Return to Glory (Hqn)

by Sara Arden

  “A yearbook is nowhere near the same thing as a soldier’s dog tags.”

  Betsy could admit India was right about that, but Betsy didn’t think there was anything wrong with keeping his tags. He’d been a big part of her life. The breath in her lungs was there only because he’d given it to her. Keeping his tags didn’t seem above and beyond reasonable.

  “Look, I know Jack isn’t the same guy who left. He couldn’t be. But that guy made me feel like a live wire and see stars where I knew there weren’t any because my eyes were closed. If someone makes me feel that again, then I’ll go out with him. I won’t settle for less.”

  “Honey, if Scott Meyer didn’t make you see stars, you’re a lost cause,” India teased.

  Betsy could admit Scott was a catch. He was a fireman. It was some unwritten law that all firemen had to be sexy. He was smart and funny, country-boy sweet with a pair of shoulders like Atlas. Betsy had kissed him on their third date. It had been nice, but it had reminded her of chocolate. Godiva to be exact. She liked Godiva and enjoyed it, an excellent product, but it didn’t do things to her senses the way André’s Confiserie Suisse did. Having had André’s, she was spoiled for anything else.

  “Didn’t you go out with him a few times after you got back? I don’t see any follow-up dates that you had, either. You must be a lost cause, too,” Betsy deflected.

  A haunted look flashed across India’s features, only to fade into a brittle smile. “I am at that, Bets.” She nodded.

  “India,” Betsy began haltingly.

  “I’d rather deal with your mess than mine.” India’s expression softened. “I know you and Caleb love me. If I need you, I’ll ask, okay?”

  There was so much Betsy wanted to say. India was just returning to civilian life after deployment as a military police officer. While she’d come home physically whole, something catastrophic had happened to her that was more than just the reality of war.

  “Okay,” she agreed softly. “But you better hurry up in the dating department. Otherwise you’re stuck with my brother.” They’d made an oath at fifteen that if neither of them was married by thirty, they’d bite the bullet and marry each other. Betsy’s mom had been thrilled and suggested they start dating as a practice run.

  “More like he’d be stuck with me.” India managed a real laugh. “Don’t you have cookies to bake?”

  Betsy let it drop. “Are you sure you can handle the counter? The morning rush is kind of crazy.”

  “I’m a cop.” India shrugged. “How bad can it be?”

  “You’re tempting fate with that question.”

  “She can go ahead and bring it.” India screwed up her pretty features into an expression that said she was indeed ready for anything that came her way.

  That was old-school India, and Betsy was happy to hear it. “If you’re sure. If you need me, I’ll be in my laboratory.” She pronounced the last word with what her brother had come to call “evil genius inflection.”

  Betsy had to admit that baking sometimes made her feel like a mad scientist, or a witch brewing spells and potions. It was part of what she loved about baking. Quality baked goods were all about chemistry and reaction, but not just of the ingredients themselves. It was about how those things interacted with the people combining the ingredients and those who would partake of the results.

  Betsy tried to stay calm and happy while she worked. In the early days of her shop, she’d taken out her frustration on bread dough, and even though she’d done nothing different, when she was unhappy, the bread tasted like a scoop of used kitty litter.

  As she mixed the dough for the cookies, Betsy let go of everything that weighed her down. She surrendered to the initial feelings that always enveloped her when she walked into the shop. Peace. Joy. Home. She kept each one on her mind and in her heart while she formed every cookie.

  It was a blessed respite until several hours later. When all the batches had cooled and she packaged cookies for Jack and some for the ceremony, it occurred to her that maybe Jack wouldn’t want to see her at all. Her heart twisted in on itself, the cruel hands of possibility wringing it out like a sponge.

  She crushed that thought beneath her vintage high heels. It didn’t matter if he wanted to see her or not. With all he’d lost, he needed someone. Even if it was only to let him know he wasn’t alone. It was possible and even likely he’d changed more than she could ever know, but underneath it all, he was still Jack. Betsy owed him her very life, and if he needed her now, nothing would keep her from repaying the debt. She might not be able to make mushrooms bordelaise, but she could help Jack.

  Betsy kept her focus on that determination while she closed up Sweet Thing, loaded the bakery van with India and even after she’d taken her seat inside the community center.

  But then her first sight of Jack obliterated all her good intentions. Any notion of debts and repayment quickly morphed into a familiar hunger. Her breath caught and time stopped.

  A tsunami-like surge of emotion crashed over her now. She devoured the sight of him, as if any second he’d disappear and she’d have only these few precious seconds to remember him.

  He was harder now, aged in a way deeper than skin. His shoulders were wider, his chest thicker and his jaw harder. His close-cropped hair now accentuated the high-angled sharp lines of his cheekbones and cinder block jaw. His mouth was set in a grim line, scar tissue crisscrossing in a haphazard melee across the left side of his face. When he turned his head, she saw that the scars ran down his neck and disappeared beneath his uniform.

