A Familiar Heart
Chapter Two


Outside Salt Lake City, Utah
December 22, 1945


The snow was going to delay her arrival in
Maryland, she just knew it.  And her mother was
likely to be furious, though not in any overt
way.  No, Christmas - if she made it there by
midnight mass - was probably going to be a
stilted affair, with her father's silent drinking
punctuated by her mother's disapproving stares
and sniffles of disappointment.  That she was
spending the holiday with them was usual, yes. 
But this trip was doubly necessary, when all she
really felt like doing was letting the holidays
pass without notice.  New Year's nuptials
demanded that she spend the week at her parents'
house, with final preparations occupying most of
her time.

Thank goodness, she thought.  Instead of avoiding
personal differences, they could at least talk of
the wedding.  Scrambling around on details like
guest lists and last-minute adjustments to music
and clothing tended to leave little room for
conversation.

It wasn't like she'd never been able to enjoy her
family's company, because she had.  Before.  In
the time before she was reduced to eating rice
mush and rats, before she chopped her own hair
off because of head lice.  Before she woke every
night in the grip of a nightmare that ended with
the sacrifice of an angel.

Outside her window, she watched the pinkening,
heavy clouds with wide eyes, blinking rapidly to
dispel the sudden rush of tears.  It would do no
good to think of him - her savior.  But it
continued to dismay her to this day, almost a
year later.  She'd seen so much death in the
three years she'd been imprisoned, first at Santo
Tomas, then at Los Banos.  Others had slipped
away under her touch in the hospital; actually,
given their horrid living conditions, most of
them, she was certain, went on to a much better
place.  Why did his death make her feel as if the
world had been pulled out from under her feet?

Because it didn't have to be.  If she'd only been
more alert, more willing to believe that rescue
was possible, then she'd have ceased her
struggles and he would still be alive.  She'd
heard of only two deaths among the Allied troops
and Filipino guerrillas that stormed the camp
that day, and she knew he'd been one of them. 
MacArthur had praised the operation as one of the
smoothest ever carried out by paratroopers and
amphibious infantry - a model that would be
studied by military students for decades to come. 
That they'd freed over two thousand internees
with such minute losses was amazing.

And if she'd hadn't been such a coward, such a
timid, Japanese-speaking coward, he wouldn't have
been one of the unlucky two.  With a sigh, she
touched the frost-bitten glass, wiping away the
clouds from her mind and from the scenery.  It
was no use thinking of things she couldn't
change.  Pragmatic, like her father, she'd moved
on from the war.  Like him, she'd embraced the
stateside Navy life upon her return from
overseas.  Life in the rigid confines of the
military suited her.  Her mother thought that the
military was a means to an end; to find a
husband, raise a family under the protection of
the US government.  Men like Bill Scully and his
sons were allowed to make careers out of it, but
it wasn't for women.

But Dana had discovered in her time in Los Banos
that there was more to living than waiting for
the right man to come along.  Medicine still held
intrigue, and she'd taken a post at Oak Knoll
Hospital in San Francisco, treating patients who
were former POW's, like herself.  She found that
dealing with their traumatic recoveries helped
ease her own anxieties about returning to
normalcy.  Only there a few months, it wasn't
long before the doctors recognized her ability to
spread the more efficient methods to dealing with
the wounded learned firsthand in the internment
camp.  Using her vast experience in trauma and
triage, she was tapped to teach others younger
and more eager to learn.

Not that she was that old, by any means.  But at
barely twenty-seven, she was considered an old
maid by many of her peers.  And the experiences
she'd lived through had only added to her years. 
Still, she'd never had the time to walk through a
different fire... the one called love.  Fresh out
of college, she'd joined up.  A matter of months,
and she was assigned to Corregidor in the
Pacific.  A matter of weeks, and she was captured
along with most of her Nurse Corps Unit, living
under the shadow of the Red Sun.

