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Thank you for all your help, Marilyn!

Hogan slid off the couch, the storm of pent up guilt and grief taking him to his knees. Following him down to the floor, Romie pulled him into her arms and drew his head to her shoulder. He edged backward, still aware enough to worry about hurting her with his greater weight. Romie held on, refusing to let go. It had taken too long for him to reach this point. She was not about to let him withdraw again. Tilting her head to better see his face, she looked directly into eyes swimming with tears. Her whisper was tender with love.

"Schatz."

Emotions played across his face, too fast for her to identify. He looked away and a moment later, she felt his muscles loosen in surrender. He sagged into her embrace, his focus turning to the simple task of breathing through the great, gulping sobs.

Romie leaned her side against the couch, bracing herself and taking his weight. She clung to him, tears streaking her face, while the long-suppressed grief tore through his body. Hearing an inquisitive noise from Josef, she lifted her head and their eyes locked over Robert's shoulder. Her embrace tightened, the look on her face discouraging any attempts at taking their foster son from her arms. A small grin touched Josef's lips. Spreading his hands wide, he settled back on the couch, thinking he would have better luck wresting a cub from a mother grizzly.

Romie gave him a brief smile, then lowered her cheek to Robert's temple and buried her fingers deep in soft, ebony hair. The sobs soon stopped as quickly as they had begun, the combination of exhaustion and warmth from the fire dragging him toward sleep. Feeling him growing heavier in her arms, Romie glanced up at Josef, silently accepting his earlier offer of help.

Kneeling, Josef pulled Robert out of her arms. His eyes opened to slits, but he remained pliant while they guided him down to the braided rug and settled him on his side, Romie's leg pillowing his head. Mozart crept forward, tail gently wagging, dark eyes flicking back and forth between Josef and Romie. Romie smiled down at him.

"Go ahead, little one," she whispered, nodding. Mozart's long ears pricked, his tail wagging faster. Under Josef and Romie's watchful regard, he stretched out on the rug against Robert's stomach.

Hogan's breathing soon slowed and deepened. Smiles passed between Romie and Josef.

"Is he --?"

"Shhh," Romie hushed, softening the admonishment with a smile. Her gaze lovingly traced Robert's six-foot form, her hand dropping to his shoulder. "He needs rest."

Josef could not argue that. But neither could he prevent his gaze from lifting to the mantle clock. A frown pinched Romie's face.

"Let him sleep, Josef. Please."

If it were up to Josef, they would let him sleep the day away. But the war and their enemies offered no sympathy to exhausted men. Robert had to return to Stalag 13 before dawn.

Josef looked from Romie back to Robert and for a few moments, indulged in watching him rest trustingly in their care, sound asleep at last. Every paternal instinct in his aging body swelled to fierce life. He met Romie's eyes, his mouth curving into a faint smile.

"Thirty minutes, Mutter."

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

"You need some help?"

"No," Kinch shot back in a forceful whisper. He glared at the alarm wire to the stump's hatch as if it were the source of his discomfort, ignoring what sounded suspiciously like a snicker from below. Once the wire was reattached to the hatch, he shifted his concentration to getting down the ladder as normally as possible.

"You're sure?"

"Yes!" Kinch hissed, releasing a silent sigh when his foot hit the last rung. Gingerly stepping off the ladder, he glared at Benson.

"So help me, Benson, if you ask if I want you to kiss it and make it better, I'll lay you out flat."

Benson's teeth clamped down on his lower lip, tears springing to his eyes. Kinch stared at him, daring him to laugh. A distinct reddish hue traveled up Benson's neck, quickly spread over his camouflage-blackened face. His breathing took on ragged cadence.

"Sorry," came his strangled apology. "But . . . " Benson's eyes flared wide a scant second before a burst of laughter doubled him over. He immediately clamped both hands over his mouth, more to keep the noise from alerting the guards topside than from Kinch's threat. Choked, snuffling noises ensued.

Kinch used the moment Benson's eyes were averted to surreptitiously rub at his sore backside. He had hated briars ever since he was a kid. No matter what he did to avoid the thorn bushes, he always seemed to end up tangling with them. Just like the patch they had spotted tonight. He had thought he was well clear of it, but one long cane had caught and raked him good, tearing deep into tender skin. By the time Benson had cut him free, he was bleeding from several different places and silently swearing a blue streak.

Benson sagged against the wall from lack of air, dropped his hands and dragged in a gasping breath. Kinch's eyes narrowed. Grabbing Benson by the shoulders, Kinch shoved him into the tunnels and away from the entrance.