  Tears welled up in her eyes for him, but not because of how he looked. Even with the scars, he was as handsome as he’d ever been. Maybe even more. His scars were proof of his strength—of his courage. The spray of white-ridged marks across his skin, and tributaries and valleys of twisted, ropey sinew and puckered flesh, horrified her not because they were ugly, but because she couldn’t imagine the pain he’d suffered.

  Betsy tried to look away. But try as hard as she could, there was nothing else she could focus on but Jack. Just as it had always been.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACK WOULD HAVE known her anywhere.

  Betsy Lewis was a lush caricature of the lovely girl he remembered. Her ethereal beauty had become earthier. That pale skin had turned to cream perfection and her rounded curves had become full-on dangerous. A tumble of black hair hung over her shoulder to curl against her cleavage, and she looked every inch a vintage pinup queen, right down to her matte red lips and the matching cherry print on her white dress. Everything about her blared sex, and his body answered, painfully hard, at just the sight of her.

  Or maybe it was just because he was a twisted bastard? That was more likely. She was a beautiful, kind woman who deserved better than him imagining her to satisfy himself during the long, lonely nights. He’d thought that part of his life was over, that need. Either the shrapnel or the whiskey had taken it from him, and until now, he hadn’t cared. He didn’t want to look at himself, or touch himself, so he was under no illusions that anyone else would want to.

  Especially not her. She couldn’t even look at his face.

  He tried to block out the memory of her kiss, that innocent touch of her lips against his, begging him to be her first—and what inevitably came next. His patient, tender refusal. The look in her eyes now when she’d had to turn away was much the same. As if something inside her had been crushed.

  What the hell was he thinking anyway? Even if he’d come home whole, he still wasn’t good enough for Betsy Lewis.

  God, but he wanted a drink. He wanted to silence the voices in his head, the memories and the pain. He consoled himself that this would be over quickly. The townspeople would get their look at him and then they’d leave him alone.

  That’s what this recognition ceremony was all about—they wanted their look to satisfy their curiosity
. They’d go home and talk about what a shame it was what happened to Jack McConnell and then they’d leave him in blessed peace.

  The mayor continued to drone on and Jack managed to tear his gaze away from Betsy. “And with that, we’d like to present you with this award,” the mayor finished.

  Jack stood slowly, his prosthesis working with him and straightening as the rest of his body did. He still couldn’t move too fast or it would throw off his balance.

  He was expected to speak, but he had nothing to say.

  “It’s an honor, sir,” the mayor said, shaking his hand.

  He leaned over the mic and fixed his stare on a point against the far wall. “The honor is mine. Both to have served my country and to be part of this community. Thank you.” Jack accepted the plaque and headed for the exit, trying not to choke on the bile in his throat.

  Betsy was suddenly standing in front of him with one of the purple boxes—just like the ones she used to send him. “Hi, Jack.” She thrust the box into his hand and flung herself into his arms.

  She clung tightly to him and he couldn’t stop himself from clinging back. The scents of vanilla and sugar washed over him. She smelled so good, so wholesome, and she felt even better with her full breasts against his chest. She fit against him as if she’d been made for this moment—for him. Her hair was so soft against his cheek, like black silk. Jack could have stood there forever simply holding her.

  But like all breakable things, he knew every second he touched her was dangerous.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she whispered against his ear.

  Her breath was warm on his skin, tingling. The sensation caused him to remember what it felt like to want. To need. Jack couldn’t help himself. He tightened his embrace and crushed her solidly against him. “You smell like cookies.” He hadn’t seen her in five years, and the first thing he said was that she smelled like cookies. Stupid.

  What else was there to say? Don’t tell me it’s good to see me when you can’t even look at me?

  She laughed, the sound musical and light, but she made no move to release him and he found he didn’t have to the courage to pull away from her. Right now it was just a hug. They could be Jack and Betsy. When he released her, she’d have to look somewhere and it wouldn’t be his face. He couldn’t blame her.

  Or at least that’s what he told himself.

  Instead of letting go, he wanted to touch her more thoroughly. To see if she was really so soft and perfect everywhere. Only being this close to her made his skin feel too tight, itchy. Made him think if he could just scratch deep enough, he could peel off what he’d become, but he knew better. So he pulled back from her, but she stayed in his embrace.

  “That’s because I was baking all morning. They’re Nutella cheesecake.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “Your favorite.” She had yet to focus on his face.

  Jack couldn’t remember what his favorite was, but if she said it was, he’d believe her. He hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash, or remember anything before the char consumed his nose, his mouth and his lungs. She pulled farther away from him slowly, and he let her go.

  It occurred to him that she was as beautiful as he was ugly. No, that wasn’t even the right word. She was like the sun, warm and bright, but she would scald him through to the bone if he let himself bask in her rays for too long. He needed to take cover, and in this case, distance and darkness would be his shield.

  “Thanks.” He held up the box in his hand. “I guess we should settle up.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked at a point past his cheek, not focusing on his face.

  “I owe you. For taking care of the house. My parents.” He swallowed hard. “Being there to take the call when I was injured.”

