Читать онлайн книгу «Operation Soldier Next Door» автора Justine Davis

Operation Soldier Next Door
Justine Davis
The Cutter's Code series continues with a hero who fights to remember…and love.Instead of a peaceful homecoming, wounded warrior Tate McLaughlin faces an explosion, near-electrocution and Cutter, an incredibly smart dog. Worse, the sexy veteran needs Lacy—the pretty girl next door–to leave him alone! He’s been hurt too many times to risk his heart again.To Lacy Steele, it's apparent that the attacks on her neighbour were no accident. Someone is after him, but his damaged memory offers no clue who! But as they investigate, Lacy finds with Tate an intimacy neither of them have ever known. And it's that bond—and secrets from his deployment—that threaten his life and heart.


The Cutter’s Code series continues with a hero who fights to remember...and love

Instead of a peaceful homecoming, wounded warrior Tate McLaughlin faces an explosion, near-electrocution and Cutter, an incredibly smart dog. Worse, the sexy veteran needs Lacy—the pretty girl next door—to leave him alone! He’s been hurt too many times to risk his heart again.
To Lacy Steele, it’s apparent that the attacks on her neighbor were no accident. Someone is after him, but his damaged memory offers no clue who! But as they investigate, Lacy finds an intimacy with Tate neither of them has ever known. And it’s that bond—and secrets from his deployment—that threatens his life and heart.
You might be surprised at the desires I have.
Tate quashed the traitorous thought. “Actually,” he said, “that’s always my first assumption.”
Lacy blinked. Drew back. “What?”
He shrugged.
“You always assume a woman’s not interested? You’re smart, great-looking and sexy as hell. And you volunteered to serve, to protect. Any woman with a brain would be interested.”
He actually felt his jaw drop. He wanted to look away but couldn’t, not when she was looking at him with such genuine puzzlement, after saying...that. And for a moment all he could think of was that she’d seen his scars and still said it.
“You,” he said carefully, “have a brain.”
“Enough of one to see that you’re not interested.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Then I’m a better liar than I thought.”
Be sure to check out the rest of the books in this
series—Cutter’s Code: A clever and mysterious canine helps a group of secret operatives crack the case
Dear Reader (#ulink_7258100e-556f-5078-ae9f-a8c6545cc8a7),
I’ve always been a huge supporter of our military veterans. More so now than ever, since they are all volunteers. While I once wore a uniform, it was never the kind that would send me out of the relative safety of home, and I admired those who had such nerve. I still do.
I have also always been fascinated with WWII history. I wonder what it was like on the home front both here and in theater, but mostly I wonder about the people who fought it—and the aftermath. How on earth did those people, that greatest generation, go through that and then come home to lead, for the most part, quiet, unassuming lives? How did you spend all that time in a state of such high tension and brotherhood, watching your comrades die, and then come home and adjust to everyday life? How did you feel knowing that most likely you would never experience anything like that again? Would that be a relief? A letdown? Might you miss it?
So take all those rambling thoughts, throw in another cause dear to my heart—dogs who also serve—and you end up with a story that tugs my heart in about three different ways! I hope it reaches you, as well.
Happy reading!
Justine
Operation Soldier Next Door
Justine Davis


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JUSTINE DAVIS lives on Puget Sound in Washington State, watching big ships and the occasional submarine go by and sharing the neighborhood with assorted wildlife, including a pair of bald eagles, deer, a bear or two and a tailless raccoon. In the few hours when she’s not planning, plotting or writing her next book, her favorite things are photography, knitting her way through a huge yarn stash and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.
Connect with Justine at her website, justinedavis.com (http://www.justinedavis.com), at Twitter.com/justine_d_davis (http://Twitter.com/justine_d_davis), or on Facebook at Facebook.com/justinedaredavis (https://www.facebook.com/JustineDareDavis/).
Yugo (named after a tour of duty my husband did), nicknamed “Nugget,” was my best friend. A Lhasa-poodle cross, a chunky, curly furred bundle of warmth and love. Creamy beige with beautiful brown eyes, he had expressive feet and a pokey little nose. He wasn’t much for tricks but he loved cuddles and snuggles and was the perfect reading buddy. His front feet danced when he sat and waited for treats and food. When he was laying down he always stretched one leg out and if he could, up on something. I loved his expressive feet!
Yugo, sadly, suffered with anxiety and panic disorders that left him terrified, crying. We taught him to run for a dark room so he had no triggers from sound and light and he could calm down. His illness limited our lives but he was worth it. Despite his necessary isolation, he was a well loved and happy dog. He had many human friends who cheered him on.
Yugo was a part of our family from Dec 2010 until June 18th, 2015.
We saved him from a puppy mill when he was four months old. We rescued him and in return he gave us a great gift.
He loved us unconditionally. He put all his faith and trust in us.
He made us laugh and filled our home with joy.
He taught us patience, commitment, strength, to love unconditionally, and to never give up.
He gave me, personally, a purpose unlike anything I’ve ever known. I was his safety, his calm, his person. All he asked was that we love him and keep him safe.
And so, we did!
~Lisa Miller
Contents
Cover (#u23c69342-cabb-5e23-8908-b2be9b56e67d)
Back Cover Text (#ub1cde011-8f7a-54f0-a4bd-989215eba1cf)
Introduction (#ue554b8dc-1d4d-5ec8-a4ff-4c701cf14331)
Dear Reader (#ulink_82ad2d1f-5232-5fce-a847-e58925573eb1)
Title Page (#ue184a686-97d4-5852-855f-1b0394b3dc5e)
About the Author (#u6e273d9a-156f-50b6-b13a-6bb35f5d2e7c)
Dedication (#uc8a80da6-f15a-58a1-bf46-2d2c1eec9496)
Chapter 1 (#udf929ced-6ee1-5315-bc6e-778d461bef3c)
Chapter 2 (#u8b323cf6-afa7-546e-93a2-4655ab400ed3)
Chapter 3 (#u21709c7d-2cb7-5073-a767-94ba95610723)
Chapter 4 (#u021cdad3-0ec4-5066-bf61-519dd5efd296)
Chapter 5 (#uab417e3f-463b-5227-8900-584fe745b617)
Chapter 6 (#u13a02ad5-2694-5607-ae9a-cfc73ffde014)
Chapter 7 (#u90f3ec4b-4f6a-5331-b68d-bb26d1a8d6ec)
Chapter 8 (#u7eddbcde-7c25-533e-ad6f-ddebcb71077a)
Chapter 9 (#u1eea8162-cff0-5e48-b61c-13fac09a2839)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
Hayley Foxworth lay in the darkness of a quiet night, considering waking her husband after a particularly heated dream. The bedside clock read 4:00 a.m. This time of year, late spring, the sun would soon begin to brighten the sky, and then it would clear the Cascades and spill golden light across the waters of Puget Sound. And he would wake on his own. He never could sleep much past sunrise, anyway, whatever time of year it was.
She didn’t mind. Quinn was a complex man, but the core of him never changed; he loved her, and he would always do what he thought was right. Not much more a woman could ask for, she thought as she turned on her side to snuggle up behind him, savoring his heat even on this relatively warm night. He—
A blast shattered the quiet.
Two things happened simultaneously. Her husband bolted upright, instantly awake and alert. And their dog, Cutter, did the same, erupting into a cacophony of barking.
“Damn, that was close,” Quinn muttered, already out of bed and pulling on the jeans and boots he’d discarded so hastily last night. By the time Hayley had pulled on enough to be decent he was at the front door, where Cutter was pawing at the knob, demanding to get out.
“He’ll be gone like a shot.” She knew her clever dog’s demeanor too well by now.
“Then we’ll just have to keep up,” Quinn said.
Hayley spared a moment to be thankful he didn’t tell her to stay safe at home while he checked it out, but then Quinn had never questioned her competence or abilities.
And, of course, she’d had some training herself in the last two years.
Cutter seemed to realize his humans couldn’t move quite as fast as he could, and when he got too far ahead—Hayley had no idea how he decided when that was, but it was consistent—he paused and looked back, waiting for them to catch up. In the darkness his black head and shoulders were almost indiscernible. Were it not for the lighter, reddish brown of his body and tail, she doubted she’d be able to see him at all.
They were headed west, but at the first cross street the dog cut south, and within a few yards Hayley could smell...something. Smoke. Ash. Dust in the air. She wasn’t sure.
“There,” Quinn said, just as she saw it. A man, wearing only trim boxers, coughing, staggering a bit, in front of a small house that looked tidy and well-kept. Except for the huge, smoking hole in the north wall.
Cutter reached the man first. He was either too dazed to be concerned, or he was comfortable with a dog of no small size appearing out of nowhere. She guessed the latter when Cutter nudged him and the man moved to stroke the dog’s head in a gesture that appeared instinctive. From here, all she could tell was that he was tall, with close-cropped dark hair, and thin, although he looked fit rather than bony. A second figure came into view, a woman, running toward the scene from the house next door, apparently using the flashlight of her cell phone to light the way. She arrived at the same moment they did.
“I’ve called the fire department,” she said, looking at the man rather anxiously. “Are you all right?”
The man’s head slowly turned. Hayley saw his face was soot-stained and his right shoulder and left foot were bleeding. Not badly, but definitely. Broken glass? He was looking at his neighbor, his brow furrowed. He gave a slight shake of his head, not in answer but as if to clear it. He didn’t speak.
“I’m guessing his ears are still ringing a bit,” Quinn said.
The woman glanced at them, then at Cutter. Her expression changed, in obvious recognition of some combination of them and their dog. Hayley smiled briefly in return. She and Quinn ran with the dog through the neighborhood regularly, and this was the woman with the amazing vegetable garden who always waved at them as they went by. The woman nodded and went back to watching her neighbor with concern.
“You should sit down,” she told him.
His brow furrowed again. The woman got there quickly. She pointed at her own ears with a questioning look. He shook his head again, wincing. The movement made him sway slightly.
Cutter whined, nudging at the man’s hand. He looked down, smiled, and stroked the dog’s head again. Cutter dropped to the grass and rolled over, clearly asking for a belly rub. Hayley drew back in surprise since Cutter rarely surrendered his dignity so quickly, not even to them, and certainly not in situations like this. She glanced at Quinn and saw he was just as startled.
But the man bent to comply, marking him as knowledgeable about canine body language. A second later he rather abruptly sat down beside the dog, as if he’d had little choice in the matter.
The woman’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “Well, that’s one way to get him to sit down.”
“Ears. Balance. I think he might need medics to check him out,” Quinn said.
“I asked for them, too,” she said. “The house has been empty since Mr. McLaughlin died, but I saw a motorcycle arrive last night and lights on, so I figured somebody must be here.”