Going home for this wedding brought home to her
the emptiness she felt.  She'd have to smile and
tell everyone she was fine, when she wasn't.  For
the first time, she felt lost.  Her life wasn't
supposed to turn out this way, according to her
mother.  By now, she should have married - a
military man, of course.  A hero, like the one
who'd shielded her body with his in Los Banos. 
And she was beginning to wonder if maybe her
mother was right... there had to be more to life
than seeking self-satisfaction in a job, albeit a
very challenging one.

A self-deprecating sigh trickled from her lips. 
She wasn't being fair to herself, or to the men
who'd offered her companionship since returning
to the States in June.  Good-looking, capable men
who were decorated and bumped up the ranks
because of heroism... men who wanted nothing more
than to settle down and raise a family.  It
wasn't fair of her to compare them to a dead man. 
She was being ridiculous; she'd seen him for what
- maybe a minute or two?  And suddenly,, he was
the epitome of her dreams?  The dry beriberi she
was brought out of that camp with must have
dulled her brain.  She was healthy now, and it
was time to put those dreams aside.  Get through
Charlie's wedding, then, when she got back to San
Francisco, accept the first invitation to dinner
she received from a man.  Time to live again.

The snow had gotten heavier, and she had to slow
her car to a crawl, cursing herself for her
inattention to the matter of travel until what
amounted to the last minute.  Commercial travel,
she found out yesterday, was booked solid. 
Trains, planes, even buses were overloaded with
soldiers making their way home for the holidays. 
So she requested a few extra days leave and set
out in her car.  At the time, it seemed a good
idea - if she could survive what she'd been
through, surely a little cross-country trip was a
piece of cake?  Even in the winter.  They had to
keep major roads open; she'd put on the snow
chains before hitting Salt Lake, and had made
good time, thanks to the snowplow she'd followed
for a couple of hours.

But now, with darkness rapidly approaching, she
knew she'd have to call it quits for the night
before long.  According to her map, there was a
town about ten miles ahead.  Piedmont.  She could
make it.

Or not.  A sudden lurch made the Buick twist and
turn; she fought for control, but it was no use. 
A loud *pop* and she skidded to a halt half off
the road, her head whipping into the glass of her
window with a crack.  By the time she woke up,
her head was against the steering wheel and the
smell of blood filled her nostrils.  Not to
mention the gigantic headache that made her moan
when she moved.  Quickly, she did a quick
assessment of her body, thankful she could still
move her arms and legs.  The scrape on her
forehead was wicked, but she didn't think she'd
done any real damage.  After pressing her
handkerchief to it for a minute or so, the
bleeding stopped altogether.

Great.  She killed the motor and tried to see
where she was, but the windows were caked with
ice.  It felt like she was on level ground, but
she couldn't tell.  She buttoned her coat and
shoved open the door.  One foot, then two, and
she stood beside the car, making her way to the
trunk, where she retrieved her flashlight.

When she saw where she was, she stifled a curse. 
From where she stood, she could barely make out
the road ahead and behind.  The car, while not
suffering major damage, had a flat tire.  It sat
at an angle, half in what looked like a ditch. 
But when she heard the sound of water just
beyond, she knew that ditch was no ordinary
ditch.  She thanked her lucky stars she hadn't
rolled into whatever stream laid in that dark
void below.  Shining the light on the damage, she
saw it was just a small puncture, easily fixed. 
But the angle of the car made it impossible to
attempt; jacking it up could very well send it
down the ravine below.  It would take a tow truck
to pull it out to level ground.  And it was
damned cold.  Shivering, she decided to set out
immediately for the nearest town.  Grabbing her
purse, she started up the road, tugging on her
knit cap and pulling her scarf close, stifling
the urge to loosen it.

The trek up was more difficult than she'd
thought.  Rocks laid in wait under the blanket of
snow, and she hadn't gone more than a few feet
when her right ankle gave out and she dropped
like a stone, flat on her face.  Sputtering, she
grimaced at the sharp pain.  It wasn't broken,
but it was a bad sprain.  Hopefully, the added
stability of her calf-high boots would see her
through her hike along the road.  Maybe a vehicle
would pass, and she could flag it down.  The
situation wasn't hopeless, but she felt like
crying, anyway.