  “Oh Jack. You don’t owe me for anything.” She looked down and smoothed her hands on her dress to straighten an imaginary wrinkle. “You came home. That’s all I wanted.”

  Before this moment, he hadn’t been able to admit he wanted Betsy to look at him the same way she had done those years ago when he left. She wasn’t that girl anymore and he certainly wasn’t that boy. “My parents left you something in their will. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t get it.” That was a damn lie, but it had to be done. After everything she’d done for him, he owed her. Jack was a man who paid his debts.

  “Come by tonight after you close the bakery.” It would be dark then and she wouldn’t have to see his face. He didn’t wait for her to respond but abandoned her there by the stage. Jack didn’t want to hear her say no.

  Hours later, with a bottle of whiskey in hand, Jack was wishing he’d stayed to hear her refusal. Then he wouldn’t have been sitting there rotten with hope for just one more look at a woman who wasn’t coming.

  What the hell had he been thinking anyway? He could have the papers to the account drawn up and have them delivered. Jack didn’t have to be here. He could leave her the house, too. He took a long pull, finding comfort in the fact that oblivion was only a bottle away.

  He was almost all the way through the amber bliss when the front bell rang. Jack didn’t jump half out of his skin this time, because he’d reached that plateau where his constant fight-or-flight reaction was a distant discomfort. Jack would’ve just let the bell ring, but there was still the faint hope it could be her.

  She smiled at him when he opened the door, another purple box in her hands. “Sorry it’s so late. I’ve got Halloween orders to fill, so I’ve been working late.”

  He held the door open to allow her inside. She was wearing a different dress. This one was vintage as well, yellow-checked gingham with pockets in the front and a neckline that had to be illegal.

  The sound of an old engine backfiring on the street outside elicited an immediate response: take cover. He hit the floor, dragging Betsy with him and shielding her with his body before he could process that it was just another shitty car in a small American town. He wasn’t in Iraq anymore.

  A cool hand on his cheek brought him into the present. “It’s okay. We’re safe,” she whispered to him.

  Shame, hot and putrid, washed over him. “I’m sorry.”

  “You were protecting me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  He recoiled from her, pulling himself off her and leaning his back against the wall. “I, uh, what my parents wanted you to have, it’s on the table.”

  “Jack,” she began. Her presence was overwhelming, smothering. She seemed to burn up all the oxygen in the room.

  “Just take it and go.” He struggled to get up, but he couldn’t get his balance with nothing stationary to which he could anchor himself. The prosthesis bent at an awkward angle and he crashed back to the floor. Jack cursed, more determined than ever to get up now. He had to. She couldn’t see him like this.

  At least at the ceremony he’d been upright and in his uniform. Wearing a symbol of something that mattered. Now he was just Jack.

  Broken.

  Useless.

  He tried again to stand but failed. Rage filled him and he didn’t care if he broke the thing, he would stand. Jack attempted to claw his way up.

  “Jack,” she said again, horror shading her voice.

  “I don’t want your damn pity,” he roared.

  She reached for the crushed purple box and put it up on a nearby table and then moved next to him, pulling his head down into her lap.

  Even as it was happening, Jack knew it was wrong. He wanted to tell her to leave. No, now he was lying to himself. He didn’t want to tell her to leave, but he knew he needed to. Her touch was tender and sweet, stroking over the good side of his face. “Pity and empathy are two different things.”

  She still smelled so good—of all things sweet and wholesome. While he stank of Old North Bend whiskey.

  “You should go, B
ets.” His actions betrayed his words because he’d wrapped an arm around her thighs.

  “Not a chance. It’s not you who owes me, but the other way around. Did you forget that you saved my life?”

  “That was a hundred years ago and another life.”

  “Maybe. But men aren’t the only ones allowed to have their honor. I pay my debts, too.”

  “There’s no debt. Your life is yours, free and clear.” He didn’t want her to be here because of some imaginary debt.

  “I’ll never forget opening my eyes and seeing you leaning over me.” She stroked her fingers through his hair. “The streetlight made a halo around your head and I thought you were some kind of angel.”

  “What utter tripe,” he said without conviction.

  “I have never been so terrified. When I realized I wasn’t going to make it back up to the surface, I was so angry. I wasn’t ready for my life to be over. Especially not for some stupid childhood prank. I didn’t want to die. And it hurt, it was like my lungs were on fire while being pressed under a million pounds of solid rock.”

  He didn’t speak but pulled away from her and the intimacy of the position.

  “Then there you were, Jack. While everyone else watched and did nothing, it was you who saved me. You gave me everything I have. So if you think for a minute I wouldn’t do the same for you, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “I’m not drowning, Betsy.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re drowning yourself in whiskey. I smelled it on you at the ceremony, and your house reeks of it.”

  “I’m already dead, sweetheart. It’s a wasted effort. So take what my parents left you and go.”

  “Shall we see about that, Jack?” She pulled away from him and stood.

  “What?”

  “Get up.”

  “I can’t.” He might have expected this from someone else, but never Betsy.