Protective Instincts. Shirlee McCoy

a miracle, and she’d given up believing in those years ago.

      A fraud trying to live a faith that she’d professed when she was a child; that’s what she’d felt like when she’d agreed to travel with the medical mission. She’d die a fraud, because she hadn’t found what she’d been looking for when she’d left Pine Bluff, Washington, and flown to Africa.

      Dear God, please...

      Something rustled beside her, and she opened her eyes, squinting against the late-afternoon sun. A gun strapped to his shoulder, his eyes hollow and old, a boy soldier peered through the cage bars. Young. Six or seven. A year or two younger than Joseph would have been. His close-cropped hair was coated with dirt, his cheeks covered with grime. He wore a baggy shirt and faded red shorts. His feet were bare.

      Raina thought that he’d spit on her the way others had, but he pulled an old water bottle from beneath his baggy black T-shirt and slid it through the bars.

      “Drink,” he whispered, his English thick and heavily accented.

      She wanted to thank him, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t get the words out. She lifted the murky water and drank greedily, gulping it down so quickly she almost choked.

      She passed the bottle back through the bars, desperate for more. But the boy shoved it back under his shirt and ran off.

      Alone again, she curled into a fetal position, the hot earth burning her cheek, the water roiling in her stomach. The buzzards flapped their wings, the droning sounds of the flies growing so loud they were almost deafening.

      The air hung still and heavy, the heat so thick she could taste it on the back of her tongue, feel it in the sluggish pulse of her blood. It dragged at her, pulling her down into a darkness she wasn’t sure she’d ever escape.

      Someone shouted and gunfire blasted through the encampment, the explosive power of machine-gun rounds vibrating through the hard ground. Raina pushed to her knees, couldn’t make it to her feet. Fire blazed from the roof of one of the rebel’s huts, the shimmering heat dancing against the afternoon sky. A black helicopter hovered above, blowing the smoke and flames into a frenzy of motion. Men ran toward the tall savanna grasses, weapons slapping against narrow backs, boots thudding on drought-dry earth.

      A small figure darted through the chaos, running straight toward Raina’s prison. Black T-shirt and old red shorts, skinny legs pumping hard. No gun this time. Just wild fear in his ancient eyes.

      He crouched near the cage door, his hand shaking as he shoved a key into the padlock.

      “You have to run and hide!” Raina tried to shout, but her voice caught in her parched throat, and all that came out was a croak.

      The door swung open, and the boy held out his hand. “You are free.”

      Their gazes locked, and she reached for him, her fingers brushing the warm, dry tips of his.

      Another explosion, and his eyes went wide as he fell into the cage.

      “No!” Raina rasped, not caring about the open door that he’d fallen through, the war raging behind him. A rebel soldier lay a dozen yards away, blood pooling beneath him, the gun he’d used to bring down the boy lying near his outstretched hand. All Raina cared about was the boy. She touched his neck, felt his thready rapid pulse.

      Her training kicked in then. All the years of being an emergency room nurse drove her to action. Blood spurted from the boy’s leg. The injury to his thigh was so severe, she didn’t think the limb could be saved. She ripped off a piece of her shirt, tied it around the top of his leg to cut off blood flow. It was that or watch him die.

      He couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds, but Raina struggled to lift him and stagger out of the cage. Dizzy, disoriented, she aimed for the tall grass, stumbling past the rebel’s body. Heat blazed from the raging fire and the endless sun. Her arms and legs trembled, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t put the boy down.

      Please, God...

      Please...

      Her legs gave out, and she tumbled backward, her arms still wrapped around the boy. He groaned, his dark eyes staring into hers, blank but still lit with life and hope.

      Please.

      “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re going to get you home,” a man said, crouching beside her, his tan pants and long-sleeved shirt crisp and clean, his accent the deep drawl of a true Southerner. Deep blue eyes and an unyielding face. Hard edges and sharp angles and a scar that split one dark eyebrow.

      Who are you? she thought, the words trapped in her head, unable to escape the fiery heat in her throat, the dryness of her mouth.

      “Let’s get out of here.” He tried to pull her from the boy, but she tightened her grip.

      “No.”

      “We can’t bring him with us. There’s no room on the chopper.” His voice was as gentle as sunrise, and Raina wanted to close her eyes, release her grip, let herself fall into the care he seemed to be offering.

      She couldn’t leave the boy, though.

      Wouldn’t.

      “Take him, then.” She thrust the boy into his arms, her muscles trembling, blackness edging at the corner of her mind. Maybe this was where she was meant to die. Maybe four years of searching for the faith she’d lost had led her straight into God’s arms.

      She swayed, so ready to give in that her knees buckled.

      “Don’t give up now,” he growled, his free arm snaking around her waist. He pulled her upright, and she had no choice but to run beside him. It was that or drag all three of them down.

      “Jackson! Hurry it up. We’ve got heat coming in from the west.” A woman raced toward them, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, a gun strapped to her chest. She wore the same uniform as the man. A blue heart was stitched on one shoulder.

      “Everyone is accounted for?”

      “If this is Raina, then yes.” The woman offered Raina a kind smile that didn’t quite fit the hard angles and edges of her face. Her gaze dropped to the boy, and she frowned. “We can’t take him. You know that, right?”

      “Rules are meant to be broken, Stella. Isn’t that your philosophy of life?”

      “True.” She took the boy from his arms. “Let’s get out of here.”

      She ran toward a waiting helicopter, dust and debris swirling, her blond ponytail flying. Raina wanted to run, too, but she couldn’t feel her feet, her legs, her body. Didn’t know if she was standing or lying down. Hazy sky and yellow sun and midnight-blue eyes. The endless flap of buzzard wings.

      “You’re going to be okay, Raina,” someone whispered as she slid into darkness.

      ONE

      Help me, Mommy. Please! Help me!

      The cries drifted into Raina’s consciousness, weaving their way through vivid dreams: Africa. A young boy who wasn’t Joseph, but who could have been. Hot sun. Desperate thirst. Fear.

      And that cry!

      Help me, Mommy! Please! Help me!

      She jerked awake, her heart thundering so loudly, she thought she was still hearing the cries.

      She was still hearing the cries.

      Wasn’t she?

      She scrambled out of bed, the sheets and blanket dropping onto the floor, her flannel pajamas tangled around her waist and legs. Wind rattled the windows, the darkness beyond the single-pane glass complete. She cocked her head to the side, heard the house creaking, ice pattering on the roof. Other than that, there was nothing. Her hand shook as she brushed bangs from her forehead and tried to take a few deep breaths. Tried, but her lungs wouldn’t fill.

      “Calm