No, that wouldn't do, she told herself.  She
would crawl if she had to.  She'd survived far
worse.

After a few torturous minutes, she made it to the
road.  Not a car in sight.  The realization
threatened to send her into a pity party, but she
killed the urge to whine.  She wasn't her
father's daughter for nothing.  A Scully, through
and through.

She hummed "Anchors Aweigh" as she began to walk,
her head pounding in time with the imagined
music.  Before long, her gloved hands were
feeling the pinch of the seeping cold.  Keep
going, she ordered herself.  Don't give up.

But her slight trepidation began to grow into
worry, then fear.  Even though only a few miles
separated her from warmth and safety, she knew
that hypothermia was a real possibility.  She had
to get warm, and fast.  Now, instead of keeping
her flashlight trained on the road in front of
her, she swept the beam into the trees on either
side, hoping for some sign of a dwelling. 
Inhabited or not, it didn't matter.  She had to
get out of the cold for the night; tomorrow was
soon enough to try to make it the rest of the
way.

A meager light pierced the darkness to her right. 
She stopped, wincing at the weight on her ankle. 
It was a cabin, set upon the top of a hill above
the tree line.  A slim line of smoke trickled
from its chimney, and in the dusk, she could make
out lights in the windows.  Sitting as it was
atop the hill, the snow hadn't totally obscured
it from her vision.  If it had been nestled in
the trees, she certainly would have missed it
altogether.

There had to be some sort of access road; a few
limping steps more, and she found a parting in
the trees.  The snow-covered gravel crunched
under her boots and she knew she was on the right
path.  The road was relatively smooth, recently
graded.  Someone lived up there, and took great
pains to keep the road clear.  Of course, after a
while, she began to wonder if she'd even make it
*that* far.  The cabin, which had looked so close
from the main highway, was, in fact, several
hundred yards up.  What once looked accessible
turned out to be isolated by design.  She crossed
a wooden bridge, pausing to look at the rush of
water below, shuddering to think how close she
came to an ice-cold bath a half-hour ago.

Almost there, almost there.  She was beginning to
feel a bit woozy as she trudged to the front
door.  It took every bit of strength she had left
to raise her hand and knock.  The pounding of her
fist sounded pitifully weak to her own ears, and
she wondered if whoever was inside even heard
her.

"Hello!"  Damn, even her voice had given up the
ghost, croaking out the plea, "I need some help!"

No answer.  Was anyone at home?  She spied the
boxy hulk of a Jeep peeking out from around the
corner of a cabin, and decided this person was
being mighty unsociable.  Again, she knocked,
using the last of her strength to beat with both
fists.

"Help me!" she cried, then swayed as a rush of
heat warmed her face.

The tall form silhouetted in the light beyond
didn't look too happy, quickly confirmed by his
growling, "This is private property.  Beat it." 
The rifle in his hand only punctuated his
displeasure at her standing on his doorstep.

But she had nowhere else to go.  Swallowing, she
tried to explain.  "My - my car.  I have a flat. 
At the end of your road.  Can I -"

"No."

"P-please," she stuttered, her teeth shaking with
cold.  "I can - I can pay you."

"I said no."

The door began to swing closed and she put out a
hand, feeling herself falling forward.  Sure she
was about to make a fool of herself by fainting,
she was brought up short by a pair of strong
arms.  Her eyes closed at the feel of his warmth,
and she heard him mutter, "Damned woman."

Lifting her frosty lashes, she found his face
inches from her own, his jaw clenched with anger. 
A sharp tingle of recognition shot through her
and she gasped.  The high cheekbones, the full
mouth, the days old stubble... but most of all,
the eyes.  She'd never forgotten those eyes.

She knew he was bound to think her an escaped
mental patient, but she said it anyway, forcing a
shivering smile.

"How about those Yankees?"

His eyebrows drew together; it was the last thing
she saw before she gave in to her exhaustion.


End Chapter Two