Forever Amore

Over the crackle of flames, he heard an engine approaching.
Looking up, he went alert and reached for the gun at his belt when
he saw the green pickup. He took a deep breath before rallying
enough energy to stagger to his feet.

Charles took a step forward and blinked to clear his vision as
the truck skidded to a halt and the driver and passenger doors
opened.

Two figures swam through the smoky haze and Charles had to
squint to make them out. One long, rangy man with a mop of black
hair growing into his fierce eyes and … an angel.

His heart thudded. I’m dead. He could find no other explanation
for the vision that drifted hesitantly toward him in a long, cream-colored gown and hair the color of angel wings falling in gilded
glory down her shoulders.

She made a move toward him, but the man barked at her to
halt, catching her by the arm. Pointing at Charles, he gave a short,
terse order he couldn’t make out.

Oh, hell. Italian. Charles had less than a rudimentary inkling of
the language.

The man who looked no more than twenty barked again. Charles
saw him point toward his gun. With a frown, he lifted a hand to it.
The woman gasped and the man stepped in front of her as if to
shield her.

Carefully, Charles unclipped the pistol and threw it at the man’s
feet.

Movements slow, the local bent and picked it up, pointing
the shaking barrel at Charles’s chest while scanning him closely.
“Americano?” he asked.

Now that he could understand. “Si, si. Americano.” He thought
he saw relief pass over their faces before his vision dimmed. He
swayed on the spot.

As he went to his knees, the woman rushed forward, snatching
out of her companion’s grasp to catch Charles before he could hit
the dirt again.

She looked even better up close. A pixie’s face more than an
angel’s, her big green eyes yawned in concern in front of his. “You
are wounded?” she asked in English thick with regional inflection
but not at all broken.

Huh. Angels speak English. Thank God.