Guarding the Soldier's Secret by Kathleen Creighton Page B

passing scene, her forehead pressed against the window glass. And she felt a cold, squeezing sensation around her heart.
    “Why did you do it?” Hunt’s voice was low, meant for her ears only. He moved his head slightly, indicating the little girl sitting so quietly in the backseat. “Why did you bring her here?”
    Yancy shifted to face forward again and spoke in tones as soft as his. “Here—to Afghanistan? It’s where she was born. It’s her heritage. I thought she should know—”
    He nodded. “But why now?”
    “Because,” she began, then lowered her voice even further. “Because I thought it might be now or never. In a few weeks the last of the coalition forces will be gone. Who knows what will happen then? With Taliban forces strong in the border regions, how long will the current stability last? If the Taliban regains control—”
    “There are people working hard to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Hunt interrupted, his voice hard.
    On the verge of a reply, Yancy turned instead to gaze at him in silent understanding. The knowledge came to her in the quiet way that made her mind whisper, Of course .
    Of course. He is one of those people.
    Without his having to say another word, she understood that this was his mission, the goal he’d been working toward for three years, if not longer. He’d been working undercover, living as a native, a tribal elder, working to forge coalitions to resist the Taliban. It came down on her all at once, the understanding of why his identity must be kept absolutely secret at all costs, the realization of how she and Laila must have jeopardized his mission and his cover, and how much he’d risked by intervening in their attempted kidnapping. How much he was risking by being here with her now, and with Laila.
    Her heart hammered wildly as the revelations rocketed through her mind. The words she couldn’t say all but deafened her.
    Oh, my God.
    But she couldn’t say even that much.
    * * *
    The lamb wriggled free of her grasp, but Laila didn’t seem to mind. She stood clapping her hands as the lamb scampered back to its mother, and her laughter carried across the field on the breeze, the sound reminding Hunt of the wind chime that hung on his mother’s front porch back in Nebraska.
    It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours he’d thought of the old home place, which had to be a record of some kind.
    Beside him Yancy stirred, and he knew she’d turned her head to look at him.
    “Thank you,” she said softly.
    “What for?”
    “For this. You know...” She tilted her head toward the little girl doing her best to imitate the lambs hopping in the field.
    He waited, and when she didn’t continue he shrugged and said, “You arranged it. Seemed important to you. To her.”
    He heard a soft exhalation. “It was the only thing she asked for, when we were planning this trip. To see some lambs and goats. And donkeys,” she added with a small laugh. “I guess she remembers playing with them when she was little. And it’s not like she’s had much chance to see farm animals, living in New York and DC as we do.”
    “No farmers in your family, I gather.”
    He was pretty sure he’d said it without inflection, but it blipped on her reporter’s radar anyway. The look she gave him was keen, inquisitive as a cat’s.
    “Nope,” she said, “I’m a city girl through and through. What about you?”
    So he told her, because he could think of no reason he shouldn’t. “I grew up on a farm. Not sheep, though. Cattle and hogs, corn and hay, mostly.” He added, as an afterthought, “My mom had chickens.”
    Again he felt her gaze and waited for the inevitable questions. Instead, she nodded and muttered—a trifle smugly, “I thought so.”
    He gave a short laugh, amused rather than annoyed. He’d forgotten what a top-notch reporter she was. “Oh, yeah? Why?”
    “I noticed the way you were with our host, when he was showing us around.” She nodded toward