"Get going," Kinch growled softly, playfully swatting the back of Benson's head with his gloves. "Before I forget I'm a honorable man and club you over the head with something harder." Under his breath, and hopefully beyond Benson's hearing, he muttered, "Damn, I hate briars."

They were almost to the locker room when they heard voices coming from beyond the corner ahead.

"Did you see that thing?"

"What's the big deal, Carter? It's not like we haven't seen one before."

"But that big? It was . . . jeez Louise, it was . . ."

"Huge?"

"Big, anyway."

Kinch and Benson rounded the corner and came upon Carter and Olsen. The two stood just outside the locker room, still in their black clothing and face paint.

Kinch glanced between them. "Has it been completed or are they just building it?"

Puzzled looks flew between Olsen and Carter.

Benson frowned. "The transmitter tower. You found it, right?"

"Oh." A smile spread across Olsen's blackened face. "No."

Kinch sighed. "What were you talking about then?"

"A turtle." Carter held his hands apart, palms facing each other. "You should have seen it, Kinch. It was huge – well, big anyway. The shell was a good ten, eleven inches across and maybe --" Olsen reached over and moved his hands another few inches apart. Carter gave him a quick look and grin. "Okay. More like thirteen --"

"Carter," Kinch sighed again, squashing the urge to roll his eyes. He brushed past and went into the locker room. His hope of finding Hogan and the other members of the search team already there were quickly dashed. LeBeau and O'Malley tossed off waves without looking up from their game of cards. Kinch gave a half-hearted wave in return and went for his locker. O'Malley glanced his way and did a doubletake at his bedraggled appearance.

"What happened to you?"

"Don't ask," Kinch muttered, jerking his locker open.

O'Malley's eyes narrowed. "I just did."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen it," said Carter, backing into the room ahead of Olsen and Benson. "It was —"

"Huge." Benson cut in, folding his arms, a twinkle dancing in his eyes. "Yeah, we heard."

"Big," Olsen corrected with mock gravity, yanking his black sweater over his head. "It was big. Not huge."

"Oh, pardon me," Benson snarked, throwing a look heavenward. "Not huge." Giving Carter a pat on the shoulder, he found his own locker and started changing.

LeBeau and O'Malley glanced at each other, then down at their cards and at the same moment, laid them on the table. LeBeau loosely folded his arms and leaned back in his chair to listen and watch.

"What's huge?" Broughton asked, walking into the room with Newkirk. "The tower?"

Kinch's shoulders slumped in tired amusement. "No. Not the tower." He started to sit to take off his boots, felt another painful twinge, and decided to spare his wounded backside at least a little longer. O'Malley noticed the aborted move. His gaze sharpened and he edged forward on his chair, watching Kinch's every move with a medic's keen interest.

Broughton and Newkirk shared frowns. "So what's huge?" Broughton persisted, straddling a bench. Olsen's head popped out from behind his locker door. Laughter laced his voice.

"Big."

"Big, huge," Newkirk groused, pulling his knit cap off and scrubbing fingers through his sweaty hair. "What in the blooming heavens are we talking about here?"

"A turtle!" Kinch, Benson, Olsen and Carter chorused to the ceiling.

LeBeau's relaxed pose vanished, an anticipatory gleam appearing in his eyes. "Did you bring it back with you?"

Carter threw a glance over his shoulder as he hung his shirt. "Why would we do that?"

LeBeau gaped at him in rampant disbelief. To a chef, the answer was obvious. "For soup!"

"Hey, I was just talking about soup," Paxton announced, striding into the room. "Wasn't I, Braveheart?"

"You were." Braveheart stalked past, threading a path through the increasingly crowded room. Resting a palm over his stomach, Paxton sniffed the air and faced LeBeau, the source of all things delicious.

"So where is it? All that scouting left this scout starving."

LeBeau's gaze darkened and his mouth opened, scathing French invectives on the tip of his tongue.

"Forget the soup." Kinch's even tone was edged with warning. "Forget the thirteen-inch BIG turtle." His gaze slowly raked over every man present. "Somebody tell me they found that transmitter."

"Okay." Paxton cut a sly grin toward Braveheart, who turned it upon Kinch, a glint of satisfaction in his black eyes.

"We found the transmitter."

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

Hogan opened swollen eyes, feeling congested, heavy-limbed and scoured raw from the inside out. He drifted for several moments, until flickering shadows and a red glow piqued his curiosity. Blinking, he cleared the haze from his vision and discovered that he was looking at the fireplace from an odd, sideways perspective. A thick bed of coals and embers was all that remained of the fire, the heat blanketing him from head to toe.

