Christmas Hearts: In the Company of Snipers

by Irish Winters

  “Stay right here,” Mark said quietly as he deposited Libby at the opposite entry to the store. “I’ll be right back.”

  “That’s Quentin Sharp,” she said. “He’s not stable, Mark. Be careful.”

  Mark only half heard her warning. Stable or not, nobody deserved trouble from a pack of rowdy boys. “Hey Quentin,” he called, his long legs eating up the distance between them. “Nice dog.”

  Quentin shot him a dark look. The guy was gaunt to the point of skeletal. Shadows circled his eyes. His grungy baseball cap declared Army, an indicator he might be a veteran. Those three strips on his OD shirtsleeve sealed the deal.

  “Why don’t you mind your business, mister?” the biggest boy, a straggly long-haired blond in the shabby, bright yellow ski jacket, called out to Mark. “We’s just playing with the cute little puppy.”

  That set off a round of teeters and catcalls from the others.

  “May I give you a hand with that dog food, sir?” Mark asked politely as he crouched to the dog’s level, his palm extended. He’d learned a few things about dogs hanging around his buddy, Harley, a one time Army K-9 handler. Respect the dog; respect the man.

  Quentin’s eyes narrowed. His lips curled even as he angled his shoulder at Mark, putting up an instant barrier. “Leave me alone, why don’tcha? Everyone stop bothering me. I jes’ came for a couple things I needed, and I got to deal with nothing but crap since I been here.” A whine snapped out of him as he dragged a finger under his runny nose. “Jes’ let me be.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Sharp. I can do that, but I don’t leave my buddies behind, and you’ve got your hands full, and besides…” Mark lowered his voice another level. “It’s Christmas, sir. It’s the season for kindness. Let me at least carry that bag for you. I’m not as strong as you, but I’m here. I’ve got your six.”

  Quentin blinked. He cocked his head as if he thought he recognized Mark, but he kept that shoulder lifted.

  “Chicken! Sissy! Coward!” The boys squawked like a coop of bantam roosters, but the dog remained steady, still positioned between them and Quentin.

  Instead of engaging the boys at their level, Mark capitalized on the opportunity. “Do you boys know what this dog is?”

  The oldest guffawed, his hands stuck deep in his pockets. “That mutt? He’s a freak with big ears, just like his owner. Watch this.” The little hoodlum pulled a rock out of his pocket, hauled back and threw it, striking the dog’s butt. The German Shepherd flinched and shifted away from the boy, but he never lunged and he should have.

  “If you do that again,” Mark warned, “I’m calling your father. You wouldn’t want me to—”

  “So call him,” the kid challenged, his face scrunched with anger. “I dare you.”

  “Yeah, call him,” the littlest of the rowdy boys echoed with a sneer. “See if he cares.”

  The two boys slapped high fives, while the others snickered and whispered. Mark didn’t have a doubt they’d ambush him too if they thought they could get away with it. He straightened to all of his six-foot frame and rolled his shoulders, flexing his gloved hands out in front of him, just in case. He was a farm boy from another time, but well-muscled and always ready for trouble when it came calling. He could take on all of these five delinquents and never break a sweat. “Actually, this dog is a trained service dog. What’s his name?” Mark asked Quentin.

  “That there’s Tiger,” Quentin muttered, blinking hard. “I gotta go.”

  Of course, the odd name for a big guard dog elicited another round of raucous laughter, name-calling, and jeers from the boys.

  Quentin took offense. “It’s a good name,” he bellowed. “It’s a strong name! What do you stupid boys know about anything anyway?”

  It had to end. Mark dropped back to his haunches, raking his hand over Tiger’s proud head. “You bet it’s a good name, Quentin. It’s solid. My friend owns a couple EOD dogs, Whisper and Smoke. Tiger’s a helluva lot stronger name than those names. I’ll bet this dog’s your best buddy, isn’t it?”

  Quentin blinked, his face scrunched with wrinkles. “I jes’ wanna go home.”

  Mark kept on going. This lesson was for the boys. They needed to understand. “What’s Tiger do? Does he wake you in the middle of the night sometimes? Does he know how to turn the lights on for you?”

