by Karina Bliss
“Or stopped her, either.” Dan picked up his glass.
“At least he didn’t kiss someone else.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dan’s beer went down the wrong way and Ross had to thump him on the shoulderblades. “She hasn’t told you, has she?”
“Not yet,” he wheezed, “and I don’t want to hear it from you.”
“Don’t trust my version?”
“Don’t trust Charlie. I assume that’s where you got it.”
“You calling my baby brother a liar?”
“You calling my baby sister unfaithful?”
There was a tight silence. Both men gulped some beer. “Only one way to deal with this, Shep.” Ross put down his chilled glass and wiped his palms against his jeans. Dan followed suit.
Ross thrust out a hand. “Never speak of this again.” They shook on it. Picked up their beers again. “And to think you called me a cynic,” Ross added, “when I turned your other sister down for a date.”
Sipping his beer, Dan recalled his friend’s reasoning at the time. “Yeah, there are sparks with Viv,” Ross had admitted, “but I don’t want our friendship caught in the crossfire when it turns to shit. It’s bad enough that my brother is marrying into your family.”
“You were right,” Dan said. “I was wrong. I’ll never question your judgment again.”
“What if I told you to call off this wedding?” Dan scowled. “Thought not,” said Ross mildly. “Explain to me again why you’re trying to marry an unwilling woman?”
“She’s not unwilling…” To hell with it, Dan badly needed an ally. “Jo had cancer…thinks she’s doing me a favor by trying to protect me.”
Ross’s expressionless gaze went to Jo, who was talking to Anton at the other end of the bar. He took another sip of his beer. “What time am I due at the suit rental place tomorrow?”
Dan relaxed. “Ten.”
“I can’t believe Nate’s not here.”
The mirror behind the row of liquor bottles showed two guys sharing a drink. It should have been five. Dan raised his glass. “To absent friends.”
“To absent friends.”
The ale found its way down his constricted throat. It didn’t make sense that Nate had cut himself off from his surviving SAS brothers, but then neither did Dan’s sense of dread.
He’d believed if he devoted himself to living a meaningful life that he’d conquer his feelings of hopelessness over Steve and Lee’s deaths. Single-minded dedication had always worked in the SAS. You committed to a mission, and regardless of setbacks, you never wavered from your objective.
But his marriage mission had only intensified his dread, and Dan couldn’t say why.
“I’m starting to think it’s more than grief with Nate,” he said to Ross.
The other man frowned. “I wish I could remember what happened but I was out cold most of it.”
“Nate did everything right. More than right. There’s no reason for him to feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“Guilt.”
Ross whistled silently. “You really think that’s what it is?”
Dan nodded.
“I guess you’d recognize the signs.”
He forced himself to return his friend’s piercing gaze. “I’m over it,” he lied.
“Good. Because you don’t want that bullshit tainting what you have with Jo. That would be a tragedy and we’ve had enough of that this past year.” Ross raised his glass again. “To everything there is a season,” he said softly and Dan recognized the scripture he’d quoted at Steve’s funeral. “And this is your time to sow, farmboy.” His gaze shifted over Dan’s shoulder. “And to dance.”
“What?”
Pat seized his arm. “Come boogie with your mother. That spoilsport bar manager canceled our stripper so we’ll have to make our own fun.”
Dan looked down at her flushed face and that awful hair that made her look like a cougar. His mother was not someone he wanted on the prowl. “Why don’t you sit down and rest?”
“Pooh!” she said. “I could dance all night. And I’m not accepting excuses… Well, Ross has an excuse but—”
“Fine,” Dan cut her off. “Let’s get this over with.” If she didn’t dance with him she might dance with someone who actually fancied her. Where the hell was Herman?
Before he followed Pat he asked Ross. “And what season is it for you?”
“A time to heal.” But they both knew healing was only a means to an end. Ross was bent on reprisal.
Thank God nothing had happened between Ross and Viv, thought Dan as he walked to the dance floor. His friend was a time bomb waiting to explode and Dan didn’t want either of his little sisters anywhere near the detonation zone.
