“Where do we go from here, Goldilocks?”
Tonight? Tomorrow? I’m too tired to think past the next minute. Laura buried her face in a towel. At least she could pretend half of her high color came from the exertion of the three-on-three basketball game they’d just completed. “I’m tired. It’s been a stressful day.”
“We could stop at Jack’s for a drink or a game of pool before I take you home.” Brad stuffed the last ball into the mesh bag and tied a loose knot.
“I’ve had enough games for one day.” Which one should she start the tally with? Hide and seek with the correct person at the phone company? Name the dead cat at the shop? Twenty, thirty, or forty questions in Kathy’s kitchen?
“Okay. I’ll accept that.” He folded his own towel before pushing it into his duffel. “My day ended so well I thought you might celebrate with me.”
“I’ll take a rain check or snow check unless that offer’s good for tonight only.” Stretching both arms high she wondered how many body parts would ache tomorrow. She’d called on muscles neglected too long while scrambling for the ball and attempting passes around defenders. Shooting free throws in her driveway didn’t begin to challenge her body like this.
“I’ll make an exception for you.”
She managed a smile that shrank to minuscule in the presence of his wide grin. A moment later, she finished pulling on her sweats and zipped her bag closed. At the other end of the gym, three women put away the last of the volleyball equipment and the janitor readied his dust mop. Open gym—Crystal Springs’ style—drew to a close for another week.
“I’ve had a good time. I needed a change of pace in my activities.” Not true. The exercise satisfied her body. Her heart’s desire wouldn’t be found on a basketball court. Add a little luck and the workout tonight might gain her an extra hour of real sleep.
He matched her stride through the commons and out the main door. In the soft glow provided by scattered lights in the high school parking lot, she risked a glance at his profile. Strong. Protective. Evidence of the soldier. And something more that her mind refused to name.
“Our chariot awaits,” he opened the passenger door of his truck and extended his arm to assist her into the tall vehicle.
Laura tossed her bag on the floor, gripped the assist bar, and drew in a quick breath. His hand supported her elbow while she entered. Through layers of parka and sweatshirt her skin tingled. She found her tongue after too much silence. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
She snapped her seat belt and hunted for a witty remark as he stowed his bag and settled behind the wheel. She recalled the boy reaching for controls on the tractor with a cocky grin. One more glance and she decided the adult beside her with his quiet control and confidence suited her need for a friend better.
“I plan to take the Ridge Road home. Any objections?” He maneuvered out of the school parking lot.
“You’re the driver.” I’m drifting again. I need to reclaim active participation. “Is there any particular reason?”
“Affirmative.”
“Let me guess. It takes twenty seconds less.” She blinked herself to greater attention and studied his hook on the steering knob.
“I’m curious if your neighbor is home tonight.”
“Which one?” Neighbor enjoyed a wide meaning in the community. He could be referring to any of a dozen or more homes visible from the road.
“Myles.”
She shivered with the heater blowing full force on her feet. “I didn’t know he lived on the ridge.”
“He rents at the second Rice place. First house north of the tree farm.”
“Does he . . . ” she paused long enough to let her mind get ahead of her mouth. “Does he have a shooting range?”
He turned his head for a brief look at her before he returned concentration to the road. “He does. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’ve seen the trophies in his office window.” Her attempt at casual failed in her own ears. How could it make a difference who practiced within earshot? Yet. She shook away an image of Myles, Scott’s double, aiming at a target. “I’ve heard gunshots when walking with the dogs. Twice now.”
“His target area is one possibility.”
“There’s more?” She stared out the windshield, trembled at the memory of a snub nosed revolver. A forced breath sent it away.
“If the wind and weather’s right you can hear mine.”
Recent ex-military and private investigator were in his hat collection. She shouldn’t be surprised, yet the certain fact of it twisted something inside. “Do you shoot often?”
He adjusted in his seat. “Enough to stay competent. From your hesitancy, I’m guessing firearms and you don’t go well together.”
“We don’t. It would take a lot for me to even touch one after . . . ” She banished the remainder of her non-relationship with guns. “Is that part of your job with Daryl? Toting firearms around?”
“We don’t carry.” He slowed for a curve. “Keep permits in case we need to. Hence the gun rack behind you. But most cases need more computer than shooting skills.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I never really liked them. And then . . . ” Her voice faded as an image of blood drenched dress shirt swam before her eyes. She swallowed, licked her lips, and stayed in the present. “Scott was shot.”
“I heard.”
Heater, engine, and tires on frozen gravel swelled to fill the cab. She counted posts in the passing line fence. Assume every farmer keeps a loaded rifle in the house. Advice from Roger during one of those childhood summers surfaced. She knew where the keys to the gun safe at the farmhouse were kept. She’d seen them in the milk glass dish on the dresser yesterday when making up the master bedroom with fresh sheets.
Brad drew her attention when he cleared his throat. “Have you ever been snowmobiling?”
“It’s not a big sport in St. Louis.”
“As soon as we get another couple of inches, the fields will be good. I could give you an introduction. There’s a nice trail network for a winter tour.”
