Jett glanced at Tristan. She looked a little sleepy, lying there in the sun, her hair tousled and her gently questioning dark eyes regarding her steadily. Tristan’s arm still curled beneath her head, but when she smiled lazily, Jett almost sensed Tristan reaching out to touch her. She’d never felt anything quite like the pull of that invisible caress. Maybe that was why she answered.

“The very first time I went up, I had the feeling I could keep going forever and never touch down.”

“An adventurous spirit?” Tristan watched Jett gesture with her hands as she spoke—gentle, eloquent movements in sharp contrast to the strength evident in her wide palms and muscular fingers. Tristan remembered the helicopter hurtling through the dark only hours before, only now she could imagine Jett guiding it with those powerful, commanding hands. Her stomach tightened at the image of those hands stripping her bare, those fingers demanding and sure. Tristan took a long breath and banished the fantasy. She couldn’t help what her body craved, but she really wanted to know why Jett loved to fly, because she sensed that was a big part of who she was. And she wanted to know who she was. “Wanderlust?”

“Maybe. I never felt like I really fit in where I was.” Jett laughed shortly, sounding raspy, as if she were out of practice. “More likely I wanted to escape my two older brothers. Somehow, I always ended up doing half their chores.”

From the bitter edge to her words, Tristan suspected there was more she wanted to escape, but she didn’t probe. When Jett fell silent, Tristan missed their brief moment of connection. “I understand the sibling thing. I’ve got three sisters, all beautiful, all successful, all super straight. We didn’t have that much in common.”

“You can’t be that much different than them,” Jett said, turning slightly to face Tristan. “You’ve got two of the three covered.”

Tristan had been hit on enough times in her life to know when she wasn’t being hit on. She might have been disappointed except for the unexpected surge of pleasure at Jett’s words. She rarely thought about her own appearance or how women looked at her. She wasn’t often called beautiful, although her appearance did sometimes elicit comments. She had her Greek mother to thank for her dark Mediterranean hair and skin coloring and her English father for her blue eyes. Either parent could be responsible for her fiery temperament. Her mother blamed her father for her womanizing, as she called Tristan’s lack of a regular girlfriend, which only made her father laugh. For his part, he insisted her stubbornness came totally from her mother. They both claimed credit for her brains and her passion. They hadn’t always been happy about her choices, and it hadn’t helped that her sisters all led storybook lives.

“I love them,” Tristan said, “but I wish I’d discovered airplanes when I was younger. There were plenty of times I wanted to disappear.”

Aware that Jett was still watching her, Tristan tried to sound casual.

“Did I mention that I’m a lesbian?”

“No.”

“I am.”

“Was that a problem for them?” Jett asked. “Your family, I mean.”

“I pretty much knew the way I felt when I was in high school, so I told them. It didn’t exactly go over well. It took me quite a while to convince them it wasn’t a phase.” Tristan thought back to the heated discussions with her parents, who were convinced that she was just trying to be different from her sisters. And her sisters all wanted her to be like them. But she wasn’t like them, and never could be. “The first few years were interesting. My sisters kept trying to fix me up on dates until I was almost out of college. When they didn’t wear me down, we all reached a truce.”

“So you still see them?”

“My family?” Tristan nodded. “How about you?”

“Not so much.”

Shadows eclipsed Jett’s sharply etched features, and Tristan imagined the story wasn’t a happy one. Jett’s gaze had drifted to some distant point in the yard, and her body had become unnaturally still— almost frozen. Tristan felt as if Jett was behind a wall of invisible glass, and if she tried to touch her, she would not be able to. That feeling of being locked outside made her want to touch her all the more.

With a shake of her head, dispelling the irrational urge, Tristan said, “Can I get you more coffee, or are you going to be too wired to sleep?”

Jett tilted her head back to look up into Tristan’s face. “I’ll sleep. How about you?”

If Jett had been any other woman, Tristan would have tried out a line. I’ll sleep better if you’re with me. I won’t have any trouble falling asleep if you join me for a little workout first. I’m sure you can think of a way to put me to sleep. Practiced lines designed to let a woman know she was interested. The kind of line that suggested an isolated encounter, a mutually enjoyable diversion, perhaps even the first of a few hot sweaty afternoons stolen from the relentless demands of work that were constant reminders of the fragility and, at times, the inhumanity of life.