* * *
Ross Coltrane didn’t like being a passenger, at least not when Jo was driving.
He gripped the handhold above the car door whenever she accelerated and shoved his good foot on an imaginary brake every time they reached an intersection.
Hiding a smile, she took a corner sharply enough to drag a squeal from the tires.
Ross’s arrogant air of male superiority had always punched her girl-power buttons. It had become a perverse challenge…trying to wring a whimper out of the Iceman.
He slanted her a sidelong glance but didn’t say a word. They’d always had this rivalry, ever since he’d first realized Dan’s best friend Jo was a girl. He still couldn’t fathom that. He was a man’s man, with no real interest in women except between the sheets.
She went over a speed bump a little faster than she should and his head hit the ceiling.
From her supine position along the backseat, Delwyn said faintly, “You’re making me feel sick.”
“Oh, hon, I’m sorry.” Contrite, Jo eased her foot off the accelerator. She’d almost forgotten she had a second passenger, she’d been so eager to seize the opportunity to speak to Ross away from Dan when she’d offered to drop him at the farm. Dan was left waiting for Herman. “How about some fresh air?” Pressing a switch on the driver’s door, she opened the back window and a chill blast lanced through the car’s interior.
Delwyn’s disheveled head popped up in the rearview mirror. Propping herself against the passenger door she stuck her face out into the black night with a groan, her long hair flapping like the ears of a cocker spaniel.
Ross swung around to assess her, then shrugged off his jacket and passed it over. “Put this on to keep warm.”
“I’m never drinking cocktails again,” she moaned. “I’m sticking to Asti Spumante or beer.”
“It’s only another couple blocks,” Jo reassured them. She really didn’t want Delwyn throwing up in her car.
Ross turned to the front. “It would serve you right for trying to wind me up, Swannie.”
“Then quit acting like you’re being driven by Miss Daisy.” Over her shoulder she called to Delwyn: “If you can’t wait to throw up, hon, use Ross’s jacket.”
His mouth twitched and his incongruous dimple appeared. “All ammo for the best man’s wedding speech, Bridezilla.”
Ross had been roped into best man? “Lucky it’s not going to happen, then,” she retorted. “You and I are having a serious talk.” Jo parked in Delwyn’s driveway and got out of the car. Ross did the same. “It’s okay, I’ve got her,” she said.
Ignoring Jo, Ross opened Delwyn’s door. She was leaning against it and toppled sideways with a tipsy giggle. “Oops!”
He caught her falling weight, instinctively bracing on his bad leg. A grimace of pain tightened his features. Diving forward, Jo propped Delwyn to a sitting position.
“Don’t you ever listen to good advice?”
“I’m fine.” Under the motion-activated outdoor lights his face was ashen.
“Let me guess,” she said, exasperated. “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” It was a favorite saying of the Special Forces. And in Jo’s view, an idiotic one.
“You’ve got a smart mouth on you, Swannie.”
“And you’re a stubborn alpha-hole. Go wait in the car.”
Shaking his head, Ross bent to hook one of Delwyn’s arms over his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you to carry her by yourself. Swing your feet to the ground, that’s it, Delwyn… She must have a good stone on you.”
Delwyn’s lolling head snapped upright; she fixed Ross with a stare of bleary indignation. “Escuse me, but I los’ two and a quarter pounds on my wedding diet.”
“Well, I think you look at least five pounds lighter,” Jo soothed, slinging Delwyn’s other arm around her neck. “Doesn’t she, Ross?”
“I didn’t see her before,” he said with annoying male truthfulness. “On the count of three. One…two…three.”
They hauled Delwyn upright and she hung between them like a sack of potatoes.
“C’mon, sweetie,” Jo encouraged. She’d forgotten that drunks were deadweights. “We need you to walk now.”
“Jus’ wanna go to sleep.”
“Only a few steps, I promise…you don’t want to wake your flatmate, do you?”
