Guarding The Soldier's Secret. Kathleen Creighton
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a problem. INCBRO is very well funded,” Yancy said tightly.
He nodded and for a moment seemed to hesitate—that unfamiliar uncertainty again. Then he turned abruptly, went down on one knee and took the child by the shoulders. He spoke quietly to her in Pashto, a language Yancy was still struggling to learn. The little girl made a whimpering sound and reached for him, but he held her firmly away, still talking to her.
Then, in an abrupt change to English, he said slowly and clearly, “Laila, this woman is my friend. I told you about her, remember? She’s going to take good care of you. She’ll keep you safe. Okay?”
Laila kept her head bowed but silently nodded and, after a moment, lifted small clenched fists to scrub tears from her cheeks.
“That’s my girl,” Hunt said in a husky growl. “I’ll come and see you, soon as I can, I promise.” Unexpectedly, he drew the child into his arms and held her close. Yancy’s heart did a slow flip-flop. “But for now, I want you to go with Yancy. Can you do that?”
After a long pause, Laila nodded. Hunt released the child, rose to his feet and turned her toward Yancy. The little girl bravely lifted her eyes.
A smile of reassurance froze on Yancy’s lips. She sucked in an audible breath. Lion’s eyes...golden eyes, tear-glazed but bright as flame...
Her own gaze flew to Hunt, who had paused at the door to look back at her.
“Yes,” he said gently, “she’s mine. Does it matter?”
Yancy shook her head, barely aware she did so.
“Put out the light, will you?”
Numbly, she reached for the lantern. As the room plunged into darkness she felt a chill breeze and knew he was gone.
In the silence that fell then, a small cold hand crept into hers.
Kabul, Afghanistan
Present day
Yancy tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand as they wove their way together through the sluggish river of shoppers, stepping around parked cars and top-heavy pushcarts and the knots of women who were pausing to examine displays of brightly woven fabrics, piles of fresh-baked bread or bins of cheap plastic trinkets.
“Look, Mom, Mickey Mouse,” Laila said, pointing, and Yancy smiled and squeezed her hand.
“Just like home.”
Her daughter lifted her golden eyes, eyes now sparkling with the smile that was hidden beneath the drape of her scarf. “Well, not exactly.”
Yancy laughed, feeling lighter in heart than she had since she’d made the decision to bring Laila with her on this trip to Afghanistan. She’d have preferred to wait until her adopted daughter was older before taking her to visit the country of her birth, but with the allied troops preparing to pull out for good, she knew there was no way to predict what the future might hold for the war-ravaged country. It might be a case of now or never.
Still, Laila was only eight years old. It had been three years since the traumatic events that had made it necessary to get the child out of Afghanistan for the sake of nothing less than her life.
Yancy hadn’t tried to erase her daughter’s memories of that terrible time—quite the opposite, in fact. Thinking it would be therapeutic for her to talk about it, she’d downloaded YouTube videos, which they’d watched together, Yancy answering Laila’s questions, talking about the ways her life was different now. She’d even probed gently, never sure how much Laila had witnessed or remembered about her mother’s murder. But Laila had never spoken of that day, and whether that was because she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, Yancy had no way of knowing.
Their first day in Kabul, Laila had clung close to Yancy’s side, shrinking closer still at her first glimpse of the mysterious blue burqas that sprinkled the crowds even here in the modern capital city. Last night Yancy had asked her about that, wanting to know why Laila was frightened when they’d already talked about the fact that some women in Afghanistan covered themselves completely when they went out in public.
But Laila had only shrugged and mumbled, “I’m not scared. I just don’t like them. I think they’re...creepy.”
Today, though, she seemed to be enjoying the crowds, the bustle and noise, the tapestry of different costumes: men and boys in everything from jeans, T-shirts and Western-style jackets to the traditional loose white trousers and tunics and long chabas embroidered with intricate patterns; the turbans or flat Afghan hats, or karakul hats like the one the president wore; women and girls in conservative Western-style dresses or flowing robes and draped head scarves, and, of course, the burqas. Every direction they looked was a new feast for the eyes.
A feast for all the senses. Though the sky overhead was the same crisp blue she recalled from previous trips to Afghanistan, here in the bazaar the air was dense with dust and exhaust, the familiar smells of spices and baking bread and overripe fruit and the musky scents of people. The noise of traffic and exotic music and voices raised in chatter or barter or a snatch of song made a tapestry of sound.
I’ve missed this, Yancy thought.
“What are those?” Laila pointed.
“Hmm...looks like dates,” Yancy said.
“Can we get some?”
“You don’t like dates, remember?”
“Yes, but I’ve never tasted these dates.”
“Uh-huh.” Recognizing that her child had been bitten by the shopping bug, Yancy diplomatically steered her to another display, where large flat metal bowls held an array of grains and beans and nuts. “How about we get some of these, instead? You like pistachios, don’t you?”
Laila’s answer was a happy gasp. She tugged at Yancy’s hand like an excited puppy while Yancy bartered with the women hovering over the display. She counted out the money, then gave the drawstring shopping bag they’d brought with them—no paper or plastic here—to Laila to hold while the shopkeeper dumped a scoopful of nuts into it.
Laila said, “Tashakkur!” the way Yancy had taught her, in a strong, clear voice, and the woman beamed her approval and added another handful of nuts to the bag.
They walked on, stopping to examine trinkets, discussing what gifts they should buy for Laila’s school friends back home in Virginia. Yancy fingered beautiful scarves, debating which one to buy for her clotheshorse sister, Miranda.
The sun climbed higher and so did the temperature, and the crowds began to thin. Yancy noticed Laila’s enthusiasm seemed to be waning, as well. Her footsteps lagged as she looked around her, craning her neck, clearly searching for something and disappointed she hadn’t found it.
“Are you getting tired, sweetie?”
“No...” Laila lifted her shoulders in what was half sigh and half shrug. “I was just hoping...”
Yancy’s stomach lurched. Surely, she couldn’t be hoping to see him.
Impossible, anyway. He’s dead. He must be. And how can she even remember?
“I thought there would be animals.”
“Animals?” Yancy said blankly.
Laila was watching the toe of her sandal make designs in the dusty ground. She heaved another heart-tugging sigh. “Yes, like sheep or goats. Or donkeys. I like them. They had them at the market where I used to live.” She lifted her gaze—and her chin—in a way that was almost a challenge. “I know because I remember them.”
Yancy put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her close in a one-arm hug. “This is Kabul, honey. It’s a very big city—like New York or Los Angeles. Probably there wouldn’t be many sheep or goats or donkeys here in