“Your parachute and other gear—that is what will give away your position. It is your good fortune that it wasn’t seen by someone else, someone who would report you. I must see to that right away.”

“Okay.”

She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. The intimacy of the gesture made her heart skip a beat. “You have a fever.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have water?”

“I did have. My canteen is empty now.”

She did not know the word canteen until he handed her his flask. “I will fill it for you. I’ll only be a moment.” She took his bidon to the stream and filled it with fresh water, then brought it back.

He drank in long, thirsty gulps. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since last night. I had a bad jump. A bad landing. There was a problem with the equipment, and the wind came up.”

“Is someone looking for you? Comrades?”

“I can’t say, ma’am.”

He would divulge as little information as possible. She didn’t blame him. “I’m going to fetch your parachute and bring it here, so there is no trace of you in the forest.”

“Thank you. I’m very grateful to you, ma’am.”

Lisette frowned. “I don’t know this word, ‘ma’am.’”

“It’s a polite way of saying madam, I reckon.”

“Call me Lisette,” she said, then went to pick up the chute. The silk fabric snagged on the underbrush, so she tried to make sure she had gathered up every scrap. This was not the first time she had helped with a parachute. Ever since the Germans had taken over the region, the Allies had been dropping supplies and information all over the countryside. Small arms, heavy weapons, and explosives from the British SOE kept the maquisards armed. But never before had she been confronted with the prospect of a live paratrooper. She brought the bunched-up chute to him, along with the medical kit that must have fallen from his bag.

She handed him the first-aid kit and tucked the fabric around him. The temperature was sometimes cool at night, particularly for someone who was feverish and wounded. “I will come very early tomorrow morning,” she promised.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

“Don’t die, Hank,” she told him.

“I’m not planning on it.”

Hank was awakened by a creaking sound. His head was on fire. He grabbed his sidearm and waited, tense and watchful. From his hideout under the fallen tree, he could see only a patch of blue sky fringed by leafy branches. The fever caused him to see double, so it appeared that two huge, long-haired dogs charged into his hiding place and put their faces in his. It was really just one dog, giving him the once-over with its nose, its feathery tail swishing back and forth.

“I wanted Dulcinea to meet you,” she explained, “so she doesn’t bark later and give you away.”

“That’s good,” he said. His voice was croaky. “I didn’t die.”

“No, you didn’t die,” said Lisette. She held the canteen to his mouth and he drank. The double vision fused into one. In the morning light, she looked so beautiful that the sight of her brought a lump to his throat. She had blond hair done up in two braids pinned over her head like a halo. Her eyes were sky blue, her skin like cream. She was an angel, thought Hank. A living angel.

“You have to move to a safer place,” she said. “I’ve brought Rocinante to help.”

He eyed the cart. A tired-looking mule was hitched to it. Even the thought of moving was excruciating. She was right, though. He couldn’t stay here.

“Eat something first.” She gave him a piece of bread with a chunk of ham and a boiled egg, and a handful of ripe plums. There was a flask of warm milk—from the cow this morning, she said.

The food was so good it almost made him dizzy again. He worried he might upchuck, because he wasn’t used to food, especially fresh delicious food. Then the moment passed, and he looked at her, his heart filling up with gratitude.

“Ma’am. Lisette. That was the tastiest meal I’ve ever had,” he said.

“You are in France. All the food here is tasty, even in wartime. I’ve heard the shortages in the cities are terrible, but I live on a farm. We grow everything we need, and if the Germans don’t take everything, we manage.”

Good, then. She didn’t seem to be in cahoots with the Krauts. “I’m mighty grateful.”

Without warning, she took hold of his dog tags, two of them on the beaded chain around his neck. “Henry Lee Watkins,” she read. “And this is your serial number?”

“Yes. It’s Hank for short. A nickname.”

“And the O—that is your blood type?”

“Yes.”

“And the final line . . . Switchback, Vermont.”

Her funny pronunciation—Sweetchbeck, Vere-moh—coaxed a smile through his pain. “My hometown.” Hank felt dizzy. He couldn’t even remember what season it was. He’d left home in February, when the woods were blanketed in deep drifts of snow. Deep within the sugar maples, an awakening would begin, but the sap didn’t usually start to run until March. Once that process started, the sugar season would commence and it was all hands on deck as they boiled the sap day and night, rendering it into maple syrup.

She carefully tucked the tags inside his shirt. “You must get into this . . . hotte en bois. I don’t know the word in English. It’s a special box the pickers use at harvesttime. The harvest will not be under way until October, so this équipe will not be missed.”

The hod was mounted on a narrow wheeled cart that fit perfectly between the rows of the vineyard. She showed him how the side of the wooden box slid up so he could climb in. The thought of moving even a fraction of an inch made him nauseous. During the fall into the forest, something had gouged deeply into this thigh. He’d broken or bruised his ribs as well, and every breath he took was torture. He thought his ankle was broken or strained, too. It was swelling hard against his combat boot.

“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.