“Good thinking,” Hayley said.
“I’m Lacy Steele, by the way,” the woman said.
“Quinn and Hayley Foxworth,” Hayley said. “We live around the corner.”
The woman nodded, clearly thinking anything more by way of introduction could wait, then crouched beside the man, who was giving Cutter the requested rub.
“Let me know if your ears are—”
She stopped mid-sentence as the man looked up quickly. A flicker of relief crossed his face.
“Better?” she asked, smiling.
“Some,” he said. “Still ringing, but I can hear you enough to make it out.”
“Good,” she said. She turned the flashlight on the phone back on and aimed it at his left ear, then moved to his right. “No bleeding there,” she announced.
“Thanks, doc,” he said, rather wryly.
The woman stared at him for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure how to take that. The man said nothing more to her, just leaned over and ruffled the fur between Cutter’s ears.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said softly. For a moment his hand lingered on the dog’s head, gently, as if in thanks. Or benediction.
Cutter’s body language changed instantly. He rolled to an upright position, head cocked back. For a long moment he stared at the man. Straight into his eyes. And then he got up, turned to face Hayley and Quinn. Sat.
And gave them The Look.
“Uh-oh,” Quinn whispered.
“Indeed,” Hayley answered in a tone just as quiet. “Seems there might be something else going on here.”
“I wish I knew how he does that.”
Hayley glanced at her husband, giving him a loving smile. He’d long ago surrendered to the fact that Cutter did do it, and only now and then idly wondered how.
And there was no question about it here. Their new neighbor had a problem, something beyond his immediate situation. And Cutter’s instincts told him it was something Foxworthy, as Liam jokingly put it.
“I get the feeling,” Hayley said, “he’s going to be a prickly one.”
“As long as he’s not a—”
“Hush,” Hayley said, cutting off the awful pun she knew was coming.
She was surprised at how energized she felt. It had been a quiet few weeks, with nothing much happening since they’d returned from California, where her prodigal brother, Walker, was busily setting up Foxworth Southwest with help from her best friend, Amy.
While she’d relished the extra time spent with Quinn, she had been getting a little antsy. And she knew if she was, Quinn was triply so. He’d kept busy, planning, training, teaching, not to mention clawing at the old case of the mole who had once betrayed them, but she knew he was more than ready for an immediate challenge.
“Looks like we’ve got one,” she said softly.
Because Cutter was never wrong.
Chapter 2 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
The chaos had ebbed, the firefighters had assured them the danger had passed and Lacy Steele’s heart had slowed to a near-normal pace after the adrenaline-induced rush of her rude awakening.
The explosion appeared to have originated in a lean-to shed on the north side of the house. The shed and whatever was in it, they said, had likely directed the force inward as much as outward. The shed was destroyed—the only things left were some shattered boards hanging at all angles. The blast had left a gaping opening at least eight feet wide in the house itself, including the roof. She knew the master bedroom was right there, and thought her neighbor was lucky to have escaped as lightly as he apparently had.
“I’d say welcome to the neighborhood, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate right now. You must be Tate McLaughlin. I’m Lacy Steele,” she said, holding out a hand to the new neighbor she hadn’t yet formally met. That he was wearing only boxers made the gesture a bit silly, she supposed, but she made it, anyway. It helped her to not gape at him; even in the dark, it was clear he was a tall, nicely put-together man with the kind of lean build she liked. What she could see of his somewhat angular face matched, and she wondered what he would look like in full light.
“I’ll bet,” he muttered, not even glancing at her, focused completely on the firefighters going over the house looking for any lingering embers or problems.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m an oxymoron.” She was used to jokes about her name, and they hadn’t bothered her in a long time.
“Not the word I was thinking.”
She didn’t ask what was. And she forgave him ignoring her proffered hand, figuring he had enough on his mind that she shouldn’t consider it rude. In fact, it was probably silly of her to do such an ordinary thing under the circumstances.
“There didn’t seem to be much of a fire, really,” she said.
“More boom than burn,” agreed the man who’d introduced himself as Quinn Foxworth, his wife as Hayley and their rather remarkable dog as Cutter.
To her new neighbor’s credit, he didn’t respond to Quinn’s comment any more than he had to hers. So it wasn’t personal. And she guessed if it had been her house that had had a gaping hole blown in it, she wouldn’t be much more talkative herself.
Quinn walked over to talk to the fire official who had arrived some minutes after the initial response, leaving her with the man she’d heard so much about. His name, she knew, had come from his grandmother. It had been her maiden name. But in everything else, he was pure McLaughlin, his grandfather had said, usually with a laugh.
“I really liked your grandfather,” she said to him. “We used to eat dinner together some nights. He’d do the meat, and I’d provide the veggies.” She waved a hand toward her garden, where she spent most of her time when she wasn’t at her computer station for her self-created job as an online reading tutor for kids. “I loved hearing his stories about his time in the war.”
He looked at her at last. And although there was nothing in his expression to make her uncomfortable, she was suddenly aware she’d come running over here wearing only the summer shorts and T-shirt she slept in.
Of course, she’d been aware from the beginning that he was out here in much less. Aware in a way that was just the tiniest bit unsettling. It wasn’t just that he had the lean, rangy build she preferred and a nice backside, it was the sleek-looking skin. So much skin...
“He didn’t talk about that much,” he finally said.
“I’m sure he sanitized them for my benefit, and he avoided talking about himself, but it was still fascinating.”
She looked back at the house, where the firefighters were clearing up, apparently satisfied now that there would be no flare-up.
“I miss him,” she said softly. She’d truly enjoyed her time with the feisty old man. She’d never known her own grandfathers, but she liked to think they would have been like Martin McLaughlin.
“You mean that,” he said, sounding not quite amazed, but at least surprised.
“Yes,” she answered simply.
After a long moment he lowered his gaze and said quietly, “Thank you.”
Something crashed and his head snapped toward the house. He winced at his own movement. The medics had bandaged his foot—a minor cut from a sliver rather than a shard of broken glass. His shoulder had a wound on the edge of needing stitches, which he had refused. The medics had suggested they take him to the hospital to be checked for any sort of head injury. He’d refused that, too, saying he’d had a concussion or two in his life and knew the signs.
She hoped he was right, and he’d just moved too quickly.
When his expression cleared she spoke again, hoping to distract him from the fact that the crash had been another chunk of his roof caving in. “He was so very proud of you, and your service.”
His gaze seemed to soften for a moment, but his voice didn’t when he finally said, “He was the only one.”
She blinked. “That’s not true. I didn’t even know you except by name, and I was proud.”
He drew back slightly at that. As if he didn’t like the idea that he’d been a topic of discussion.
“Well, Tate, I’m glad this wasn’t any worse.”
“I’m sure. Could have been big enough to take out a chunk of your place, too.”
Lacy sighed inwardly. Acerbic was one thing, and given what had happened he had the right, but it was the middle of the night, she’d stayed up too late reading and she was tired of working so hard to simply have a civil conversation when she was only trying to help.
“In which case you’d probably be dead, and I’d have missed the sheer pleasure of meeting you.”
His mouth quirked. It wasn’t a smile, not even close, but it was an improvement over the understandably grim expression he’d been wearing.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little...”
That was an improvement, too, she thought. “Of course.”
He nodded. Then he turned and started walking toward Quinn and the uniformed man. Only now, when the sunrise had brightened the sky, did she see the thick, long scar that wrapped around from his spine to his side, just above his waist. A second, thinner scar ran up the back of his left shoulder, his neck and twisted into the hair at the back of his head. Short hair, still almost military short, but long enough that she could see the new hair growth near the scar was coming in a silvery white rather than dark like the rest.
That scar had the reddish tinge that said it was newer rather than old. The thought of the kind of injury that would have left that, that had actually made his hair change color, made her shiver despite the early sun’s warmth. She guessed that was the injury that had sent him home from overseas. Guessed his recovery had been long and hard.
And then to come home to this, on his first night in his grandfather’s house... She’d be on her knees, probably wailing, she thought with a grimace. And he was merely a little cranky.
Martin McLaughlin had said his grandson was smart, tough and brave. She supposed the scars were proof enough of that, if she’d needed any after the medals Martin had shown her.
I think the boy sends them to me because I know what war is.
I think he sends them to you because he loves you and wants you to be proud of him.
She’d forgotten that conversation until now. And again she felt the tug of sadness since she genuinely had liked Martin and truly would miss him.
He’d also said the grandson who shared his birthday had a generous soul, a good heart that had been hurt too often and was a gentleman to the core. She remembered smiling at the word rarely used these days. Those qualities she wasn’t so sure of, but it was hardly fair to judge him under these circumstances.
Martin had definitely been right about one thing. His grandson was a hero. And for that he deserved all the patience she could muster.
She walked over to where the man who had rolled up in the car labeled Battalion Chief was standing with the Foxworths and Tate. She got there just as another man in turnouts walked up. The chief frowned when he saw the dog at the man’s heels. She supposed they were worried about the dog getting in the way, or perhaps messing up whatever investigation they had to do. But the firefighter quickly forestalled his boss.
“Yeah, I know, Chief. But in fact, he probably just saved us a lot of time.”
The frown deepened. “How?”
“We found that propane tank here, right? Well, he just led me right to what’s left of a second five-gallon propane tank a few yards from the house. In really bad shape. Looks like that might have been our explosion.”
The man drew back. And Lacy saw that Quinn Foxworth was frowning, as well—although clearly not surprised that his dog had apparently provided a major clue to the cause of this middle-of-the-night chaos.
“Those things don’t blow up easily,” he said.
The chief nodded. “Not without a leak and some pretty extreme heat.”
“The arson guys and the lab’ll have to figure it out.” The man grimaced. “Maybe in a month, if we’re lucky. They’re pretty backed up.”
“I’ve got some friends with access to the fed’s lab, if that’ll help,” Quinn said, and Lacy guessed his tone was purposefully neutral.
Lacy saw the chief’s gaze shift to Quinn. “Heard about you Foxworth folks. Word is you know what you’re doing and you don’t get in the way.”
“A reputation we’ve worked hard to build,” Quinn answered.
“Brett Dunbar’s a friend of mine,” the man said.
Quinn smiled. Widely. “And of ours. A good friend. As is his girlfriend.”
Both men nodded, connections established. Lacy was pondering the interesting way things worked when something occurred to her.
“I saw someone out here, just after midnight,” she said. “I was up reading, and when I turned out the light I looked outside and saw someone in the yard.” She glanced at Tate. “I thought it must have been you, still getting settled in.”
He shook his head, and finally spoke.
“It wasn’t me. I was tired, crashed early. And my grandfather,” he added, “would never keep a leaking propane tank, even a small one.”
