He had trained tirelessly for this, gone over and over the operation in his mind. When the red light in the Douglas C-47 cabin had blinked on, he had double-checked his parachute harness and gear. He’d made eye contact with the other pathfinders in his stick. It was a go.

Right then they had all counted themselves lucky, because as pathfinders and airborne scouts, they wouldn’t have to make a combat jump. Their job was to scout out the area and set up vital signaling equipment for the Allied operation.

And yet here he was. Wounded, maybe dying, in some remote part of the French countryside, cornered by a girl who seemed to be as scared as he was. After dragging himself into hiding, he’d opened the sulfanilamide powder in the kit on his combat belt and sprinkled it on the leg wound, nearly screaming with pain. Maybe it staved off infection, maybe not. It hardly mattered now.

Very slowly, he lowered his weapon. “You can put your hands down. Do you understand? I’m not going to shoot you. Not now, anyway.”

Her arms slowly descended. “Yes. I understand.”

She sounded like a girl. She sounded like an angel.

Lisette dropped to her knees and moved closer to the stranger. She could tell he was either sick or badly wounded—or both. Still, she had seen something in his face—grit, determination—that made her cautious. “I can help you, but you must put away your gun.”

It felt awkward and unnatural to be speaking English. She only ever spoke it aloud when she was with Dr. Toselli, reading Sherlock Holmes to him. She wasn’t sure she was saying the words correctly.

“Okay,” the man said. “I’m putting it down.” His voice sounded gravelly and soft.

“Where are you . . .” What was the word for blessé? “Wounded. Can you move?”

“It’s my leg. Ribs, too.”

“You are American.” She remembered the words on the kit she’d found in the woods.

No response. He was probably worried that she would reveal his position to the Germans. She took a deep breath, and then a leap of faith. “My name is Lisette. I can help you.”

Luckily for her, Didier had no time at all for a wife who could not conceive a baby. If Lisette came home late, she wouldn’t be missed. He spent his time hobnobbing with the German officials who strutted about town, helping themselves to wine and homegrown food, even romancing some of the young women and war widows. Lisette had learned to stay out of the way. By all appearances, she was a mousy little farm wife, keeping to herself and helping Rotrude take care of little Petra at Sauveterre. In secret, Lisette had become a skilled maquisard, helping the bands of fighters that worked undercover, committing sabotage, theft, even assassination—anything to disrupt the German war effort.

“Call me Hank,” said the stranger.

“Hank.” She tried to imitate his pronunciation. “You cannot stay here.”

“You’re right, ma’am. I can’t move, though. This leg . . .”