A yawn took him by surprise, the weight that shifted against his stomach, even more so. Tucking his chin toward his chest, he looked down, directly into a pair of moist, brown eyes. Mozart wriggled forward and swiped a slobbery, doggy kiss right across the tip of his nose. Hogan wrinkled it in disgust, which Mozart took as a sign that he wanted another one.

A deep-throated chuckle came from somewhere near Hogan's feet and he looked beyond Mozart to the rocker. Josef was there, mouth a slight curve of contentment around his pipe, eyes half-closed but watchful.

A smile flickered over Hogan's face, stretching skin that felt stiff from the dried salt of tears.

Fingers lightly touched his cheek, lingered, then slid along his jaw in a loving caress. His eyelids drooped shut again, sleep beckoning like the sun on a chill day.

The mantle clock's chimes rang out the hour. Adrenaline flooded nerve and muscle, energizing heavy limbs. His eyes snapped open, sought and met the brilliant, blue pair above. Sadness touched Romie's expression.

"Time to go, Schatz."

He nodded slowly, reluctant to leave the love, security and sense of home he found with them. Mozart panted and wriggled against his stomach; tail thumping out a rhythm on the braided rug. The rocker creaked and squealed and Hogan knew without looking that Josef's lethargy and contentment had vanished like his own.

Hogan hauled himself to his feet, being careful not to step on Mozart. The little dog danced in a tight circle before him, then reared onto his back legs and pawed the air, long ears flopping backward. Tears prickled Hogan's eyes and he went to a knee and opened his arms. Mozart jumped into them, bathed his face with warm drool. Hogan buried his nose in the black and white coat, picturing Marta's cherubic face.

"Sorry, little guy," he whispered. "Not your fault, either." Mozart drew back, coated his nose with another sloppy kiss. Huffing in mock disgust, Hogan gently set Mozart on his feet, wiped his sleeve across his nose, and straightened to face Josef and Romie. They regarded each other for several long moments and then Hogan stepped into their embrace.

Romie brushed a kiss to his cheek. "Be safe, Schatz."

Josef clapped him on the shoulder. "Do not stay away so long this time, ja?"

"No sir," Hogan answered dutifully, not even trying to evade the playful cuff to his head. "Josef."

Josef sobered and stared into his eyes. "Remember what was said here tonight, Robert."

Hogan's gaze held steady. "Yes, sir."

Josef canted his head in warning, but could not hold onto his stern expression. A small grin chased across Hogan's expression, vanishing quickly when he saw the time. He stepped back, the mantle of command dropping over him again, straightening his shoulders. He glanced from one to the other, love softening his gaze, lacing his quiet words.

"Thank you."

They nodded as one. Their eyes followed him out the door, then went to each other.

Noting how little time remained until Kurt was due to arrive, Josef smiled tenderly into Romie's eyes.

"I don't see any reason to go to bed now, do you Mutter?"

In answer, Romie plopped onto the couch and curled up, tucking her legs beneath her. Weariness slowing his movements, Josef stirred the embers, threw a couple of logs into the grate, and joined her on the couch. Romie leaned and wiggled against his shoulder and side, changing positions until she found a comfortable one. Josef did a little wiggling of his own, seeking and finding the depression in the worn cushion that fit him perfectly after many years of use. His eyes closed, then cracked open again.

"Comfortable, my love?"

Romie hummed out a soft 'ja', already hovering at the edge of sleep.

Mozart yawned wide, flopped to the floor by the fire, then seconds later changed his mind and jumped onto the couch. Settling at Romie's feet, he released a long, moaning sigh and dropped his head to his paws.

Minutes later, all three were snoring.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

"Getting late."

"Uh, huh," Kinch grunted, glancing up at Olsen. "There's no need to stay if you want to grab some shut-eye."

"Nope, I'm fine," Olsen hastened to say. As if to emphasize the claim, he smiled brightly and sticking his hands into his pockets, sauntered about the room. His circuitous route passed close to the wall map and he paused in front of it, appearing to study it with avid interest.

Kinch watched him for a moment, then his gaze cut to the other men hanging around. Besides the other members of the scout team, LeBeau, O'Malley, Tivoli, Benson and Jones had all set up camp around the room, ostensibly to shoot the breeze. Kinch knew better, but did not have the heart to order them away again. Hopefully, Hogan would be in better frame of mind when he returned, and think nothing of the crowd.

"You doing okay?" O'Malley's expression bore only the trace of a smile.

Kinch nodded, thankful the medic had not made an issue of the deep scratch across his posterior. "That ointment did the trick, Ben. Thanks."

A twinkle sparked in O'Malley's eyes, his smile gaining some strength. "Don't mention it."