The chief considered that for a moment. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Tate grimaced. “A while before my last deployment. So a couple of years ago.”
Lacy bet he wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye. She felt awful for him, but glad for Martin that the illness that had taken him had been quick. He would have wanted it that way.
“How did he seem?”
“Fine. Like always.”
“How old was he?”
Lacy realized where the man was going, and hastened to head him off. “Martin McLaughlin was sharp as a tack until the very end. We should all be so clearheaded and active now, let alone at ninety-three.”
The chief shifted his attention to her. “You knew him?”
“Yes. I was there, and talked with him barely an hour before he passed, and he was still mentally together.”
Tate went very still. “You were...with him?”
She glanced at him. “Yes. Your father hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet and I didn’t want Martin to be alone.”
He stared at her silently. In the morning light she realized his eyes were a greenish hazel, like his grandfather’s. The moment stretched, the voices of the others as they discussed the situation fading out somehow. Only when she sucked in a deep gulp of air did she realize she had actually stopped breathing.
“—to board up that hole when we’re finished, if you’ve got something we can use,” the chief was saying.
Tate shook his head, as if he were still fuzzy.
Or as if he’d been as caught by that long moment as she had been.
“I’ll handle it,” he said. It sounded automatic, as if it were a standard response. As if whatever it was, he was used to handling it.
“I’ve got some panels from my greenhouse you could use temporarily,” she said. “I think a couple of them would cover that gap. That and a tarp for the roof would keep the wildlife out, at least.”
His mouth twisted ruefully. “I’ll take the local raccoon over scorpions.”
She made a face. “I think I’d take anything with fur over scorpions.”
He gave her a fleeting smile. Definitely improving, she thought. “Speaking of fur,” he said, looking at Quinn, who in turn was studying him assessingly, “that’s quite a dog. Yours, I assume?”
“My wife’s first,” he said, “but now, yes.”
“Interesting that he headed for an explosion.”
Lacy hadn’t thought of that, but he had a point. Her mother’s ball of fluff would still be cowering under the bed.
“To be expected, once you get to know him,” Quinn said.
“And finding the cause of explosions?” She might just have met him, but she could tell Tate McLaughlin had an idea in his head.
“That, in particular, is a new one to me,” Quinn answered, “but again, knowing him, not surprising.”
“He looks too young to be retired. But he acts trained.”
So that was it. He was wondering if the dog had been a working dog, military or police, she guessed.
“Don’t know. He just showed up on Hayley’s doorstep one day and stayed. So while I wish I could take the credit,” Quinn said with a grin, “he came that way. I’ve only fine-tuned what was already there. He’s a wonder, that dog.”
Lacy couldn’t argue with that. But it wasn’t the finding of the cause of the explosion she was thinking of.
She was thinking of those moments when the dog had somehow managed to make Tate McLaughlin do what he needed to do—sit down. When the man had responded to the dog in a way he didn’t to the sudden influx of concerned neighbors.
If the animal hadn’t been trained as a therapy dog, he surely had the instincts.
And it appeared her new neighbor just might need that kind of help.
Chapter 3 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
As he stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the damage after the fire department had finally cleared out, Tate rubbed a hand over the back of his head. His fingertips instinctively traced the scar that thinned out and stopped an inch or so into his hairline. It wasn’t even tender anymore, and the occasional headache and stiffness in his back were the only lingering aftereffects of that bloody day.
He’d not only been lucky that Sunny had been with him that day, he’d been lucky that Lori Collins, the best damned medic he’d ever served with, had been on duty at the aid station when he’d been brought in. Otherwise he might well be dead instead of back home, relatively intact. If he kept to his physical therapy regimen, he’d be in a lot better shape than many.
His mind skittered away from the memory of two funerals, funerals he’d missed because even though he was stateside, he was still in the hospital. He still felt guilty about that, although he’d done what he could when he was released. He had visited each family of his fallen brothers, shared stories of their talks about home and family, and assured them all of the love their lost ones had for them. It was all he could think of to do, but when he left he felt sadly inadequate. He was still alive, and they would never see their sons, brothers and husbands again.
Survivor’s guilt, they’d told him. He supposed it fit. He’d survived, and sometimes he felt damned guilty about it. Guilty enough that while he was in the hospital he’d seriously thought about trying to re-up when his active duty period ended. But then Gramps—
“RPG?”
Quinn Foxworth’s voice came from close enough behind that it startled him. He turned, looked at the man. Saw he was looking not at the smoldering ruin but at his scars. Normally this would have bothered him, but what he saw in that steady gaze told him this man understood.
“IED,” he answered.
“Sucks.”
Tate nodded. “You’ve been in the sandbox.”
“Not lately. Thank God.” He looked at the hole in the wall of the house. “No wonder this got your attention.”
“Rattled my cage, that’s for sure,” he admitted. Somehow it was easier, with someone who knew.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. And that you weren’t injured worse.”
Tate knew it was true. “I wasn’t in there. I sat down on the couch in the living room last night, and that’s the last I remember until it happened.”
“Still bothers me, that tank,” Quinn said. “It’s not just unusual, it’s darned hard to get one of those to blow.”
Tate looked back toward where the dog had led the firefighter to the source of the blast. “Welcome home,” he said, his mouth twisting.
He wasn’t feeling bitter, but knew he could without much effort. More than one of his buddies who’d come back before him warned him about that, that the everyday problems of life back home could seem either petty or insurmountable, making you ignore them and thus they got worse, or turn bitter because you felt like you’d paid enough already and deserved some smooth sailing.
Tate hoped he was tough enough not to go that route. And he had Gramps’s example to follow, the man who had come home from a long, ugly war with a trunk full of medals, citations and commendations, but had put them in the past and built a full, normal life back home.
“You need a place to regroup?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Tate said instantly, and more gruffly than he should have. But he knew that while he’d been shaken by the explosion in the darkness, it wasn’t that bad. He had too many brothers in arms diagnosed with PTSD to compare to, and was more than grateful he wasn’t one of them. Since this last injury, he’d felt only a bit numb to life in general. They told him that would pass. He wasn’t so sure.
“I’ll bunk in the shop for now, until I can get the repairs done,” he said, regretting the sharpness in his first response.
Quinn seemed to understand.
“Keep it in mind. We’re just around the corner a bit. Got a spare room.” The man grinned. “And a dog.”
Tate ignored the wistful longing that crept in at the thought of loyal canine companions. “And some dog he is.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Quinn gave him a solid but not jarring clap on the shoulder as he turned to go.
“Thanks, anyway,” Tate said belatedly, realizing some response was appropriate to the generous offer. His social skills needed some repairs, just like the house.
“Always open,” Quinn said, then left to round up his wife and dog.
Tate went back to surveying the interior damage, calculating what it was going to take to fix it. He wanted it back the way Gramps had built it, the way it had always been. He’d do whatever it took. He knew enough to repair the guts of the wall and the siding outside, but the roof and the drywall patching would take pros. He should probably have a structural check on it, too, the way the roof was damaged.
Then he could handle the paint, and maybe repair the scorched flooring, depending on whether it could be sanded down and refinished, or had to be replaced. He could—
“You’re lucky you hadn’t unpacked yet.”
He nearly jumped. As it was, he whirled too quickly and the cut on his foot, he guessed from the broken bedroom window glass, protested. He supposed he was staring at her, but he was a little stunned that twice now people had come up on him without him being aware. Quinn he could understand. He moved like the fighter he’d been—and still was, Tate guessed—but the girl next door?
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I didn’t realize you’d come in.”
She took a half step back. As if she were offended. Or hurt. He wasn’t sure. He’d gotten out of the habit of reading civilian reactions, especially women’s. But he realized he must have sounded curt when she held up her hands, palms toward him.
“My apologies. I’m afraid I got used to coming in on my own to check on Martin. I didn’t think.”
He didn’t know what to say. His thoughts were careening around, bouncing off each other. He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp. Should he say he was sorry himself? Or never mind? And how could he be irritated at her uninvited intrusion when she’d explained it was a habit from checking on his grandfather? Not when he was glad she had. What was it about women that made them do things like that?
The same thing that made Lori the best medic. And Sunny the most determined to protect. Whatever it was women had...
And his new neighbor was most definitely a woman. The T-shirt and shorts she wore did nothing to hide that fact. A sudden image, an imaginative one very unlike him, shot through his head. Of her curled up asleep, that long, dark hair in a tangle around her head, eyes closed, those soft lips slightly parted... It was more a peaceful image than a sexual one, he told himself. Not that another glance at the soft swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, couldn’t change that in a hurry. For a girl-next-door type, Lacy Steele—she of the oxymoronic name—was having an odd effect on him.
Abruptly he was aware he was still standing around in nothing but the boxers he’d been sleeping in. And if he didn’t derail this train of thought in a hurry, it was going to become obvious.
“Guess I should put on some of the clothes I’m lucky to still have,” he said, looking toward the two duffel bags still unopened on the floor of the living room. Again, it sounded more gruff than he’d intended, but he hadn’t been in a position like this in too long. A long hospital stay tended to make you surrender whatever dignity you thought you still had anyway, so he hadn’t even realized how he must appear, standing around all this time in just underwear. With his scars visible to everyone, including her. Not a pleasant sight,
“At least it wasn’t raining.”
Her tone was just a shade too cheerful, leavened perhaps with a touch of sarcasm. He was not doing well in this first contact with his new neighbor. Even the image her words invoked of the rain this region was known for pulled him two ways; it would have lessened the threat of fire after the explosion, but also would have left what little he had on soaking wet and him as good as buck naked.
That it would have done the same to her was something he didn’t dare think about.
She turned to go. He felt a sudden urge to stop her somehow, but felt hopelessly out of practice at this.
He wasn’t even sure what “this” was.
Was even less sure what had brought on the urge to tell her not to go.
She turned back, and for an instant he wondered if he was so rattled he’d spoken without realizing it.
“Come get those panels later, if you want them.”
“I... Thank you.” That seemed safe enough.
“I’m really sorry your first night here ended up like this. It’s normally a very peaceful neighborhood.”
“That’s what I wanted.”
Again that look flickered in her eyes. Was she thinking he meant she was disturbing that peace?
Did he mean that?
Before he could formulate an answer she was gone, leaving him alone with the rather startling revelation that he felt alive again in a way he hadn’t since he’d come home. Interested, rather than just going through the motions. Is that what it took, a middle of the night explosion? Had he truly become one of those people who only found purpose amid chaos and destruction? One of those guys who comes back from war unable to live in peace? He suppressed a shudder at the thought.
But the alternative was just as unsettling. That the new energy and interest he was feeling was the result of his attractive new neighbor.
Don’t make any big decisions for a while. And for God’s sake don’t fall for the first normal girl who catches your eye. You’re on a pendulum, and at first it’s going to swing back hard the other way. Give it a little time.