She glanced at him the same instant his gaze darted her direction. They immediately broke the connection and each looked straight ahead. The uncertain light made it impossible to identify mischief, humor, or sincerity in his eyes. “Um . . . I’ll think about it.”
“And here’s our reception committee.” He turned into the driveway where Taffy and Cocoa romped in a noisy welcome.
“I found him.” Laura leaned back and closed her eyes before her voice replaced the noise of the heater. “Ten or fifteen minutes after it happened. When I searched for a pulse, his wrist was still warm. Almost normal.”
• • •
I found him. Brad held his breath while Laura’s words ricocheted in his skull. Almost normal. He knew about the tricks of the recent dead. In civilian life he wanted to lock that knowledge in a box available only to medical personnel. A spouse didn’t deserve the nightmare sure to follow.
His introduction to close up death came on his first deployment. His soldiers had placed Garcia on a makeshift stretcher. Brad gripped his section as they scurried to the relative safety of an abandoned house. Only after they set their comrade down did Michaels, the best medic in the squad, release his pressure from the wound and whisper, “He’s gone.”
Yes, he knew too much about the mass of flesh and bones without life. A tremble attacked his torso at the image of Garcia and others leaving with their eyes open and lips pleading to stay.
“I’m sorry. You didn’t need to know.” Laura fumbled with the seat belt on the other side of the cab.
“You needed to say it. Therapy. The shrinks get a few things right.” The dusk to dawn light on the high pole put her features into soft shadow. He captured more determination than defeat in the set of her chin and her posture. Persistent Laura, the girl who practiced cartwheels on her grandmother’s lawn, was still buried somewhere in the cautious adult beside him.
Did she consider him a safe person to speak with? As a girl, Laura held her words until they gathered meaning. He opened his hand, rubbed the palm against the familiar steering wheel. “A professional would ask one of those open-ended questions without an answer.”
“Psychology is over-rated.”
In one well-worn phrase, she’d distilled more than two years of his personal experience. “Well said. Maybe neither of us has found a practitioner with the right life experience yet.”
“How would you advertise for that? Wanted: amputee counselor with combat experience and murdered spouse?”
“I see you want to share. I appreciate that.” An instant later, his good arm surrounded her shoulder and pulled her close, across a gap he’d nearly closed without being aware.
She fit into him perfectly, her check against his chest and one arm relaxed across his waist. He wanted to keep her close, safe from the outside world. He lowered his chin until it gently rested in a nest of hair at the base of her braid. Would she allow him past her defenses again? Or would tomorrow bring regret that she’d shared? He closed his eyes and listened to his heart pounding.
“Brad.”
“Hmmm. Thinking deep thoughts?”
She rubbed her head against his chest, even her negative gesture stirring his body to a new tempo.
“Don’t tell,” Laura eased away, adjusted her torso until she sat upright and they touched side by side.
“Have you told the important people?”
“The police know. And Daryl. Half a dozen others.” Her phrases came spaced, gentle, disconnected from normal conversation.
“I understand.” Sympathy. Pity. He’d seen so much of it from well-intentioned people. Grief took a million forms. Wounds healed one cell at a time. He pictured his own invisible ones wearing thin, fragile scabs apt to pop off at an inopportune time to damage him and anyone standing close.
“Do you . . . ” She reached out and touched his hook with one finger. “Does this haunt you? Nightmares?”
“It has.” He won a skirmish to keep his voice steady. They came less frequently now, skipped a night or two in special circumstances. His parents claimed not to hear them but he figured it came down to their way of giving him a bit of adult privacy. He lifted his prosthesis until it hovered across his chest. “Go ahead. Touch it all you want.”
“Wounds.” She slipped one hand under the metal and inspected the smooth clamp in the soft light. “Scott lost two fingertips in his dad’s woodshop. I miss . . . his unique clasp . . . and . . . Am I rambling?”
“I like the sound of your voice.” The feel of you. All of you.
He watched her fingers against metal across his lap, delicate, as if playing soft music on the piano. If he closed his eyes could he feel it? He breathed deep and captured a trace of floral shampoo. “Let’s get you inside.”
A few minutes later, he lingered on the back porch, mesmerized by her simple action of removing her coat.
“Do you want a cup of coffee? I found a jar of instant decaf. It wouldn’t take long at all.”
“Laura.” He stepped forward and caressed her cheek with his thumb. Coffee wasn’t on his mind. “May I?”
He didn’t hear any objection from her over the rush of his own blood as he leaned the final inches to her lips. Salt and promises greeted him. Could he ever get his fill?
She shifted and he backed away from the edge of an invisible whirlpool.
He glanced at the tiny space between them to see her hands wrapped in the open portion of his jacket. With one finger he touched her chin, urged her to look at him. “I’ll never hurt you. Can you believe me?”
“I want to.”
He forced the next kiss to be soft and brief. “I’ll be there when you’re ready.”
She released his coat and nodded.
Brad walked to his truck with patience and lust facing off inside his chest.