbing pain through his arm. He clamped his teeth. Each dab felt like exploding miniature bombs. His teeth hurt from clamping his jaw.

  “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. Almost done.”

  He willed himself to ignore the pain. Conversation, that’s what he needed. The cat swaggered in from the scullery, sniffed Dutch’s boots, and flopped down beside the man.

  “Your cat’s a pal.”

  “I’m glad you’ve made friends.”

  “Yeah. We’ve had quite the conversation. What’s his name?”

  “Mr. Dee. Short for Mr. De-Lovely. He showed up one day when the song was playing.”

  “Why don’t you have a dog?”

  It was a tiny pause, one that would have gone unnoticed except she’d exerted extra pressure to his wound.

  “I only ask because I heard someo
ne trying to open the door. A dog would have chased the intruders away. Would alert you to unwanted visitors.”

  “Like yourself?”

  “Yeah. Like me.”

  “Maybe someday.” She held the used bandages in her hand. “Did you see who was here? Was it Finn?”

  “No. Some ragamuffin kid wearing my flight helmet. He was with a woman in a long dress, maybe his mother. They stole turf and apples.”

  “The Tinkers. Irish gypsies. It’s okay. It’s their way.”

  “Thieving?”

  She shrugged. “We don’t look at it that way. We help them out, that’s all.”

  “You mean they help themselves.”

  “They’re not bad people. They just have a different code of ethics. They claim to be the last descendants of Irish royalty.” Her slow-moving smile nearly snatched his breath away.

  “You’re okay with Irish royalty raiding your supplies?”

  “I don’t mind is all.” She pulled in a deep breath, motioned with her chin toward his arm. Her eyes, such a deep blue, almost purple, reminded him of lobelia flowers from his mother’s spring garden. How did Nan have such light, perfect skin? He didn’t think she wore makeup, yet her lips were pink. Pink like tulips at Easter.

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” she said. “Your arm is borderline bad. Your escapade in the barn and tinkering with the Ford was far from helpful.”

  “I know. Now.”

  Their eyes met, and neither of them spoke, moved, nor reacted to the screaming kettle. She looked away first.

  “The kettle is boiling.” She stood. Touching his cheek so lightly, it might have been a butterfly, she said, “Fancy a cup of tea?”

  He grabbed her hand. “I fancy . . .” He thought for a second to say “you” but instead said, “getting out of your hair as soon as possible.”

  “As do I.” She went to the sink with graceful, powerful movements. Opening a canister, she dipped a spoon in, measuring out two spoons of black tea.