Greg Parker’s words, spoken in their last counseling session, had resonated with him. He knew the man had been there himself and trusted him the way he’d trusted his squad mates, with his life, albeit in a different way. And he’d been right; the euphoria of being back in the States had eventually given way to a moody depression that had lasted awhile, especially when Gramps died while he’d been trapped in a hospital, unable to get to him.
After that his focus had been to battle back to health, and then to readjust to a life where a crack of sound behind him was more likely to be a car backfiring than a shot. Finally he’d leveled back off, and only then had he made the decision to do what had been in the back of his mind all along. To go to the place he’d loved above all else as a kid, the house Gramps had left him. There he would decide what to do with the rest of his life.
...don’t fall for the first normal girl who catches your eye... Give it a little time.
It had been more than a little time, but no one had caught his eye in that way. There had been only that enveloping numbness.
At least, until tonight.
It was just the circumstances, he told himself. Who could fail to notice a woman like his neighbor when she was standing in your yard wearing next to nothing, with a look of concern in her big, blue-gray eyes? He was just numb, not dead. In fact, maybe this was just a sign he was coming back to life.
Problem was, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea. For a long time he just stood there, amid the smell of scorched wood, until there was a swath of dawn’s first light coming through a breach that shouldn’t be there.
Chapter 4 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
Her new neighbor was going to be a pain, Lacy thought decidedly.
And within three seconds she was chastising herself for leaping to that judgment. You could hardly decide about somebody under circumstances like this, after all. Or you shouldn’t, although she knew people did.
He deserved better, anyway. Anyone who carried scars like his, earned volunteering to protect people he didn’t even know, deserved better. The best, she told herself. Besides, he was Martin’s grandson, and that alone should earn him some slack.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it over to the workstation she’d set up in what had been intended to be a dining alcove but was now her office. It was the only space that seemed suitable, and she liked being able to look out over the garden, and then to the thick trees beyond.
Her cottage was small, designed for one person with a great room that held the kitchen, living area, a small powder room and the alcove she was in now. On the other side of the house was a large bedroom with a master bath. Scattered throughout were various nooks and crannies for storage that she’d found charming at first, but frustrating when it came to actually finding anything.
Her favorite spot was the large deck, which overlooked the garden and a small grassy yard that was getting smaller as she took over more growing space. Her landlady, a prosperous dentist from Seattle, had given her carte blanche to expand after the first time she’d visited and seen what Lacy had begun. Sending her home with a basket of fresh tomatoes, squash and peppers, and a bouquet of beautiful dahlias hadn’t hurt any.
Lacy sipped at her coffee as her computer booted up, wondering if the full pot she’d made was even going to be enough after last night. She’d like nothing more than to go back to bed for a nap, but even if she didn’t have work to do, she knew her mind wouldn’t cooperate by shutting off. It was too full of thoughts, and too stubborn to stop wondering about Martin McLaughlin’s grandson and how he was doing.
At a sudden thought she abandoned the steaming coffee and went back outside. She’d meant it when she’d offered the Plexiglas panels to him, but she wasn’t at all sure he’d come over and get them, even if they would save him having to go buy sheets of plywood and cart them home. She didn’t know if he even had a car, since he’d arrived on a motorcycle.
She doubted Martin’s classic old El Camino, that sleek cross between car and truck that he’d just called “the buggy,” was running at the moment, although she was sure it was in perfect condition. The old man had puttered with it constantly. The engine rumbled happily, and the cherry-red paint always gleamed. She’d watched him often enough, handed tools to him, a bittersweet process because it reminded her of all the times she’d helped her father the same way as a kid.
She felt a pang as she remembered the last time she’d seen the car, the day she’d helped him put it into storage in the garage next to the workshop, carefully on blocks and covered. She’d had no idea then that it would be the last time. Would he keep it, this rather cranky grandson of his? Or sell it off for the no doubt nice bit of cash it could bring from a collector? She hoped not, hoped that his willingness to move in here was more than just that he needed a place to live.
She walked to the west side of her house, where the extra panels were leaned against the wall. She picked one up, thankful it was fairly light despite its size. She could carry it alone, although it was a bit awkward because of the width.
There was no fence between the two properties, and both she and Martin had liked it that way. She crossed over, walked to the big maple tree and set the panel down, leaning it against the trunk where he couldn’t help but see it when he came outside. Then she went back for the second, which she thought would be enough. Only then did she pause and look at the house that was nearly as familiar to her as her own.
She couldn’t see the damage from here, and for a moment an ache overtook her. Everything looked the same, as if Martin would look out at any moment, smile, wave and invite her over for a chat and some of his own coffee. Now that stuff would keep her awake, she thought. For a week.
“He’s here,” she whispered, as if to the old man. She had caught herself speaking to him now and then when she looked over here, or came over to check on the place. It was a silly, wistful thing, but it eased the ache a bit. “He’s here and he’s safe, Martin. A bit cranky, but no more so than he has a right to be, all things considered. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”
From a distance, she added to herself as she turned to go back home. He’d made it pretty clear he’d rather be left alone. It went against her instincts not to help a neighbor who was having some trouble, but if that’s the way he wanted it, she’d give him time to settle in before she made any more overtures.
And you neglected to mention he was so hot, Martin, she thought with an inward laugh at herself as she headed back to her house. She’d only seen pictures of him much younger, as a baby, a child and a gangly adolescent before they’d shifted to a man in uniform and often loaded down with gear. She knew herself well enough to know her first reaction to military personnel was always positive, but she’d always thought him genuinely nice-looking.
She just had never thought of him as camo-wrapped sexy. For that matter, she’d never quite realized how sexy just a pair of plain, simple boxers could be on a tight, fit male body when you were looking at the real thing, not an artfully posed photo.
And Tate McLaughlin was definitely the real thing.
* * *
Tate screwed the last corner of the second panel down tightly, tested the seal, decided it would do nicely for the moment. There was no rain predicted for the next several days, so the heavy tarp on the roof should hold. He’d gotten the charred edges of the hole cut away, so that should help with the burned smell. He stepped back and looked at his makeshift repair. The large acrylic panels were the perfect size, as she’d guessed, and the predrilled holes had made attaching them a matter of a few long wood screws. It would also make working on repairs easier, only having to remove the panels.
It was nice of her to offer the temporary fix.
Nicer of her to leave them out for him to find rather than making him come get it. He appreciated that. After years of having to react and respond to rapidly changing circumstances instantly, he wanted the chance to ease into things more gradually.
And thinking about easing into things in conjunction with his new neighbor was not the smartest move he’d made this afternoon, he thought wryly. Neither had been the moment this morning in the thankfully undamaged bathroom, when during his shower he’d caught himself thinking about her ratio of leg to body. She wasn’t strikingly tall, maybe five foot six or so, but she surely had a lot of leg.
Lovely, shapely leg.
His thoughts had taken a decidedly raw turn then, and one she certainly wouldn’t appreciate when all she’d done was try to be helpful and neighborly, that’s all.
Really nice, neighborly young woman, sweet, thoughtful and helpful.
The memory jabbed at him, the words from the email Gramps had sent him after she’d first moved in next door.
Leave it to Gramps to omit the salient detail that she was a looker. And, of course, he’d had advice to offer at the end of that email.
You admire the pretty ones, but you marry the real ones. If you’re smart.
Not likely. Not him. Sometimes he thought about his grandparents and their sixty-year-long marriage, in love up until the day his grandmother had died five years ago. This had been their dream, this simple home surrounded by trees and life, and Gramps had never even thought about leaving. He still loved her, and Tate knew he had until his last breath. It was sometimes the only thing that gave him comfort about his death, knowing that the old man wouldn’t have minded going because he missed her so much. He even understood; his grandmother had been a heck of a woman—smart, tough, and yes, pretty—up until the disease that took her had robbed her of everything but that indomitable will.
And if you’re as lucky as I was, you get both in the same package.
Even now he smiled at the pure love in those words. They made him think of their wedding portrait, the black-and-white image stiff, formal, but yet still unable to erase the twinkle in her eyes or the amazement in his. Gram had been a looker, too, no question.
Which brought him careening back to an image of a woman with big eyes that seemed to go from blue to gray, a mane of long, dark hair and legs that went on forever. Legs that had been bare to his view. Legs that made a man think about sliding between them, of feeling them wrapped around his—
“Get your mind out of the gutter, McLaughlin,” he ordered himself sharply.
The moment he derailed that dangerous thought he became aware of a tickle at the back of his neck. Once, it would have meant he was being watched, and given where he’d been at the time, that was never a good thing. But he wasn’t there anymore, and he was relieved to see that the time it took to remember that was getting shorter and shorter.
He wanted it to be zero. He wanted his reaction to such things to be curiosity, not the instant urge to go into protect mode, or worse, attack mode. He was getting there, but he wanted to be there. Gramps had always said he was impatient. Tate supposed he’d been right. Because he was very impatient for his mind and gut to match the peace around him.
It’s normally a very peaceful neighborhood.
That’s what I wanted.
Yes, above all else, that’s what he wanted.
He turned around and found himself face-to-face with a dog. This was the dog from last night who belonged to the Foxworths.
The animal was sitting politely a few feet away, watching him. Very politely. As if at attention. And yet right at the edge of his comfort zone, as if he knew where the boundary was, somehow.
“Cutter,” he said. The dog’s tail wagged, but he didn’t move. Just watched, alertly, intensely. That steady gaze was unsettling, as was the intelligence behind those amber-flecked dark eyes.
He’d seen that kind of intensity before, in another set of canine eyes. Eyes that had belonged to the dog who was one reason he was alive today.
His stomach knotted. Cutter made him realize how much he missed that dog. Sunny had saved a lot of lives that day, alerting him and the squad in time to get nearly clear of the IED that had been set beside the road, awaiting their passage. Spahn had been killed instantly. He and Cav and Owen had only been injured, and the rest of the guys had escaped unscathed, thanks to Sunny’s warning.
This dog looked nothing like the yellow-furred Sunny, yet he still reminded Tate of her in that fierce intensity and intelligence. He had the feeling that when intent on something, Cutter would be as unswayable as Sunny had been while working, with nothing in her mind but the task of sniffing out danger in the form of explosives.
And he didn’t like the memories that the dog’s presence was stirring up. Didn’t like thinking of Sunny still over there, doing her job. Saving others as she’d saved him, intent on her work. Loyal, steadfast and unwavering until it was time to play. He’d give anything to have her race up to him again, crunchy water bottle in her mouth, banging it against him in an invitation to play.
It hurt too much.
“Go home, dog,” he said gruffly.
The dog didn’t move.
“Get,” he said, louder, fiercer.