  Quentin nodded. “Maybe. Yeah. He’s there when I... need him. Do I know you?”

  “You do now. Name’s Mark Houston.” Mark lifted to his feet and stuck his open palm out for Quentin. “Used to be USMC Sergeant Mark Houston, but I opted out of the Corps the last go round. I got tired of being shot at. Didn’t you?”

  Quentin wiped at the corner of his mouth with a dirty knitted glove. “Were you... over there?” he asked, his voice oddly hollow, his eyes vacant.

  Instantly, the dog whined and backed its butt against Quentin’s leg, and Mark was afraid this could all go sideways if Quentin had a flashback or a meltdown. Civilians could never understand the mind-bending effects of hyper vigilance or post-traumatic stress, because they’d never lived it. It was damned easy to say ‘thank you for your service,’ but to truly spend the time with a veteran, to really get to know him or her, to know what they’d seen and done and lived with, was something else all together.

  “Yes, sir,” he admitted somberly. “I was over there, and I know what it’s like to come home and feel like you don’t recognize the place any more. Damned weird, huh?” He looked back at Libby. “Why don’t you go in an get those things your mother needs, hon? I’ll be right in.”

  She shook her head, still waiting for him like she always seemed to be.

  The boys shifted around behind Mark. He braced for the sneaky take down, but kept speaking quietly to Quentin. “My best buddy’s helicopter took a bad hit. I was going over to the cemetery later to pay him a visit. Would you like to come with me? I could use the company.”

  Tiger rubbed his nose into Quentin’s hand and whined. Quentin nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like to do that.” One thing about vets. They never forget to honor their fallen comrades, because—they did know.

  “What about you boys?” Mark asked, pivoting on his heel to take in the kids who’d gotten a little too quiet. “I’ll bet you didn’t even know you had war heroes living in your town, did you? Would you like to see where another one’s buried?”

  The littlest guy’s brows furrowed. He had to be around six. Maybe seven. “Yeah. I never seen a real hero, mister.”

  “Yeah, you did,” his older brother jeered. “You seen Dad everyday, ain’t you, dork face? He’s a first class he-ro.” The kid stuck out his chest, and Mark recognized the shadows from his own childhood. These kids needed a father, but ten-to-one, Mark was willing to bet their old man was emotionally absent or abusive—or any one of the numerous side effects of men having come home from the war and not able to handle a return to normalcy.

  “Where’d he serve?” Mark asked. “What branch?”

  Older Brother met Mark’s eyes for the first time. “He’s Army like Sharp and he’s just as fucked up, only he’s…”

  “He hits me,” Baby Brother admitted quietly, his hand to his upper arm and his eyes bright. “He don’t mean to, mister, but he hits me and he hollers and it hurts.”

  Mark cocked his head. He’d been in town enough times to know a few of the folks in SPencer, but he couldn’t recall seeing these boys before. “What’s your name?”

  “Holden Simpson. This here’s—”

  “Will you shut up?” Older Brother snapped. “You don’t go telling everyone you meet our business. Shit, Holden, Dad’ll kick your butt. Come on. This ain’t fun no more. We got stuff to do.”

  Mark kept an eye on the kids until they were out of sight. He didn’t know any Simpsons, but Libby might. He motioned her to join him before he turned back to Quentin. “How about it, buddy? Can I help you carry that load of yours?”

  Quentin thumbed his nose, but nodded. “I gets confused sometimes,” he admitt
ed quietly. “I shoulda made two trips, Sergeant Houston. I shouldn’t a bought everything at once, but...” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing at his collar. “It’s Christmas. The stores all close early and…” He glanced away, inciting another whine from Tiger.

  “You don’t have a car?” Mark asked as he hefted the fifty-pound bag to his shoulder, needing Quentin to stay on task.

  He jerked his gaze back to Mark. “No, dir. I ain’t got no license to drive no more. Judge took it. Said I wasn’t fit.”

  Libby stepped into his side, her hand gentle on his bicep. “Hi, Quentin. How are you doing?”

  He nodded, but dropped his gaze to his dog. “Me and Tiger’s doin’ fine, ma’am, jes’ fine.”