“Don’ care,” said Delwyn. “Don’ care ’bout anything now Wayne’s dumped me.”
Inside she shrugged off Jo’s arm and collapsed on Ross’ chest. “You wanna have sex? That’ll show Wayne.” She hitched up a shoulder strap and licked her lips to make them shiny. “I mean, you do think I’m hot, right?”
Jo prayed Ross heard the plaintiveness in her voice. “I think you’re gorgeous,” he said.
Delwyn beamed and flapped an arm in Jo’s direction. “Go ’way.”
I don’t think so.
“But the thing is, Delwyn,” Ross lifted her off his chest, “you’ve seen me limping, right?”
She rolled her head to look at his leg. “Uh-huh.”
“Well…the…accident also affected my ability to satisfy a woman. Otherwise I’d be all over you.”
Jo hid a smile.
“Really?” Delwyn clutched his shirt.
“Really.”
“Can I tell Wayne that? I mean you being hot for me, not about—you know.”
“That depends. How big is Wayne?”
Delwyn indicated a picture in a heart-shaped frame on the mantel.
Even the wrench in his hand couldn’t make the lanky mechanic look menacing.
“Sure,” Ross said generously. “You can tell him.”
Delwyn’s flatmate came out from the bathroom, clutching a towel around her, then fluffed up her wet hair as she caught sight of Ross. “What’s going on?”
Delwyn burst into tears.
“I want Wayne,” she wailed.
Leaving her to her flatmate’s ministrations, they made their escape. “You can be nice,” Jo said as they walked toward the car. “Who knew?”
“Yeah, like I told Dan…you and I are nothing alike.”
She laughed. “And the impotence thing was inspired.”
“I’m glad you found that amusing.” The flatness of his tone gave rise to a terrible suspicion. No, thought Jo, Dan would have told me.
Assuming Ross had confided in him.
Unsure what to think, she changed the subject. “Dan said you want to go back…to operations, I mean.”
Ross clipped his seat belt. “As soon as the scars heal.” Unconsciously, he massaged one fist and her skin prickled. The Iceman was the last person she’d expect to see in the thrall of revenge.
Disturbed, Jo refastened her own seat belt and started the engine. She knew from her mastectomy that external healing was the easiest part of the recovery journey. It was the internal scars, the ones you refused to acknowledge, that held you back. And she sensed Ross hadn’t even begun that process.
This week it had become increasingly apparent that neither had Dan.
When he’d first joined the SAS, Jo had been a little jealous of Dan’s bond with his fellow soldiers until it hit her that these guys held his life in their hands every time they were deployed. The closer the bond, the better their odds.
Which was why the survivors were suffering so much now. Not only had they lost buddies closer than brothers, they’d failed to keep one another safe.
However ambivalent she might feel about Ross personally, Jo would never question his loyalty to Dan. In fact she was banking on it.
“I’m worried about him, Ross,” she said abruptly. “I think Dan holds himself culpable. But he wasn’t with you on patrol and he couldn’t have done anything if he was.” Taking her eyes off the road, she glanced his way. “Could he?”
He was silent a moment. They’d left suburbia and were on country roads. No streetlights to illuminate his profile. “Do you know why we called him Shep?”
“I assume because he’s a farmboy.”
Ross shook his head. “It’s short for the good shepherd. As our signaler, it was always Dan’s job to get us in.” He eased his leg forward. “And get us out. He knows there’s no reason to blame himself, he knows he would probably have been another casualty. I’ve told him that. But he doesn’t feel it. And feelings don’t disappear just because you apply logic.”
“Love isn’t a cure-all,” said Jo, “but I think Dan expected it to be. His faith in my ability to heal him is touching but—”
“It’s misplaced,” Ross supplied. “The only person who can forgive him for not being with us is himself.”
“You’ve got to help me talk him out of this wedding,” she said desperately. “He’s not making rational decisions right now.”
“Are you?”
“You tell me since apparently we’re so much alike,” she snapped.
