He felt lousy about his failed mission. He had no idea where the guys in his stick were, or what they thought happened to him. Even if he could get his communications equipment to work, he couldn’t chance using it.

Maybe he would end up dying right here in this hut. The gangrene would get him, or a patrol would find him and shoot him on sight. Made him wonder why the devil he was letting this girl torture him.

Her ministrations caused a pain so deep that he foamed at the mouth like an animal, the spit bubbling past his clenched teeth and soaking the leather belt. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one causing the broken ribs to stab like daggers. At one point, he saw stars. He knew it was impossible, because he was hiding out in a shelter of stone, but there were explosions in front of his eyes. Even when he closed them tight, he saw the diamond pinpricks, stabbing into his head.

A faint voice penetrated the fog of agony. “I’m sorry,” said a soft whisper. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to get better.”

He dragged his eyes open and the sparkling stars faded. He blinked and more tears fell, and then she came into focus. Lisette. His blond angel. To his astonishment, she was weeping as she worked, the tears creating silvery tracks down her smooth, creamy cheeks.

She was so damned beautiful. If this was the last thing he saw before he died, he was a lucky son of a gun.

Lisette told no one about the man who had fallen from the sky. She didn’t want to burden anyone with dangerous information. And even more urgently, she didn’t want to bring harm to the stranger. Yet if she didn’t treat his fever and wounds properly, she might be the one to harm him.

On the pretext of taking photographs, she walked out to the countryside each morning and evening. Didier and their “guests” approved of her passion for photography, since they liked having their pictures taken while strutting around in their smart uniforms. To maintain her cover, she pretended to enjoy this aspect of her work, because it meant a steady supply of darkroom materials, and so she cooperated.

She took a different route on her walks so as not to rouse suspicion. Each time she approached the remote borie, she did so with breath held and heart pounding. Had he survived the night? The day? Would he be better or worse?

On the third day at sunrise, she arrived with supplies hidden in the bottom of her straw market basket. She stepped into the stone hut to find his carbine propped on its tripod and aimed at the opening. Having a gun pointed at her was such a strange, vulnerable feeling, yet she wasn’t afraid of him. He was vulnerable, too, and he knew it. She was aware of the cyanide capsule he kept in a small metal tube in the bottom of his shirt pocket. Perhaps he had others hidden elsewhere. It must be terrible for Hank to hold that decision in his hands. The village priest warned that suicide was a mortal sin, but if it kept a man from giving up information to the Nazis that would lead to more death, was it still?