Kinch's gaze fell to his watch and his heart sank. Olsen was right. It was late. At the edge of his vision, he saw Carter and LeBeau notice him checking the time, and was not surprised when they joined him at the table. Carter took a seat on the opposite side, his face drawn with worry.

"Where do you suppose he went, Kinch?"

LeBeau frowned. "Do you think he's trying to find Tiger?"

Newkirk dragged a chair up to the table. "Maybe he went back to where it all began."

Paxton and Broughton noticed the growing number at the table and decided to join the group. Not wanting to miss out on anything, the remainder of the men soon followed, forming a loose circle about the small table.

"Where it all began? You mean where he --" Paxton bit off his words at Kinch's sharp look. "to where the shooting happened?"

Jones folded his arms, lowered his head to stare at the table. "To find some peace?"

Tivoli's black eyes widened and flew to Kinch. "You don't think . . ."

Everyone instantly caught on to what he was implying. All eyes jerked to Kinch, horror and shock freezing their expressions.

"Dear heaven," O'Malley groaned, slapping a palm to his forehead. "I hadn't thought about--"

Kinch shook his head, opened his mouth, ready to calm them.

"Mon Dieu!" LeBeau looked close to despair. Kinch gripped him by the shoulder, again tried to be heard.

"Kinch!" Carter gasped, white-faced and beside himself with worry.

Kinch shot to his feet and raised his hands, palms out, like a man trying to hold back a flood. "Stop it. The colonel would never take his own life."

A quiet ding rang through the room, heralding Hogan's return. Kinch dropped his hands, flashing a smile.

"That should be him."

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

Grabbing his medical bag, Kurt dragged it out of the car, pivoted and back-kicked the door closed. The shift had been a string of emergency cases, a blur of blood and pain. All he wanted to do now was check on his parents, fall into bed, pull the blankets over his head and sleep until his next shift.

He took a single step, fumbling with the bag and his keys, glanced up and stopped in his tracks. For several seconds, he stood motionless, head tilted to one side, wondering what had snagged his attention. Slowly, he circled the front of the car and looked at the barnyard.

It was empty. No chickens busily pecking and scratching at the dirt.

The hand holding the medical bag jerked up toward his nose. His gaze zeroed in on his wristwatch, then lifted to the rose-hued sky.

On cue, a rousing 'cock-a-doodle-doo' went up from inside the barn.

Kurt stared at the barn's closed double doors. At this hour of the day, they should have been thrown open, his father inside, doing the morning milking while Oskar waited for a taste.

As if echoing his thoughts, the cow lowed, sharing the discomfort of a full udder.

The first tendrils of fear slithered up Kurt's spine. Heart thudding in his chest, his gaze flew to windows.

The curtains were still drawn. The house was completely dark.

There were very things in life that he could count on without fail: The sun coming up and going down, waves of emergencies minutes before the end of his shift, Newkirk's inability to make good coffee, and Robert claiming he was 'fine' despite having multiple broken limbs and a raging fever.

But the number one constant since his childhood had been that his parents were always out of bed before the first bird had sung a morning song.

A flood of adrenaline popped Kurt's eyes wide. Sprinting up the steps, he yanked the door open, ran inside and stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of loud snoring. Panic still singing in his ears, he blindly dropped his bag on the table, somehow not knocking the lantern off, and went into the gathering room.

Still fully dressed, his parents were sprawled on the couch in each other's arms. Mozart lay flat on his side at his mother's feet, all four paws twitching as he chased dreams.

The last of Kurt's panic left him in a rush of breath. Weak-kneed, he crouched and picked the blanket off the floor, spread it over his parents and gently tucked it around them. His father's snoring hitched, his head lolling toward Kurt.

"Kurt?" The voice was sleep-drunk slurred; the eyes that cracked open and turned to him still lost in dreams.

"Ja, Vater," Kurt whispered, flicking a glance down to see if his mother had also awakened. The rhythm of her slow, deep breathing went on unchanged. Kurt rested his hand upon his father's shoulder. "Go back to sleep." His father's eyes slowly rolled toward the brightening window. Kurt briefly squeezed the shoulder that still held a wiry strength won from a life of hard work. "I'll take care of the chores. Sleep."

His father's lips twitched, then settled again, his eyes already closing. Kurt waited until he was certain both were sleeping peacefully, then leaned over his mother, dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, and went out to take care of the animals.

His heart was light and his smile stayed with him while he opened the barn, fed the chickens and cow, and did the milking. He could think of only one reason for his parents to have stayed up so late that they had not bothered to go to bed.

They must have had a very late-night visitor.

Thank you for reading! To be continued . . .