  “Were those the Simpson boys?” she asked, linking her arm with Mark’s as they headed west with Quentin.

  He grumbled under his breath, “They’s always on my back, the little shits. They’re mean like their dad. Craig sics ’em on me, I know he does.”

  Mark wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Craig was a Ranger,” Libby explained. “He lost his left eye in the war, so he was forced out. Last I heard, he hadn’t found a job. Life can’t be easy for those kids.”

  Well, hell. What does a guy do with two messed-up Army vets in the same town, both who could use a little support from each other instead of dealing with the crap life had dealt them? Mark faced the arctic breeze blowing in from the northwest, thankful for the sensitive woman at his side. There had to be a way to turn this around.

  Chapter Five

  The very best part about winter? Waking up in the wee hours of the morning under a goose down comforter. Staring at the snow falling through the center panes of four frosted windows. Basking under the dim, silvery light of the bed-and-breakfast yard light, and finding your man’s hairy arm wrapped around you, his big warm hand cupping your breast, his face in your hair, and his heated breath in the crook of your neck. The rest of his all-male body lined up with yours and ready for action.

  Fluttery wings of anticipation tightened her belly as Libby arched her butt into Mark’s hips, accepting his pointed challenge. A smile stretched pleasantly over her lips when he groaned in his sleep. He’d been out and about town most of yesterday while she and her mother were busy in the kitchen, but he was all hers now.

  Early morning sex was her favorite. He’d be extra warm under the covers, but his nose would be cold because this attic bedroom wasn’t well heated. He’d grumble and groan, but his hot and heavy hands would wander all over her naked body and then...

  A shiver ran up her spine just thinking about what would come next. Her!

  “What time is it?” he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at him. He liked to fall asleep with her tucked inside the curve of his body and his arms around her. Even pregnant, she was still tiny compared to him, the very essence of femininity tucked inside the languid power of sheer masculinity. He made her feel beautiful and sexy.

  This man could and had picked her up and carried her on numerous occasions. He was the exact opposite to her, his rough chest and leg hairs spreading little tongues of fire wherever she rubbed against him. And she was rubbing plenty. His hand moved from her breast to her ribcage, then to her hip until it ended cupping her ass. Squeezing. Lighting her up.

  “I’ve got to leave,” he muttered, his tongue tracing a line of pure temptation along the curl of her ear.

  Her hand went to his thigh, her fingernails digging into that thick muscle, holding him tight. “This early? Why?”

  “Work,” he breathed heavily, stretching to get his, umm, point across.

  “You don’t have work. Not here.” She enveloped him with her feminine warmth, encouraging him to skip whatever he thought he had to do while on vacation. He had a job to do right where he was. She shimmied her backside to remind him of that very important work.

  A sexy groan grumbled up from his belly, and, in an instant, she was on her back, and he was breathing in her face, his knees between her legs, his elbows tucked beside her and his long fingers tunneling into her thick curls. “Good morning, beautiful,” he whispered just before he planted his moist, warm lips on the tip of her nose.

  Libby raked her fingers over his head, loving the feel of his short, dark hair, the bristle of his shaved neck. She rubbed her nose into his cheek, loving the warm, manly smell of him, the hint of spicy body wash mingled with clean linen. The rugged feel of his skin compared to the softness of hers. The furrowed six-pack of his athletic belly against her baby bump. This man was her favorite addiction and, at the moment, her best compulsion. “Don’t leave,” she whispered enticingly, her tongue trailing a line of liquid heat from his chin to his ear. “It’s Christmas Eve. Don’t you want to give me an early present?”

  She could feel his lips spread into a smile against her cheek even as his hands clenched her backside. “Have you been a good little girl?”

  “Never,” she hissed, her body on fire for her man and what she hoped he’d do to her.

  “Just as I suspected,” he muttered, his voice ruggedly hoarse. “Then roll that ass over and take what’s coming to you.”

  She obeyed as he untangled from her body while she got to her hands and knees. He tugged a pillow beneath her to support her belly, swatted her ass gently once, then gave her what she had coming. There in the chilly dark of Christmas Eve. All of him. His hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as he pummeled her insides. Wild. Crazy. Sex. The kind she’d never be able to get enough of.

