LITMIR.BIZ

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      Stephen swallowed, unable to meet the other man’s eyes. He nodded slightly, but did not otherwise respond.

      “Good night,” Joshua said finally. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

      He closed the door and started after Terell, who was questioning Sam as they walked to their shared room. “Did you hear what that guy said? Rebels killed his baby. His baby! That is just wrong. Those other names—were those his kids, too?”

      “Yeah, and his wife,” Joshua said, catching up to them.

      Sam frowned. “But his wife is with him.”

      “Mary must be someone new. He said Priscilla was the mother of his children.”

      Terell groaned. “Aw, man, the first wife must have gotten killed by the rebels. Sam, those two kids were locked in a barrel. They could have starved.”

      “Or been slaughtered like their brothers and sisters. But they’re alive—that’s the important thing.”

      Joshua nodded. “Now the family has to figure out a way to move ahead without the past dragging them down. Like all of us.”

      He could feel Terell’s eyes on him as they entered the room. “You think the kids heard their mama being murdered?”

      “Maybe. They know she’s dead.”

      “That’s terrible, yo. If anybody went after my mama, I’d kill him.”

      “Good job. You just described the basic recipe for genocide.” Joshua stretched out on the cot. “Revenge never did anyone a bit of good.”

      Sam dropped down onto his bed. “Let it go, Terell.”

      “You dudes don’t have any feelings. I can’t hear a story like that and then let it go. Those are my people.”

      Sam gave a snort as he switched off the lamp. “They’re not your people any more than they’re mine.”

      “They’re black. Africans are my ancestors.”

      “And my great-great-grandfather was a Scottish laird. You don’t see me playing bagpipes and dancing a jig.”

      Joshua knew he should let the two men hash it out, but he couldn’t resist offering his thoughts. “We’re all connected. Forget skin color and bloodlines. God doesn’t see that. Neither should we.”

      “Haven may not have room for everyone,” Sam said. “But we’re here to help the Rudi family. If his wife’s killers walked in here, we’d probably help them, too. Get over yourself, Terell.”

      “Me? You’re both loony tunes. The sand in your heads rusted out your brains. Go find a couple of camels, yo. Get on back to the desert where you belong.”

      Joshua could hear Sam chuckling. A comforting sound. In a moment, both men began to snore.

      Joshua stroked the warm steel blade in his palm. Turning onto his stomach, he slipped the knife under his pillow. It might just come in handy.

       Chapter Two

       L iz locked her purse inside the drawer under her desk and switched on the computer. She was tired. Too tired to be at work this early in the morning. But the day wouldn’t wait.

      Before meeting a Somali family at the airport at ten, she had to fill out status reports on two groups of Burmese immigrants brought in by Refugee Hope. They had landed in St. Louis the week before. Ragged, little more than skin and bones, they had stared at her with gaunt faces and milky eyes. At the sight of an energetic white woman with a mass of brunette curls, the children clung to each other. Their parents couldn’t quite muster a smile at having finally arrived in America, the land of their dreams.

      With a sigh, Liz shook her head.

      “Incoming!” Her closest friend at the agency breezed past the small cubicle. Molly stuck a thumb behind her to indicate the cluster of people headed Liz’s way. “They’re all yours!”

      Molly loved mornings.

      Liz groaned and reached for her flask of hot tea. Before work, she always steeped a pot of the strongest black tea on the market. The first cup opened her eyes. The second turned on her brain. With the third, she usually had the gumption to say—

      “No.” Holding up a palm, Liz rose from her chair before the newcomers could step into her cubicle. “I don’t know who sent you here, but you have the wrong office.”

      “No?” A tall man with close-cropped brown hair stepped around the collection of bewildered Africans. His dark eyebrows narrowed. “Did you say no?”

      “I’m sorry, but this is not one of my families.” She met his blue eyes. Deep navy with white flecks, they stared straight into her.

      Why hadn’t she started that third cup on the drive to work?

      “I know my own people,” she informed him. “This group doesn’t belong to me. If you’ll go back to the front office—”

      “The front office sent us to you.” Gaze unwavering, he stuck out a hand. “Sergeant Joshua Duff, U. S. Marine Corps. And you are?”

      “Liz.” She grasped the hand. His warm fingers curled around her palm, crushing her knuckles together. She caught her breath. “Liz Wallace.”

      “A Scot. I’m Irish.”

      “American, actually.” She pulled her hand away and stuck it in the pocket of her slacks. “So, Semper Fi and all that. I appreciate the interest you’ve taken in these people, Sergeant, but Refugee Hope is accountable only for the families we relocate. If you’re responsible for this group, you’ll have to—”

      “Semper Fi and all that?” He leaned forward, as if he weren’t sure he heard her correctly.

       Oh, great, Liz thought. She picked up her flask, unscrewed the lid and poured the third cup. Praying he couldn’t see her hand trembling, she lifted the mug to her lips. The tea slid down her throat.

      This was not what she needed a few minutes after eight in the morning. Not an overwhelming, overbearing, overly handsome sergeant with a death grip. And certainly not a pair of striking blue eyes that never seemed to blink.

      “Sergeant Duff.” She found a smile and hoped it looked sincere. “Please forgive my lack of courtesy. I have a large number of families in my caseload. An overwhelming number. This group isn’t among them.”

      With effort, she dragged her focus from the man’s sculpted cheekbones and clean-shaven square jaw. The group huddled under his protection shrank into each other as she assessed them. A man, midforties, she guessed. His wife, hard to tell her age behind those big glasses, clearly traumatized. Two children. The girl, about seven, needing new clothes. The boy, probably five, missing several front teeth.

      “This is Reverend Stephen Rudi,” Sergeant Duff said, clamping his big hand on the man’s shoulder. “His wife, Mary. Their children, Charity and Virtue. They’re from Paganda.”

       Paganda. Images flashed into Liz’s mind. Photographs she’d seen. Villages burning. Mass graves. Boy soldiers toting machine guns. She thought of the people she had met in Congo. They spoke of Paganda in hushed tones. Even worse than most places, they said. Genocide. A bloodbath.

      Liz shuddered and sized up the little family more closely. Who knew what these people had endured? Too often these days, she caught herself regarding the refugees as line items on one of her many lists. Family from Burundi: mother, father, eight children. Family from Bosnia: mother, her brother, four children. Family from Ivory Coast: mother (pregnant), father, six children.

      When had they ceased to be human beings?

      “Reverend Rudi, good morning.” Liz offered her welcome in the African way—right hand extended, left hand placed on the opposite arm near the crook of the elbow. A demonstration of honor, as

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