Ross smiled. “I’ll help you,” he said, and Jo unclenched her hands on the steering wheel.
“Thank you.”
“And in return…”
Jo took her foot off the accelerator.
Chapter Seventeen
“Mijn God!” Across the bar, Herman gaped at his wife, currently hiking her orange skirt up to her knees so she could climb onto a barstool.
Dan shrugged. “I did tell you about the hair last week,” he reminded his father.
Herman’s eyes widened as Pat called loudly for another drink. “Yes, but…but blond not…not…”
“Tarty?” Dan suggested. “Vampish, slutty?”
“Common,” growled his father. “And your moeder is not common. Why are you still letting her drink?”
“Anton’s been secretly feeding her nonalcoholic cocktails for the past hour. Mum only thinks she’s getting drunker. What took you so long?” Dan was irritable. He’d sent Ross off with Jo half an hour ago because Ross needed to get that injured leg elevated, not that he’d appreciated the reminder.
Steve’s widow, Claire, and her son, Lewis, were arriving sometime after 9:30 p.m. He needed to be there to welcome them. Hell, he needed to tell Jo they were here for the wedding. Hopefully she’d have dropped Ross off and left before they arrived.
After his houseguests were settled he’d drive to her place. Dan didn’t sleep well, but he slept even worse without Jo in his arms. He’d break the news to her in the morning before he returned to the farm to make breakfast.
Any way you looked at it, things were getting complicated.
“I took so long,” grumbled Herman, “because I got a flat tire. I don’t know why I’m here anyway. It’s not like your mother even wants me.”
Catching sight of him, Pat scowled. Tossing her head, she swung around to the counter and started talking animatedly to the next person in the queue for drinks, a middle-aged man who looked at her bemusedly.
“You see,” said Herman gruffly and turned to go.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Dan said. “Wait here.”
He strode over to his mother. “Okay, Blondie. Are you going to keep channeling Monroe or put some of those psychology books to use and save your marriage.”
The ditzy airhead changed into his mother. “I’m scared, Danny. I don’t know if there’s anything left to save.”
“Feel the fear and do it anyway,
Mom.” He helped her off the stool but when they turned around, his father had already gone. Shit. “We’ll catch him in the parking lot.” Hand under Pat’s elbow, he hustled her outside. Herman was twenty paces ahead.
“Dad, wait up.”
Herman kept walking. Dan urged his resistant mother faster. A couple of yards away from her husband, she pulled free. “That’s right, Herman Jansen, make me run after you. Again!”
Herman stopped. “Looked to me like you were running after some other guy two minutes ago.”
“Oh, c’mon,” said Dan. “He was twenty years younger.”
His mother narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying I had no chance?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Well, I hope you get lucky this time,” Herman spluttered. “Heaven forbid you have to suffer another thirty-five years trying to make a silk purse of a sow’s ear. Maybe this guy will share his feelings and go to art galleries and finally make you happy.”
Pat’s eyes glittered with tears. “Maybe he’ll care enough to fight for me, too.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one who asked for a divorce,” Herman accused her. “I’m not the one gallivanting around town telling anyone who’d listen how goddamn fine I am about our separation. I’m not the one getting drunk and flirting in bars.” Bewildered, he asked, “What am I supposed to read from that?”
“That she loves and misses you and wants you home,” Dan interjected. “Isn’t it freaking obvious that she’s only been kicking up to get your attention?” Honestly, how had his father learned so little about women when he’d raised two daughters?
Pat didn’t answer.
Dan coaxed her closer to Herman. “And you seem to forget that she stuck by you for thirty-five years as a farmer’s wife. And maybe she begrudged that sacrifice sometimes…okay a lot—”
“You can stop now, Danny,” Pat interrupted. Doggedly he continued. “But she made the best of it most of the time, didn’t she?”
His father looked at his mother. It was a strange look, almost of compassion.
Pat bowed her head. “No,” she admitted. “I didn’t.”
There was a short, tight silence.
