“Can’t . . . move,” he muttered.

She pressed her lips together, saying nothing as she unbuttoned his shirt and lifted his jersey. Black-and-purple bruises covered his rib cage on one side. Then she inspected the gouged leg. Though her face remained expressionless, something flickered in her eyes. Pity, maybe.

“I have to take you to a safe place,” she said. She placed all the gear she could find in the cart. Then she spread the chute next to him and tucked an edge under him. Finally, she unhitched the donkey.

Shit. Was she going to use the donkey to drag him into the cart?

Yes. She was. And it was going to be excruciating. Inch by inch, she fitted the silk under him while he gritted his teeth against the pain.

She smelled of flowers and fresh breezes. It felt like a dream, being this close to a beautiful woman, though the pain coursing through him reminded him that he was wide-awake, in enemy territory, at the mercy of a lovely farm girl. He braced one hand behind him and tried to help, but any movement caused the agony in his ribs to explode. A sound he’d never heard before escaped from between his gritted teeth.

She spoke in French, which he didn’t understand, but her soothing tone was full of sympathy. All the sympathy on God’s green earth didn’t spare him from what came next. She used the silk to form a sling, attached it to the donkey’s harness, and laid two planks to make a ramp. “Jesus Christ and all the saints,” Hank said, sucking air through his teeth. When he realized how she planned to get him into the grape hod, some other words slipped out, the kind of words that would get his mouth washed out with soap back home.

She said something else in French, then gave a sharp command to the donkey. At that moment, Hank did explode. He flew into a million tiny pieces of pain. Was this what dying felt like? A damned explosion? Maybe this was it for him, being dragged behind an ass by an angel.

At least he’d go out laughing.

“You lost consciousness,” said a soft, thickly accented voice.

Hank blinked. Shadows and pain. Confusion. He blinked some more, trying to catch his breath. He was in a hut or shed of some sort, built of dry stone and twined with thick vines. A rough opening framed a landscape covered by vineyards, and in the distance there was a wooded area and a rushing stream.

Lisette had used the chute to make a pallet on the bare earth floor. There were supplies—an earthenware jug of fresh water, a basket of food, some bandages, and a jar of yellow powder. His M1A1 carbine was stowed behind his reserve chute, which had been unstrapped from him. Folded under the reserve was his aviator’s kit bag.

She used a pair of scissors to cut away the leg of his trousers. The gouge was deep, the flesh ragged and inflamed around the opening, but the bleeding had stopped. She paused, catching his eye. Then her gaze flicked to his harness belt. Somehow he understood what she meant, and it made him wish he’d stayed unconscious. His hand shook a little as he unbuckled and tugged the belt free. He placed the thick leather between his teeth and clamped down hard. A sharp smell wafted in the air.