  Grunting and groaning, he launched her soul into the highest heavens. So deliciously high, she never wanted to come down. Just wanted to stay wrapped in his arms, his head bowed between her shoulder blades, his heavy, satisfied breath fanning her backside. They came together, but even as they fell back to earth, she clenched his body with hers just to hear him hiss, wishing they could stay cocooned in love and sex and romance forever.

  “That... was... incredible,” he ground out, his cold nose parting her tangles out of his way as he went.

  “I know.” He’d definitely put a smile on her face. “I love you, Mark. So much. Let’s raise our family here. Let’s start a farm. You’d be happy. I know you would.”

  He straightened and landed another gentle smack to her backside. “We’ll see. Did you know Craig Simpson does metal work?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, her face still to her pillow and her ass still in the air.

  He smoothed a nice warm hand over the cheek he’d swatted before he leaned down and kissed it. “You’ll see.”

  Chapter Six

  Mark had two errands to complete before the stores closed late afternoon. Run down to the hardware store in Marshfield, just a few miles south of Spencer, for more metal rods, then head north to Colby for Wisconsin’s specialties: a basket of sausages and cheeses, maybe a couple bottles of pickled herring. He’d gotten addicted to the vinegary-flavored, spicy little fish, but this time he wasn’t buying for himself. All of that good food was meant for Libby’s father. He deserved a special treat because now Mark knew Jerry Clifton could be just as sneaky as he was.

  All of Mark’s running around the day before had proved spot-on. Wouldn’t Libby be surprised? He hoped. The question of whether they’d move from Virginia back to Wisconsin was still up in the air. He was giving it due consideration, but Mark was a thorough planner above everything else. He didn’t make decisions hastily, certainly not in the heat of the moment and never under pressure. He was deliberate.

  His teachers had labeled him slow and dim-witted when he was in grade school, and maybe they were right. He’d always been a slower thinker than others, but only because he considered all angles before he opened his mouth. Never driven to compete for top honors, he’d learned early in life how brash decisions and thoughtless words could hurt from the cruel example of his father, so he’d consciously strived not to be like t
hat bitter, angry man. He believed in the wise, old adage that words once spoken were like broken eggs. They could never be recalled, and neither could the hurt they’d caused. The pen really was mightier than the sword, but the rapier mouth was a close second. He would know.

  “Is it ready?” Mark asked his new friend, one grumpy ex-Army Ranger with an eye patch who could still work wonders with metal. What Craig Simpson lacked in social skills and finesse, he made up for in talent, and Christmas Eve was the perfect day to showcase his efforts. Mark had worked a deal with him to make a special cart that Tiger could pull along the streets of Spencer. Balloon tires. Extra-long hitch. A padded harness so Tiger wouldn’t get stress blisters.

  If he could get it finished over-night, well, Mark had spent the previous day busting his ass plastering posters from the city of Marshfield down south, all the way north to Chippewa Falls advertising what Craig called his junk pile. Junk nothing. He’d made whirly-gigs and flying pigs out of scraps of metal, wind chimes, and, well, just about anything a woman would want spinning on her front porch or stuck in her yard to pretty things up. He’d even made a metal snowman and a crèche. Reindeer.

  The recalcitrant old fart had crafted the sweetest barbecue grill out of an old barrel that Mark still had to find a way to get back to Virginia. Okay, so he’d been buying things for himself, but he’d gotten something for Libby, too. A three-foot long wind chime of metal rods surrounded by tinkling cardinals. Painted red, of course. Two reindeer. A sleigh. Look out, UPS.

  It didn’t take a genius to see that Craig and Quentin needed each other, but they were both so banged up after combat, they couldn’t see straight much less recognize the truth. The more Mark had talked with Craig, the more he’d recognized the signs. Craig wanted his old life back. He wasn’t useless. He had skills, damnit, but he couldn’t adjust because he didn’t want to. He was a man and a man takes care of his family, but how’s a guy with one eye supposed to do that, huh?