Catching the Wind(97)

He smiled. “It’s been a pretty educational two weeks.”

“Indeed it has.”

“The real question is, would you dare to take a chance with me?”

Quenby thought back to that meeting with Chandler before she met Lucas—at the pictures her boss had pulled up online. She’d thought Lucas arrogant, but she had built the same type of wall around herself. And yet here they were, hearts exposed.

“I think I just might,” she said.

His kiss was quite gentlemanly, but she felt it all the way down to her toes.



Bridget Ward drove her scooter right up to the jet at Leeds Bradford, eyeing the flight of steps that led into the craft. Before they left Adler House, Hannah had warned Quenby about the last time Bridget had tried to fly, of her sister’s fierce claustrophobia.

But there was no Jetway leading onto this plane. No pilots on a strict schedule. They could wait all day and night, if they must, for her to overcome her fear.

“We’ll have a scooter waiting for you on the island,” Quenby promised, her hand resting on the woman’s seat back.

“Is it pink?”

“I have no idea.”

Bridget’s smile was strained. “I suppose any color will do.”

Quenby patted her shoulder. “You can do this.”

Bridget gave a sharp nod. “I’ll regret it if I don’t.”

“Would you like a hand?” Lucas asked, stepping up beside them.

“More like two feet.”

Lucas flashed her a winsome smile. Bridget had already fallen for him, back at Adler House when he’d complimented her on her beautiful voice. And Quenby was thoroughly smitten as well.

Lucas leaned over and swooped Bridget off her chair. “How about feet and hands?”

The woman’s smile was genuine this time. “My Prince Charming.”

A modern-day knight without the armor.

Quenby carried the woman’s handbag up the flight of steps behind them. When they were near the top, Bridget cried out, “Please stop.”

Lucas obeyed.

“Put me down.”

“Are you certain?” Lucas asked as he lowered her.

“Quite.”

Quenby glanced at the five steps behind them, leading down to the tarmac. For a woman of Bridget’s age, a fall from here could be fatal.

Samantha was waiting inside the doorway as Bridget stood on the top step, staring into the jet. Would she refuse to get on board?

Lucas stood below her, on the step alongside Quenby, both of them creating a wall to protect her.

“I can do this,” Bridget whispered.

“Yes, you can,” Quenby said. “You’re writing a new story too.”

Bridget gave another brisk nod and then she walked through the door.





CHAPTER 59





_____

Bridget dabbed a cool washcloth on Dietmar’s forehead. Of the hundreds—if not thousands—of times she had thought about him over the years, of their reuniting one day, she’d never imagined that she’d find him like this, living in the stalwart castle of a knight yet not able to fight any longer.

He tossed on the pillows, his white hair thrashing from side to side.

Now it was her turn to fight for him.

Days passed in quiet solitude, only her and Eileen and occasionally Jack taking turns to care for him. It was so different from her house full of children, but it gave her time to think. And to pray.

Dietmar had saved her life as they fled from Germany, and she thanked God for giving her the strength to board that plane back in England, grateful for this opportunity to be taking care of Dietmar for a change. She’d been so silly in her youth, relying on him like he was an adult when he was only three years her senior. Instead of acting like a princess, she should have discarded her make-believe crown and, for heaven’s sake, tried to milk that cow alongside him back in Belgium.

He tossed again and threw off the covers.

“It’s okay, Dietmar,” she said, uncertain if she should call him by his German name. But Daniel Knight was a man she didn’t know. Dietmar had been her best friend.

“Brigitte?” he whispered, his eyes closed.

She kissed his forehead. “I’m here.”

When he rested against the pillow, she leaned back in her cushioned chair as well and looked out at the waves battering the rocky coast.

She would stay right here with Dietmar in his fortress, for as long as he needed her.



Dietmar heard bells, ringing from the necks of cows. And he smelled mowed grass and honeysuckle and roasted meat. But he and Brigitte couldn’t go into the farmhouse. The woman there, she would turn them over to the police.

His head thrashed back and forth. He needed his armor. His sword.

“Lauf,” he wanted to scream, but the word came out as a whisper on his lips. Why couldn’t he yell anymore?

“It’s okay, Dietmar.”

His eyes flew open, and he glanced around the dark room.

Had they trapped him in the farmhouse already, the farmer and his wife? He struggled to get up from the bed. To find Brigitte. They wouldn’t send him or Brigitte back to Germany.

A light shone beside him, and there was a woman, holding his shoulder. He shouted at her, the words jumbled together—English and German. Told her that she couldn’t have him.