For a moment longer the dog just sat, staring at him. And then, finally, he got to his feet and, with a last look, trotted off.
Relieved, Tate turned to go pick up his tools.
And saw his neighbor standing next to the tree where she’d left the panel. Watching.
He had no idea how long she’d been there. Maybe she was the reason for the tickle at the back of his neck, not the dog. She was frowning, clearly not happy about something. She shifted her gaze to the departing Cutter and back to him. Then she gave a shake of her head, turned on her heel and headed back toward her house.
She couldn’t have said more clearly that she didn’t like the way he’d reacted to the dog. He wasn’t proud of it himself, but it had come from someplace deep inside. He didn’t want the dog around. He brought on too many memories Tate couldn’t do anything about.
And it was just as well Lacy Steele was peeved at him. Maybe she’d stay away.
Chapter 5 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
It really wasn’t fair, Lacy thought as she paused in the garden to check the status of her recently transplanted tomatoes.
Grumpy people should look it, wear permanent scowls or have eyebrows forever lowered over irritated expressions.
They should not be tall, built and sexy, with gorgeous hazel eyes that seemed to change color as you looked.
So quit looking, she ordered herself.
Besides, no amount of sexy attractiveness made up for coldness toward an innocent animal. A helpful innocent animal, in fact. Hadn’t the dog discovered the source of the explosion, led the investigator right to it?
She herself found the dog charming, with his alert look and apparently instinctive knowledge of what was needed. He’d gotten her prickly neighbor to sit down when he needed to, when he’d been clearly determined to stay on his unsteady feet, hadn’t he? The dog was clever and—
Here.
She thought he’d gone, but Cutter had merely decamped to her yard and was now approaching her, slowly. She straightened from her inspection of a branch filled with tiny yellow blossoms that would hopefully become tasty, sweet, homegrown tomatoes, and some that had already begun growing tiny green rounds the size of a pea. She smiled at him.
“Well, hello, my fine lad. Looking for a better welcome? You’ll certainly find that here.”
At her first words, or maybe her tone, the dog’s tail began to wag and he trotted up to her. She was scratching his ears, smiling at the way he leaned into it. When she glanced back next door, she almost hoped her new neighbor was there, noticing the welcome the dog was getting here. A proper welcome for a sweet dog. The kind of welcome Martin would have given him. Funny, she still thought of the house as Martin’s, even though—
He was there, all right. Movement caught her gaze, and she looked in time to see him bend to pick up the tools he’d been using to affix the panel she’d provided over the damage. But he suddenly stopped, grabbing at his left shoulder in an oddly jerky motion. As he rubbed at the back of it, she remembered the scar. And the new damage done in the blast. Remorse flooded her. He had reason to be cranky. She chastised herself for judging—again—and vowed not to do it anymore, no matter how grouchy Tate McLaughlin got.
A sudden bark from Cutter drew her attention back. It was a short, happy sound, and the dog whirled and left at a run. Lacy wasn’t surprised when she looked up to see the Foxworths approaching. She followed, albeit much more slowly, smiling as they got nearer.
“Morning,” she called out.
“Hi,” Hayley Foxworth said. “Sorry about the trespasser. He just took off on us. I think he wanted to be sure everything was okay around here.”
Lacy nodded. “He checked out next door first, but my neighbor’s in a mood.” Remembering her vow she added, “I think he’s hurting a bit.”
“New or old?” Quinn asked.
“Both, I think,” Lacy said, assuming he was asking if there were any aftereffects from last night. She indicated the back of her own left shoulder. “He was kind of rubbing at the scar there.”
“Poor guy,” Hayley said.
“Don’t say that to him,” Quinn recommended. “I doubt he’d appreciate it.”
“I’m not sure he appreciates anything at the moment,” Lacy said frankly. “Not that he doesn’t have cause,” she hastened to add.
“It was a heck of a welcome to the neighborhood,” Hayley said. “We should go apologize for Cutter’s intrusion.”
“Apparently so.” Quinn’s tone was dry, and when his wife gave him a curious look he nodded toward their dog, who was already started that way. Cutter paused and looked back over his shoulder, and Lacy would have sworn his expression said, “Hurry up!”
Hayley smiled. “You know he’s got a plan.”
“He always does,” Quinn agreed, but with a roll of his eyes.
“And Tate has a problem.”
“Yes. That was definitely Cutter’s ‘fix it’ look last night.”
Lacy watched the exchange in quiet fascination, and when they started to follow the dog, she went along. Torn between what to ask first, she blurted out both of her questions. “This is a dog we’re talking about, right? And do you mean more of a problem than what happened last night?”
Hayley grinned at her. “Sort of, and yes.”
Lacy blinked. “In that order?”
Hayley laughed. “Yes.”
So, Cutter was “sort of” a dog who somehow knew that Tate had more of a problem than a freak explosion that had taken out a big chunk of his wall, barely feet from where he would have been sleeping had he not been too tired to make it to the bed? She wondered what on earth could be more of a problem than coming that close to dying, so soon after surviving another close call. It had to be big, to top that.
Then she realized she was taking them seriously about the animal knowing about said problem. She knew dogs could be incredibly sensitive and perceptive about their humans, but Tate was a complete stranger. Yet Quinn and Hayley, two perfectly normal people she suspected were very smart, had accepted easily that their dog not only knew about this problem, but had A Plan.
She watched as Cutter came to a halt, not near the hole in the wall and the temporary fix, but near the back door that opened out onto the flagstone patio Martin had been so rightfully proud of, having done it himself. The dog sat and stared at that back door as if willing it to open, sort of in the way she’d seen border collies will sheep to do their bidding.
Quinn and Hayley waited silently. Or, at least, not communicating with words; she saw them look at each other and guessed they were one of those couples who didn’t always need to talk to know what each other was thinking. Or apparently what their dog was thinking.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know dogs were amazing. She loved them, had often thought about adopting one since she’d moved here, but she’d been too busy getting her home-based tutoring service up and couldn’t give an animal the attention it deserved.
And she could accept that Cutter was particularly perceptive; she’d seen it herself. But however sensitive, perceptive and amazing dogs were, it was a jump from that to reading minds, hearts and the unseen. Wasn’t it?
“What kind of problem do you think he has?” It was all she could think of to say.
“Quinn has his doubts about the explosion,” Hayley said.
Lacy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said last night,” Quinn answered. “It takes a great deal to get one of those tanks to explode. Just a leaky or open valve wouldn’t do it. It takes something like that plus extreme heat.”
“You mean it must have caught fire?”
“Even then the escaping vapor would likely just burn, not explode. But if that second tank was close, or stacked on top of the leaking one...”
“Then it would explode?”
“Could.”
Lacy looked toward Martin’s house. Her brows lowered in puzzlement. “But how could it just catch fire?”
“Exactly,” Quinn said, his voice grim.
She was pondering the ramifications of that when Hayley said quietly, “Here he comes. Probably wondering what we’re all doing out here.”
The door Cutter had been so intent on swung open. Tate stepped out and let it shut on its own behind him. He stopped a yard or so away. Outside personal space, Lacy thought. Expressing that he didn’t consider them friends enough to get closer? Wary, or just unsociable? Or perhaps just plain rude?
“Make a habit of trespassing?” were his first words.
Lacy’s brows rose. Okay, rude won that one, she thought.
Hayley, with more benevolence than she herself would have shown at that—although perhaps living farther away she had less reason to be concerned about this man’s attitude—answered with a smile.
“Only to apologize for this one trespassing.” She gestured at the dog, who was watching him steadily.
“Ought to keep him under control,” Tate said to Hayley, still sounding stiff and cold.
“Many people should keep many things under control,” Quinn said. His voice was steady, inflectionless and nearly as cold as Tate’s, but somehow Lacy heard warning and threat and heat in it. She had the feeling that Tate would be unwise to ever talk to Hayley Foxworth like that again.
He seemed to realize it. She saw his gaze flick to Quinn, then back to Hayley. After a second, he nodded. “Yes. They should. Especially me. I’m sorry.”
It came out clipped, and rather flat, but it was an apology and Hayley moved quickly to accept.
“It’s all right. You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours, just when you should have had peace.”
At her gentle words he seemed utterly at a loss. For an instant he closed his eyes and looked chagrined enough that even Quinn appeared satisfied.
“And we’ll leave you to that peace,” he said, and slipped an arm around Hayley as they turned to go. Cutter seemed less than willing, but eventually, at a sharp whistle from Quinn, the dog followed, looking back at Tate the whole time.
“They’re nice people,” Lacy said. “Good people.”
“Mmm.”
Nice non-answer. Prodded by his gruffness, she added, “So am I.”
He looked at her then. She couldn’t read anything in his shuttered expression.
“Have it your own way, then,” she said, exasperated. Then, unable to stop herself in the face of his coldness toward people—and a dog—she found so likable, she added, “But Martin would be ashamed of your manners.
“Nice way to keep your vow,” she muttered to herself as she turned on her heel and went back to her house.
It was just as well the rest of her day would be taken up with work.
Chapter 6 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
Okay, so she had a point, Tate thought as he rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw the next morning, debating whether to bother shaving. There was a difference between being aloof and being downright rude, and he’d crossed the line.
Martin would be ashamed of your manners.
That had stung like few things could. The thought of his grandfather being ashamed of him for any reason had the power to truly unsettle him. Much more than his parents, who had never agreed with most of his life choices, anyway. Of course, his father agreed with his mother if she said grass was purple. He was quite capable of standing up to anyone else—especially his son—but Michelle McLaughlin’s word was law.
If they’d had their way, he’d have gone to that Ivy League school, taken that knack he had for numbers and built a career around it. Wall Street, maybe. Never mind that the thought of being shut up in an office for hours a day made him twitchy, or worse. He shook his head at himself.
Shave, he thought. Then get started. It was already late, after a restless night trying to catch up on sleep. His makeshift bed on the big air mattress in the shop had been okay—he’d slept in much, much worse—but he didn’t want it to be long-term. He’d had to dig a blanket out of Gram’s linen closet, since everything that had been on the bed had been destroyed.
And the smell. The too-familiar smell, the lingering odor of destruction, that crept into the nostrils and stayed, haunting his dreams.
Maybe fresh paint would help that, though. At least it would smell like something had been done. But he was a long list of repairs away from painting.
He finished shaving, ran a hand over his still-damp hair, which was all it needed. He was going to keep that, he decided. Worrying about what his hair looked like was way down on his list of civilian habits to reacquire.
