“My cousins will do it.” She gave the order with a wave of her hand.
Aram and Yusef fumbled with three tents, two medium-sized and one small. They were clearly out of their element, but Hud left them to it. Layah had a tiny stove to boil water for a meal of dried meat and couscous. It was a time-consuming process. They ate in batches, refilling their water bottles from the stream. When they were finished, it was almost dark, and the temperature had dropped considerably.
Hud knew at a glance that there wasn’t enough space for everyone. There was a tent for women and a tent for men, both full. Hud, Ashur and Layah were left with the smaller tent. “This was supposed to be for the Turks,” Layah said.
“I’ll take it,” Hud said.
“You can’t. The women’s tent has no space because of Hanna and Yelda. Ashur and I have nowhere else to sleep.”
“Ashur can sleep with your cousins.”
“The men are taking turns keeping watch.”
“So? He can take a turn.”
Ashur was pleased with this arrangement, which gave him man status and access to the Kalashnikovs.
“I don’t want him handling weapons,” Layah said.
“I’ll give him a safety lesson tomorrow,” Hud said. He didn’t trust Ashur not to shoot him accidentally. Or even on purpose.
“Very well,” she said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Good night.”
Ashur joined the other men in the tent while Yusef came outside for first watch. He narrowed his eyes at Hud in warning, but said nothing.
“My cousins don’t approve of us sleeping together,” Layah said.
“Your cousins aren’t in charge.”
She didn’t disagree. Hud suspected she had her own reasons for agreeing to share his space. Maybe she wanted to keep tabs on him.
Hud crawled into the two-man tent after Layah. He didn’t care about her overprotective family members or her martyred-widow reputation. He just wanted peace and quiet. She settled in next to him, stiff as a board.
Two minutes later, he was asleep.
Chapter 6
Layah dreamed of Khalil.
They’d met in Damascus, at the university where she attended medical school. He was studying law. She used to sit and read beneath an olive tree near her favorite café. She’d noticed him watching her one day, and she liked what she saw, so she’d left her book behind. He’d picked it up and followed her.
That was before he joined the Free Syrian Army. Before everything fell apart.
In her dream, she was following him. He was weaving through the crowded market, staying one step ahead of her. He skirted around traffic and ducked into an alleyway. He was tall and broad-shouldered, easy to spot but hard to catch. She ran after him and found a dark-haired stranger in his place.
She fell to her knees and wept.
Then his strong arms wrapped around her and she was safe again. She hugged him closer, clinging to his lean form. She pressed her lips to his warm neck. He inhaled a sharp breath.
She woke with a start, her limbs tangled with his. Her mouth on his skin. Only it wasn’t Khalil. It was Hudson. The two men were about the same size, with rangy builds, but they didn’t feel the same. Hudson’s body hummed with energy, as if he had a live wire inside him. A spark of passion, ready to ignite.
They didn’t smell the same, either. She didn’t remember what Khalil smelled like, but this wasn’t it. This was a heady combination of rough wool and male heat and earthy minerals. She moistened her lips, tasting salt. His grip tightened on her upper arms. A vein pulsed at the base of his throat, where her mouth had touched.
Sleeping with Hudson was a bad idea, but it wouldn’t ruin her reputation. Her marriage to Khalil had already done that.
She eased away from him, moving as far as she could in the cramped quarters of the tent. Although she’d attempted to keep as much distance between them as possible, they’d drifted together in the night.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was dreaming.”
“About your husband?”
“Yes.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. It was chilly inside the tent, especially now that they’d separated. “How did he die?”
“He was shot on the outskirts of Palmyra with a group of opposition fighters.”
“He was in the rebel army?”
She nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “He left the university to join them a few months before graduation. I begged him not to go. I said he would get shot the first week.” She sat forward and reached for her boots. “He lived more than a year.”
Hudson braced his weight on his elbows, watching as she tied her laces. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her emotions were on edge, she was sore from the hike and she hadn’t slept well on the hard ground. He seemed impervious to discomfort, but he’d been trained for extremes. She couldn’t imagine the conditions he’d endured in the torture cell.
He didn’t ask any more questions. She unzipped the front flap and looked out. Aram was awake, keeping watch as dawn broke over the horizon. She could see her breath in the cold air. Before she left the tent, she grabbed her wool poncho.
It was still difficult to speak of Khalil, to dream of him and remember him. She’d loved him so much. After his death, she’d buried herself in work at the hospital in Damascus. They’d needed all the help they could get. The day of the air strikes, she’d stayed on duty for forty-eight hours. She’d seen things she could not bear. And, like many medical professionals before her, she’d fled the carnage and never returned.
She’d walked to Jordan. She’d worked in a tea house to pay for room and board. The weeks had passed in a blur of nothingness. Then she’d received the devastating news about her brother and his wife. She’d picked up the broken pieces of herself and returned to Syria, for Ashur’s sake. She’d planned
