Familiar Stranger by Sharon Sala Page B

on the floor of the hut, smelling gasoline and feeling the heat of the fire against his face. He'd crawled through fire, living with one purpose only, and that was to make David pay for what he'd done. Over the years, Frank had chosen to forget that he was the one to fire the first shot. His entire purpose for living was revenge.
    And that same revenge had kept him alive in Vietnam, hiding in an empty village under the nose of the Vietcong until he was healed, then smuggling himself into Indonesia and stowing away on a freighter bound for New Zealand. He strangled the man who helped him on board, stole his identity, then hid in the hold among the freight until they docked weeks later. Within a year, he was working the opal mines in Australia and saving every penny he could get his hands on. Through every tough, hungry day and night of his life, one thing had kept him going—the knowledge that some day he would find David Wilson, and when he did, he would kill him.
    Finally, Frank slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. As he did, he rolled onto his back, his arms flung out. Asleep, his scars gave him a look of vulnerability, but they were deceiving. He'd gone into this vendetta with nothing to lose. His beloved Martha was dead and his only child, like his brother, had turned into a traitor. There was nothing helpless about Frank Wilson, and everything to fear.
    * * *
    It was three in the morning when the nightmares started. Cara woke abruptly, her senses on an all-out alert. David was still asleep, but curled up in a ball with his back to her. The muscles in his arms were jerking, and every now and then he would kick, as if fighting off an invisible foe. She reached for the lamp, quickly turning it on and illuminating their corner of the room with a soft, yellow glow. A thin film of sweat covered his skin, and the sheet that had been over his body was twisted around his ankles.
    Cara got up from the bed, untwisted the sheet and pulled it up to his waist before crawling in beside him. Then she spooned herself against the curve of his back, slid an arm around his waist and held on.
    He moaned.
    "Ssh, David, ssh. Everything is all right, darling. Everything is all right."
    The softness of her voice seemed to penetrate his subconscious. He stiffened momentarily and then ever so slowly began to relax.
    Cara pulled herself closer against him, and as she did, he turned over and pillowed his cheek against her breasts. His face was streaked with sweat, his features twisted into a grimace. As she looked, she felt like crying. Instead, she held him close. Only after she heard the even tenor of his breathing did she close her eyes.
    David was no longer the fearless young man who'd first gone off to war, convinced of his immortality. This man who'd come back to her had been forged in hellfire and was holding himself together by nothing more than sheer will. He was hard to the point of brittle, and his smiles were far too rare for her peace of mind. He existed by day and suffered by night. And her rage for the injuries he'd sustained grew with each passing day. The only thing she had to give him was her love. She prayed it would be enough.
    Dawn finally broke, bathing the couple in the warm fingers of light slipping through the curtains. David was the first to stir, and as he did, he realized that something of a miracle had occurred. He'd slept the entire night through without waking up. And then he felt Cara's arms around him and realized she must have held him while he slept. A great wave of peace fell over him, leaving him weak and humbled. Dear God—he didn't deserve this woman, but he wasn't going to give her up. Not now. Not when he'd finally found a reason to live again.
    He shifted slightly so that he could see her. The morning light was soft, shadowing the fine lines that time had etched on her face. So beautiful. She was so very, very beautiful. He thought of Frank and knew that he couldn't put off their meeting too much longer.