“Coffee never keeps me awake,” Tristan said instead. She thought Jett was a lesbian, but she’d guessed wrong before. That wasn’t what kept her from making a suggestive response, however. And it certainly wasn’t because she didn’t find Jett attractive. A few days before, she would have sworn she knew exactly what she liked in bed, and the kind of woman she wanted. Those brief few hours of submitting to another woman’s desire had taught her that there was more than one way to give pleasure. Or to receive it. When Tristan looked at Jett, she imagined herself beneath that lean, strong body, with Jett inside her. Silently groaning, Tristan forced the image from her mind. She was just exhausted after two nights without sleep, which was why her bodily urges seemed to be running rampant. Jett gave off very clear unavailable vibes, that was easy to see. Why, Tristan wasn’t sure, but she’d like to find out.

“I’m not in any hurry to go to bed,” Tristan said. “So you’re more than welcome to stay.”

“I shouldn’t.” Jett stood.

“Do you need a ride?”

“No, I’m not that far. Thanks for the coffee.” She hesitated. “And for the company.”

“Any time,” Tristan said as she walked Jett to the door. As she said it, she realized she meant it. But she doubted she’d have another opportunity.

Jett was gone before she even left the apartment.

“I heard it was bad out there tonight. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Jett braced one arm against the side of the supply shed. Even with the non-reflective paint, the metal was burning hot to the touch. Registering the discomfort through a haze of mental and physical exhaustion, she jerked her hand away.

Gail murmured in concern and grasped Jett’s arm, turning her hand over and cradling it in her palm. “That’s going to blister if we don’t put some ointment on it. Let’s go to the med tent.”

“It’s okay.”

“No,” Gail said slowly. “It’s not.” She stepped closer, brushing the hair from Jett’s forehead as she continued to hold her hand. She rubbed her thumb lightly over Jett’s cheekbone. “And neither are you. Are you sleeping?”

Jett barked out a laugh. “Is anyone?”

The bombing had picked up, and the noise and ever-present specter of death made sleeping more than an hour or two at a time impossible.

Worse, the casualty rate had risen and more and more of the injured she transported were critical. Even those who were likely to recover would never be the same. Life as they knew it, as she knew it, was forever changed.

“Come on,” Gail said. “Let’s go to my tent.”

Jett glanced around quickly, concerned that someone might have heard them. Even though the conversation was completely innocent, as was the invitation, she wasn’t so certain about her feelings.

Jett woke up with the sun in her eyes, and for a few seconds, she didn’t know where she was. She jerked upright, sweeping her surroundings, reaching for the weapon that was no longer there. She was in her room. In her apartment. Safe. She gulped in a lungful of air and let it out more slowly, assessing her situation. She was naked.

The cheap plastic clock-radio on the narrow, plain pine dresser said 4:30 p.m. Monday afternoon. She was due back on shift in two and a half hours. Wondering how to fill the time, she stretched out on top of her bed again. A faint breeze came through the partially open window, cooling the sweat on her skin. Absently, she rubbed her hand over her chest and down her abdomen. The breeze and the thought of coffee made her think of the morning, and of Tristan stretched out beside her on the porch, relaxing with a mug balanced on her thigh.

That hour with Tristan was the most time she had spent alone with anyone in months, and to her surprise, she’d been comfortable. Tristan had a way of drawing her out, with her easy smile and her understated confidence. Somehow, Tristan had gotten her to talk about one of the few good things in her childhood. She hadn’t thought about flying with Elenor in years and years.

Maybe opening up to Tristan had been easy because they were both tired. Or maybe it was easy because there was nothing to explain.

Medicine and war weren’t all that far apart. Tristan had seen tragedy and defeat up close too. So maybe Tristan knew that at the end of the day, a lounge chair on a tiny porch beneath a leafy tree, quiet words wafting away on a breeze, was as close to peace as she could get.

Jett replayed the conversation and wondered what the three beautiful sisters looked like, that Tristan would somehow distinguish herself from them. Because Tristan was gorgeous. Smiling at the memory of Tristan and the lazy morning, Jett turned on her side and closed her eyes. She didn’t expect to sleep, but she was wrong.