He pulled the list he’d made out of his pocket and read it again, looking for anything he’d forgotten. And trying to figure out how he was going to get it here when his only wheels were a motorcycle. He thought of Gramps’s pride and joy, that classic red Chevy El Camino, but it was sealed up on blocks in the back of the shop, and it would take more time to get it ready to drive than he wanted to spend before getting started on repairs. Although the makeshift fix with the Plexiglas had worked better than he’d expected, and it was nearly summer, dry and warming up already, so maybe he wasn’t in quite the rush he’d first thought he was.
Thanks to one Lacy Steele.
What a name. But he’d liked the way she’d kidded about it. She’d probably heard so many jokes she just blew them off.
In the end it went well enough. He found that the local lumber store he’d feared would be too small to have what he needed actually had a decent selection, thanks to a storage yard a short distance away. And there he found a guy who seemed to have a good knowledge of what he’d need and some tips on how to proceed, and the name of a good drywall guy for the texture coat, which Tate wrote down, thankfully. Best of all, they had a small pickup he could borrow to get the stuff home, then come back and get his bike.
No, he thought as he made the trip back, the best thing was that everyone he’d encountered on this supply trip had known, and obviously liked, his grandfather. The steady condolences were a little rough when he was still grieving rather fiercely—being in Gramps’s house, amid his things, was turning out to be both blessing and curse—but it was good to know he hadn’t been forgotten.
There was a lot to be said for this small-town stuff, he thought.
And Mom would cringe at the very idea. Reason enough to stick it out.
He was honest enough to admit tweaking her prejudices might be the tiniest bit of his motivation for not just accepting this inheritance, but actually coming here with the intention of staying. His ultra-cosmopolitan mother had shuddered at the very idea of living in a town of less than five thousand.
By late afternoon he had the last scraps of the destroyed shed cleared away, tackling that first to give the area more time to dry out from the fire department’s efforts to keep the damage to a minimum. He might need to give the guts of the damaged wall time to dry completely, as well, so he limited himself to cutting away the ruined drywall with his newly acquired drywall saw and clearing out the section of damaged roof and ceiling.
He assessed the situation and his condition. There was still plenty of light, but he could feel the slight hum in his head that told him he was tired. And that was when mistakes happened. So he decided further work should wait until tomorrow, when he would hopefully have had a decent night’s sleep. This wasn’t his area of expertise—he wasn’t sure what, if anything, was anymore—and he wanted to go slowly and carefully. So he would—
The doorbell, with Gramps’s selection of the chimes of Big Ben in tribute to his time in England before and after the war, interrupted his thoughts. Since Tate knew no one else here, it wasn’t a surprise to find Lacy on his front porch. His first thought was that she was even prettier than he remembered, although he thought he preferred the sleep-tousled look for rather primal, male reasons.
His second thought was that whatever she had in that pot she was carrying smelled so good it woke his stomach up with a vengeance.
“I rang this time,” she pointed out.
He nodded. Made an effort. “I thought maybe you were that dog again.” He realized suddenly how that sounded. “I only meant—”
She waved it off with a laugh. “He does seem clever enough to figure out how to ring a doorbell, doesn’t he?”
He was relieved she hadn’t taken offense; he’d already ticked her off quite enough.
“I was making beef stew for dinner, so I made extra.” She held out the pot, which she was holding with a towel between it and her hands, so apparently it was hot.
“Extra?”
“For you,” she said patiently, lifting the pot slightly. “I figured you’d be too busy to fix anything. You could have borrowed my car, you know.”
He blinked. “What?”
“My car. To go get your stuff.”
“Oh.”
If he had ever done worse at casual conversation, he couldn’t remember when. And she clearly noticed, because after a moment of silence she gave him an amazed look and a slight shake of her head.
“I would have invited you over for dinner, but since you don’t seem inclined to socialize, I brought it here.”
A sudden image shot through his mind of sitting across a table from her, like a normal person, chatting easily rather than stumbling along like this, uncertain of why he found it so difficult.
“It would help,” she said, rather pointedly again, “if you took this. It’s getting heavy.”
Hastily he reached out.
“Take the towel, too, it’s hot,” she warned.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said as he took the indeed heavy pot, wondering if he sounded as awkward as he felt. And as if on cue, his stomach growled loudly.
Her smile was genuine this time. “Obviously somebody needs to feed that beast.”
Somehow he found the grace to smile back at her. “Guess so.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
His brow furrowed as he thought.
“The fact that you have to try to remember means it’s been too long. No wonder you’re grumpy. Eat something.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “Grumpy was a dwarf,” he said.
She arched one eyebrow at him. “Old Disney references?”
“Gramps,” he explained.
“Ah. A traditionalist.”
“Still on videotape, if I remember right.”
She laughed at that. He liked the sound of it.
“Thank you,” he said, lifting the pot. His stomach growled again.
“Eat before it gets cold. If you have leftovers, it’s good over noodles.”
He nodded. Realized much too late that he’d made her stand outside holding a heavy pot for far too long. Feeling that required...something, he said hastily, “I’d ask you in, but it still reeks in there.”
“Like a place that’s had a big hole blown in it?”
He nodded again. Drew in a deep breath as he set the pot on the glass table beside the door, which thankfully hadn’t shattered from the concussion of the blast. And wondered why this seemed so hard. “About the grumpy... It was a long trip, and then the explosion. I—I’m sorry.”
She gave him a look he couldn’t quite interpret. “Actually, I think it’s the dog you should apologize to. I can at least understand.”
He sighed then. “I know.”
“You don’t like dogs?”
“I love dogs. I just... He reminded me of another one.”
“Does he? I’ve never seen one with coloring like that.”
“I don’t mean looks. More intensity.”
“He is that, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer. “Who’s the other dog?”
“Sunny. Well, Sunniva, which is Latin for something. But we always called her Sunny, because...well, she’s that, inside and out. She’s an MWD—Military Working Dog—who was with us overseas. She’s the reason I’m still alive, along with most of my squad.”
He was a little surprised he’d said so much. Normally he would have said, “Just a dog I knew,” or some such. But nothing seemed to be normal just now, him least of all.
“Dogs are amazing, aren’t they? They give so much and ask so little.” Her voice was soft, her tone utterly genuine and more than a little awed. Exactly how he felt when he thought of Sunny and what she had done. “She wasn’t hurt, was she?”
He liked the urgency in her question, the concern for an animal she didn’t know and never would.
“No. She got clear.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s still there.”
He didn’t add that because of that, anything could happen; he could see that Lacy got it.
“You miss her,” she said, still in that soft tone.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It must be a bond like no other.”
Yes, she got it all right. “Yes,” he repeated, unable to think of anything to add. Then abruptly he remembered what he hadn’t said. “And thank you. For the food. When I cook, it usually requires a meat identifier.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome. But...a what?”
“You know. Potatoes mean beef. Applesauce says pork chops. Cranberry says it’s turkey. Otherwise you can never tell.”
She laughed, seemingly delighted by the old, corny military joke. But at that point he was out of things to say and was grateful when his cell phone rang, ending this silence that he thought should feel awkward, but oddly didn’t.
To his surprise, it was the county arson investigator.
“Foxworth has even more pull than I realized,” the woman said when he asked. “We got the report back from the federal lab just now. I didn’t expect it for days yet.”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised. Quinn Foxworth had that air about him, not just of confidence and authority, but genuine power, the power to get things done.
“And?” he asked.
“You want the whole thing or the bottom line?”
“Bottom line, please. I probably wouldn’t understand the rest.”
“No leak. The valve on the bottom tank was open.”
Tate opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. He had no proof, but he knew. Gramps would never, ever do that. He was meticulous, always had been, and age hadn’t changed him. Besides, Tate would have smelled it. He’d had the window open, and it was right beside the shed. And there was no mistaking the purposefully distinctive odor of propane.
“So what does that mean?” he asked.
“It’s early yet, but if I had to guess...”
“Please guess. I won’t hold you to it.”
“The tank that blew is pretty scorched on the bottom.”
Tate got there quickly. “So you think the lower tank valve got opened somehow, the leak got ignited somehow and the extreme heat from that fire blew the tank stacked on top of it?”
“That’s the theory, yes. There’s some additional recovered material we have yet to identify, but right now...”
That was a lot of somehows, Tate thought. But he said only, “So...a freak accident?”
“Sorry, I can’t say. That determination hasn’t been made yet. I’m only calling now because Brett Dunbar asked me to let you know something ASAP.”
It took him a moment to place the name. And after the call had ended he shook his head at the oddity of having a man he’d never met intercede for him at the request of a neighbor he’d met less than a day and half ago.
Yes, there was a lot to be said for this small-town stuff. And people—and dogs—named Foxworth.
Maybe even girls next door.
Chapter 7 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
It was the dog again.
Tate scowled. Counting the first night, this was the fifth time in the last two days the dog had shown up. It was as if the dog made rounds, and he’d added Tate to the list. And each time he was followed by his people, one or the other or sometimes both. They seemed remarkably unperturbed at having to retrieve their pet so often.
But this time he’d made it into the house, through the patio sliding door that Tate had left open while he carried out debris he’d found thrown into other areas of the house. Even more irritating, he was in the kitchen. Sitting in that same alert way Tate had seen before.
At first he thought the dog was expecting a dog biscuit or some kind of treat. But then he realized the dog wasn’t just sitting, he was staring. As Sunny had, when something was wrong with the familiar landscape around her. Intent, undistractable, until something was done about the offending intrusion. Once it had been a visiting general, who landed high on the “don’t like this” scale. Once it had been a new video game with lots of loud car noises that somebody had brought into the mess tent. The last time he’d seen it had been a celebrity visitor she had pointedly turned her back on.
Tate shook off the memories, telling himself to focus on how he was going to get this dog out of here. It didn’t seem wise to grab a sizable dog he barely knew and try to drag him out. Something had him fascinated, and—
The pot.
He realized suddenly that the dog was staring at Lacy Steele’s cooking pot. Or whatever it was. That kind of big, tall pot had a name; his grandmother’d had one, but he couldn’t remember what she’d called it. He’d finished the stew last night—and it had been as good as it had smelled—and had thoroughly washed the pot when he’d finished. And there on the counter it had been ever since, because he couldn’t quite work himself up to taking it back to her.
“It’s empty, dog,” he said sourly.
Cutter glanced at him then, and Tate had the strangest feeling that had he been human, it would have been the equivalent of “Well, duh.” Maybe it was because obviously the dog’s nose would have told him that.
But he went back to staring at the pot, anyway. Only now he started glancing at Tate every few seconds, expectantly.
“What is it you want?” he asked after the third time through the cycle. “You know it’s empty. And you can’t possibly know it doesn’t belong here.”
Or maybe he did know, Tate thought suddenly. And almost on the thought, the person to ask knocked on his front door.
“Morning, Tate. I’m assuming my errant dog is here again?” Hayley Foxworth asked cheerfully as he opened the door. She was in running clothes, with her hair tucked up into a Seahawks cap. Her green eyes were bright, as if reflecting her mood. Or maybe the green on the cap.
“Leash?” he suggested wryly, then regretted it; he wanted to ask her something, not make her mad. At least her husband wasn’t with her to give him that warning look again if he didn’t like the way Tate spoke to his wife. And the man was impressive enough that Tate knew a fight would be a real one. Quinn Foxworth wasn’t someone to trifle with. He was the kind of man you wanted on your side, and the kind you dreaded to come up against.
“Wouldn’t do any good,” Hayley said, her cheerful tone unchanged. “He’s on a mission, and he’ll find a way.”
“A mission?” Tate repeated, diverted for the moment. “What mission?”
“You,” the woman answered simply.
Tate blinked. “Me?”
“Whatever your problem is.”
“My problem,” he said, speaking carefully, “is a dog who keeps showing up and interrupting what I’m trying to get done.”
“Maybe you should put him to work.”
“What?”
She smiled, and it matched her tone. Quinn Foxworth, Tate thought, was a lucky guy.
“He knows a hammer from a screwdriver from a wrench, and he’s happy to fetch and carry.”
He blinked. Again. “You’re saying if I tell him to bring me a hammer out of a pile of tools—”
“He will. Helpful if you need to nail something you can’t let go of.” As if she hadn’t just boggled him she went on in that same jovial tone. “So where is the lad?”
“In the kitchen. Staring at a pot. An empty pot,” he added, to explain how odd it was.
“Hmm” was all she said.
“He must hear you out here,” Tate said, truly puzzled now. “Why hasn’t he come out?”
“Told you. Dog on a mission.”
“So you said. But I don’t have a problem. At least, not one he can fix.”
She laughed. “You might be surprised. But I’ll go get him, if it’s all right?”
Smothering a sigh, he nodded. When she hesitated and he realized she didn’t know, he pointed toward the kitchen and remembered what he’d wanted to ask in the first place.
“Has he been here before?” he asked as he followed her into the room where the dog’s tail wagged happily, but he didn’t move from his selected spot. “Before the explosion, I mean.”
“Not that I know of.”
“So he didn’t...know my grandfather?”
“I don’t think so,” Hayley said, an understanding look dawning on her face. “Nope, it’s all you.”
Tate wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Or the knowledge that his theory that the dog kept showing up here because he was looking for Gramps had just been shot down.
“So, that’s the pot?” she asked, looking at it where it sat innocently on the counter.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t fit with the rest,” she said with a glance at the overhead rack his grandmother had so loved, but that he was seriously considering taking out now that he’d banged his head on the low-flying skillet once too often.
“No.” She just looked at him, waiting. You and your dog, he thought, his mouth quirking. Finally he gave in. “It belongs next door.”
“Ah. Your charming neighbor.”
When she wasn’t sniping at him for his bad manners, Tate thought. Rightfully so, his conscience nudged.
“He probably wants you to take it back to her, then.”
For a third time Tate blinked, this time long and slow, and with a shake of his head.
“Dog,” he said—unnecessarily, he thought.
“Yes,” Hayley agreed. “And I would have thought you, of all people, would realize some dogs are different than your run-of-the-mill house pet.”
She had him there. And, judging by her expression, she knew it.
He was saved from trying to answer by yet another knock on the door. He stifled a grimace.
“Grand Central Station here this morning, huh?” Hayley said with a grin.
“Seems like,” he muttered, and wasn’t really surprised when he opened the door and found his charming neighbor on the porch.
“Sorry to bother you,” she began.
“That ship already sailed this morning,” he said, gesturing at the dog, who had suddenly abandoned his obsession and had come trotting happily out to greet the clearly very welcome Lacy Steele. As if the dog lived here, and not him, Tate thought wryly.
“Well, hello there, furry one,” Lacy said, reaching to pet the dog then scratch behind his ears. Cutter sighed happily and leaned in as Lacy looked up and smiled at Tate. He was still taken aback at the jolt that had given him when she looked past him and said, “And you, too,” telling him Hayley had followed her dog out of the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Hayley said. “I’m here to retrieve my dog. Again. Before Tate’s patience runs out.”
“Might be a bit late on that,” Lacy said, without looking at him.
“I got that feeling,” Hayley agreed.
“He’ll get over it. Nobody could stay mad at this sweetie.”
“Unless they’re really mad at something else.”
“Standing right here,” Tate pointed out, feeling a bit aggrieved.
“So you are,” Lacy said. She sounded as cheerful as Hayley had. None of them—including the dog—had any qualms about intruding or interrupting, obviously. “And speaking of retrieving, I need to retrieve my stockpot, if you’re done with it.”
“Stockpot,” he repeated, the memory coming back now.
“The pot the stew was in?” she explained.
“I know, I just couldn’t remember what it was called. I don’t cook much.”
“Well, I do, and I need it for spaghetti sauce tonight. My tomatoes aren’t ready yet so I had to buy some, but I’ve got some other veggies I need to use up.”
“That garden looks like you’d have enough to feed my entire squad.”
“Invite ’em over,” she said.
She was kidding, of course, but as he looked at her serene expression he had the oddest feeling that if he did just that, she would welcome them. And deal with the influx graciously and feed them well.
“I’ll leave you two to it, then.” Hayley glanced at her dog, who had inexplicably given up his fascination with the stockpot and was at the front door, clearly ready to leave, and added, “Since it appears his work here is done for the moment.”
Tate’s brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? But before he could ask, both woman and dog were out the door and headed home at a steady run.
“Seems you’re making friends in the neighborhood whether you like it or not,” Lacy said when they’d gone out of sight.
That stung, although not as much as her manners comment. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”
“Just saying you don’t go out of your way to be welcoming.”
“Doesn’t seem like I have to, with everybody showing up, anyway.” What was it about this woman that had him snapping like this? Maybe he wasn’t an easy charmer like Cav, but he’d never turned into a grouch at the sight of a beautiful woman. And Lacy Steele was certainly that, as his body kept reminding him. He sucked in a breath, willing himself to speak evenly. “Look, I only meant I thought it would be...slower here. Small-town slow. And I thought I’d left stuff like middle-of-the-night explosions behind for good.”
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “Of course, you’re right. And you have every right.”
Her instant contriteness, so obviously sincere, made him feel even worse. As if he’d somehow traded on his service to get out of a situation his own rusty social skills had gotten him into.
“I’ll get the pot,” he said, turning to go to the kitchen before he could make things any worse. When he brought it back, feeling he had to say something, he handed it over with what he thought should be safe enough—a sincere, “The stew was great. Really. Thank you.”
The smile she gave him then made him forget the awkwardness, and all the irritation he’d been feeling over his disrupted morning. It did nothing, however, to remove that uncomfortable awareness that had him so edgy.
“You’re more than welcome. And if you like, I’ll save some spaghetti sauce for you. I always make a ton so I can freeze some for later.”
“I...”
“Just say ‘yes, thank you.’ It’s easier.”
He lowered his gaze and let out a rueful chuckle before echoing her suggestion. “Yes, thank you.”
Her smile widened. “All right then.” She looked around, her nose wrinkling. “That smoke smell is still pretty strong.” He nodded as she pointed out the obvious odor of burned materials. “It would give me a headache.”
It had, in fact, given him a headache the one time he’d tried to sleep in the house. Not to mention nightmares. “That’s why I’ve been sleeping out in the shop.”
She nodded in understanding. “Fresh paint’ll fix that when you get there.” She grinned at him, as if he were the friendliest guy in town. “Whole different kind of headache.”
He smiled back. He couldn’t seem to help it. It even lasted a second or two. It seemed enough for her, because she turned to go, stockpot in hand. Then she turned back.
“Anything more on your explosion?”
She’d been here when the lab had called, he remembered. As if he could forget. “No. I think they still suspect Gramps left the valve open.”
“Bull.”
She said it so bluntly he drew back slightly. She kept going, rather fiercely.
“One, Martin was sharp as a tack and would never forget something like that. Two, he was always aware and careful about propane in the first place, double-checking everything when he was done with the grill. Three, I’ve been around the back often, checking on the place, and I never once smelled even a trace of it. And the back corner of my garden is close enough, and I’m there often enough, I would have smelled it, anyway. It wasn’t leaking all this time.”
Halfway through her surprisingly impassioned declaration he was nodding. By the time she finished, he was nodding and smiling again as she echoed his own thoughts and reinforced his position.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it from somewhere deep inside him, where his unfailing love for his grandfather resided.
“And I thought of something else last night,” she went on, clearly not done yet. “I never saw two tanks. In fact, a few times I took the one tank he had to get it refilled, to save him the trouble since we used his grill so often.”
Now, that he hadn’t known, Tate thought, feeling both gratified that she was echoing his confidence in Gramps, and sad that he hadn’t known. He should have spent more time with him. But he’d spent as much as he had. When he got enough leave to come home, it had been here he’d come, not the fancy, over-decorated house in So Cal where his parents lived.
“You don’t believe it, do you? That he was careless or forgot?”
She seemed as concerned as if he’d been her own grandfather. And Tate felt an odd kernel of a different kind of warmth finally blossom inside him.
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t.”
She smiled, seeming to be relieved. “Good. Because he wasn’t. And didn’t.” But then a frown creased her brow. She shifted the big, heavy pot in her arms. “But that leaves us with a big question.”
Us.
Funny how she assumed that kind of involvement.
Not at all funny how that simple, ordinary, two-letter word made his stomach knot up.
“A couple,” he said, trying to ignore the odd sensation. “Like where’d the second tank come from? And what really did bring on the explosion?”
“I was thinking more like—was it an accident at all?” she said, her tone grim.
Chapter 8 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
Lacy stirred the sauce, her nose telling her she had the blend close to right. She wondered if it needed a bit more basil, so she lifted out a tiny bit in the spoon. She blew on it to cool the hot sauce, then took a careful taste.
“Nope,” she said aloud, happy she’d hit the balance right off the bat. Everything had come together as planned, flavor and timing, and the afternoon-long project was done.
And this time she would put the portion for her neighbor in a storage container, one he could just throw away when he was done, since the pot had apparently caused too much trouble.
“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. He had his reasons for being less than sociable. He’d come here for peace and quiet and had gotten little of either so far. She would drop this off and then leave him alone. This would fulfill her ingrained instinct to help a neighbor—strengthened immeasurably by the fact that he was a wounded veteran—going through a rough patch.
Once the sauce was cooled, she portioned it out into containers, including one for next door, leaving some in the pot for her own dinner tonight. She limited her intake of her favorite pasta dish because it spiked the number on her scale if she went overboard. And although it would taste even better after it sat and the flavors mingled, the making of it had whetted her appetite and she couldn’t resist.
She’d just leave the sauce on his doorstep with a note, except she wasn’t sure how long it would take him to find it. So she would take it over, hand it off and leave quickly without bothering him too much.
She hoped.
And then she would spend what was left of this lovely, warm, late spring day in her garden, catching up on tasks she’d put off when the quiet had been so severely ruptured Monday morning. And tonight she would finish up her study plan for the book she had chosen for her newest student. After chatting online with the boy for nearly an hour last week, she’d picked a newly released story about a boy whose fascination with a world-building video game led him into a fantastical place where his game expertise had turned him into a hero. She had a good list of questions she hoped would result in her student reading more carefully, which would spark thoughts of his own.
When she stepped outside, the still-warm container in hand, she heard the whine of a power tool coming from the back of Martin’s house. His grandson was clearly determined to get the damage repaired quickly.
And just as determined, it seemed, to do most of it himself.
As she picked her way across the yard, she wondered if that was because he wanted to or couldn’t afford to do it otherwise. But he was surely going to have to have roofers and such come in, so perhaps that was where money was going. Martin had said he was leaving his grandson everything, including what money he had saved, but he couldn’t have foreseen anything like this. Either way, Tate clearly had no hesitation about diving in. It was clear he was used to tackling things himself, which she would have expected since he was—
Her breath jammed up in her throat as she rounded the corner of the house. He was there, all right, leaning into the damaged wall with some sort of long, narrow power saw, lit up by the afternoon sun shafting through the trees. And wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans, lace-up boots and a serious-looking black watch.
He hadn’t heard her over the sound of the saw so she had a chance to just look as she tried to regain her equilibrium. It made no sense, really; she’d certainly seen this much and more of him the night of the explosion when he’d been propelled outside in just boxers. But somehow it was different, seeing him like this, working, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin from the work and the warmth, the muscles of his arms and back and ridged abdomen all involved in the effort.
A sizable wood chip flew out from the cut he was making, and only then did she notice he also had on sunglasses, a wise bit of protection given that piece bounced off the side of his face. He barely flinched, she noticed. She probably would have dropped the saw on her foot and done untold damage, she thought wryly.
Stop gawking at him, she ordered silently. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, then started to walk forward again.
The sound of the saw stopped. His head snapped around at her first step. She noted the instant the tension faded as he saw her, recognized her. He put down the saw, reached down and picked something up from the ground. A T-shirt, she realized as he shook it free of chips and sawdust and pulled it over his head. A sight she regretted, even as her gaze lingered on his flat belly as he did so.
Stop it! she repeated to herself, embarrassed to think she had been staring at him so blatantly he felt the need to cover up. She hurried over, set the container down on the board set across two sawhorses, making a temporary workbench.
“Spaghetti sauce,” she reminded him. He looked at the large container, then back at her. “This way you can focus on repairs, not cooking.”
He hesitated, then said only, “Thank you.”
“How’s it coming?” Well, that was inane, she thought instantly, seeing all the detritus around after he’d taken down what was left of the lean-to shed.
“Slow. He built well.”
“Yes.” She tried again. “But if he hadn’t, the whole thing might have collapsed.”
He glanced at the huge hole. “Maybe,” he said. “It was quite a blast.”
“Better you than Martin.” His head snapped back, and realizing how that sounded she hastened to explain, “I only meant he would probably have been in the bedroom, and might not have been able to get out. He wasn’t moving quite as well the last few months.”
“Better me than him, in any case,” Tate said. And she could both see and hear that he meant it. He would take a lot worse than some cuts and a singeing if it would have protected his grandfather. Yes, Tate McLaughlin might be gruff and a bit surly, but there was much to admire about him.
An echo of the heat that had hit her when she’d come around that corner shot through her again at her own thought. She needed to change the subject, and fast. Or just turn tail and run. The latter appealed, but she’d never been much of a runner.
“I still don’t believe Martin left a valve open. He was never, ever careless. Especially with dangerous things.”
“I know.”
“Besides, even if it was true that he did, and even if he did suddenly get a second tank I never saw, what are the odds that it would happen to leak enough but not so much it emptied itself, and that there would just happen to be a spark, or whatever, the very night you arrive?”
“I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly.
“But it’s a good point, isn’t it? It just sits there leaking, with nothing happening until you get here?”
He stared at her for a moment. “What exactly are you suggesting? That I set it off?”
Her brows rose in shocked surprise. That hadn’t even occurred to her. Oddly, he looked relieved at her reaction, as if he’d really thought that was what she’d been hinting at.
“No, not at all,” she said with a fervent shake of her head. “I just meant it seems impossible to be just a coincidence.”
“They happen. That’s why there’s a word for it.”
“I’m not some conspiracy theorist, if that’s what you mean. I’m just saying it doesn’t figure, doesn’t make sense, no matter what way you twist it. Martin wasn’t careless, but even if he was, the timing is suspect. No way it could have been leaking all this time unnoticed, and yet still have enough left to explode like that. It’s been three months, after all.”
He winced at that, and she felt instantly contrite. The man had just lost his beloved grandfather. Three months was no time at all when it was someone you loved that much.
“I’m sorry. I should go.” And stay away, since I apparently can’t stop making things worse.
She hurried back to her house and went in through the back door without even glancing at her garden. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.
Even spaghetti wasn’t going to cheer her up tonight.
* * *
Of course it was an accident, Tate thought as he rolled over onto his other side of his makeshift bed on the floor of the shop. He’d hit it early, trying to catch up a little more on sleep, but the moment he’d closed his eyes the rabbit warren of his brain had opened up full force and he couldn’t find the off switch.
Sometimes I wish brains had an off switch, Tate.
But Gramps, if it’s off, how would you switch it back on?
He smiled into the darkness. He always smiled when that childhood memory came to him. Mostly of how Gramps had roared with laughter, as if Tate’d said the most clever thing ever spoken.
I’ll not worry about you, boy. Your brain works just fine.
It was working overtime now. But it had to be an accident. What else could it have been? He was no longer in the world where any explosion was assumed to be enemy action until proven otherwise.
Unless...
What if she really had meant she thought he’d somehow set it off himself and just hadn’t wanted to admit it?
He closed his eyes, remembering her startled reaction. It had seemed genuine. So genuine he’d been relieved to see it. Not that that had done anything to ease the tension he felt every time she was around.
She made good spaghetti sauce, though. Really good. And if it hadn’t been for that huge tub in the fridge, he probably would have ended up eating odds and ends of unbalanced stuff instead of a full, satisfying meal.
You owe her, he told himself. And frowned. He wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t like owing anyone, or because he didn’t like owing her. Because owing her meant more contact, at some point.
She lives next door, you’re not really going to be able to avoid her all the time.
His common sense told him that, but the inward discomfort he felt at the thought made him wish he could. Which in turn made him frown again, at himself, because she’d been nothing but nice and helpful.
Really nice neighborly young woman, sweet, thoughtful and helpful.
Yeah, Gramps. The beautiful part was just frosting, right?
You admire the pretty ones, but you marry the real ones. If you’re smart.
Smart? Well, Gramps, there’s book smart and then there’s life smart.
And if you’re as lucky as I was, you get both in the same package.
Tate shook his head. Not many are that lucky, Gramps. And I think you and Gram may have used up all the McLaughlin luck in that arena.
Chapter 9 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)
When she caught herself contemplating buying more chicken at the market to make a larger batch of her four-cheese bake so there would be extra, Lacy grimaced and stopped herself. And wondered if the fact that most of her cooking lately had been aimed at easily reheatable things was for the same reason.
Her troublesome neighbor.
Not that he was troublesome in the usual way of some neighbors. No, were it not for the sound of tools when he was working on the repairs to the house, or the sight of a light on in the workshop at night, she wouldn’t even know he was there.
She wondered about that, the workshop. Rather, how much time he spent in there. Yes, the house wasn’t repaired yet, but surely in his time in the service he’d been in worse? And he could easily sleep in the living room, away from most of it. So why was he still sleeping out in the workshop? True, the nights weren’t that cold anymore, in fact, they were having a rather warm June, and besides, she knew there was a woodstove in the back of the shop, although she hadn’t seen any smoke rising from the metal flue above the roof. Not that she checked all that often, but—
Quit kidding yourself. You’re always looking over there. And now you’re standing here in the produce section with a no doubt idiotic expression on your face while you contemplate how much of your life has been sucked up by your new neighbor.
Forcing herself to move on, she quickly finished her shopping so she could stop at the post office and still make it home in time for her next session. She had two completion certificates pending and she wanted to get them in the mail today so her proud students could show them to parents who didn’t quite believe the good news. She was focused on that when she heard someone call her name.
“Lacy?”
She turned and saw Hayley Foxworth, headed toward the store she’d just left.
“No dog?” Lacy asked lightly.
“Too warm already, and besides, Quinn took him to the office. One of our guys is at our headquarters in St. Louis, and Cutter’s been worrying about him.”
Lacy smiled. She already knew the dog was beyond clever, but that seemed a bit much. “Worrying?”
Hayley laughed as they stepped out of the way of another customer going into the store. “Rafe left his car here, and he works a lot in the warehouse, where the backup generator and the helicopter are. Every time we get there, Cutter’s off to inspect both, to see if there’s any sign he’s been back.”
Lacy laughed in turn at that. “Okay, that’s pretty clear.”
“After that, he’ll finally settle down. Usually with a mopey sigh. He really does worry about Rafe.”
Lacy wondered what there was to worry about with this particular Foxworth guy. But she was even more curious about something else Hayley had said. “Headquarters? Helicopter? You guys must be big.”
“We’re growing.” Hayley’s smile turned satisfied in a very personal way as she went on, “We have a southwest office open now. My brother’s running it.”
“So, it’s literally the family business?”
“When family’s the best person,” she said. “Quinn’s loyal, but if he didn’t think Walker could do it, he wouldn’t have offered it.”
“So, what exactly does the Foxworth Foundation do?”
Hayley met her gaze levelly. “We fight for those in the right who can no longer fight for themselves.”
Lacy blinked. “I... That’s quite a mission statement.”
“Yes. And we mean it. Even if the person we’re helping doesn’t realize it.”
“So, you fight for the little guy?”
“Not always. Sometimes the little guy is wrong. We helped a fairly big company last year that was being sued over something that never really happened. Their attorneys wanted to give up the fight and settle. We helped their founder prove it was all lies.”
Lacy was really curious now. “How did he find out about you? I mean, you’re right here and I’ve never heard of you. No offense.”
Hayley laughed. “None taken. We don’t advertise. We run strictly on word of mouth and referrals. Often from people we’ve helped in the past, who come across someone in a similar situation. And who want to help someone else the way they were helped.”

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