by Alicia Scott
“Eight months pregnant with twins, so she’s mad as hell to be on the road. Mitch says she’s going along with it for now, but if Garret had them leave for no good reason in the end, she’ll skin him alive. Hmm. That could be interesting. The Ice Angel taking on Garret.”
Suzanne gave him an exasperated look. “I’m sure Garret had them leave for a very good reason;” she insisted. “So you’ll get the tools?” she prodded, returning to the original subject.
Cagney nodded. “I’ll see what I can work out. Most likely I can bring them over this afternoon. I’ll try to stop by the lumberyard as well. Maybe we can figure out something constructive for Garret to do rather than eat all your food.”
Suzanne’s mind unwittingly flashed to what other activities Garret had been doing, and she felt her cheeks flush. “Fine,” she squeaked, and immediately headed for the door. If she blushed much darker, Cagney wouldn’t need her to say a word to know what was going on. And she’d just as soon keep her foolishness to herself.
Maybe she had been living alone for too long, and that made her, well, susceptible to Garret. But she was over that now. The efficient Suzanne was back. She’d gotten up first thing this morning and called Cagney to get something worked out. Now Garret would work in the shed, and she’d have her house back. It was exactly what she wanted.
She marched primly to the door, ignoring the small flutter of disappointment in her stomach.
“Just come over when you have the tools,” she called over her shoulder as she opened the door.
“Will do. And Suzanne, it’ll take more than a hobby to keep that whisker burn off your neck.”
Her cheeks turned positively scarlet, but she didn’t say a word. Not even when she slammed the door on Cagney’s droll gaze.
Her house still looked like her house when she pulled her old Ford back into the driveway. The wraparound porch was becoming warped in places but could probably survive another year before being replaced. The white paint at least looked good; she’d awakened the morning after her mother’s funeral to find her fellow church members on her front porch, armed with paintbrushes and pails of fresh paint. After the strain of the past few years, their actions had brought tears to her eyes. Now, every three years, they all reappeared on her lawn, ready to help yet again. When she died, she would leave the house to the church. Rachel didn’t want anything to do with Maddensfield, and there were no other Montgomerys left.
She climbed out of her car and took a deep breath. This was her home, and she was proud of the life she’d built. And darn it, she’d come far enough to be able to deal with a simple man.
She marched up the porch into her house, this time looking immediately behind the front door so she wouldn’t be scared witless again. There was no sign of Garret, however. She combed the first floor, but it was empty. Slightly puzzled, she climbed up to the second floor. But the four bedrooms were empty, with nothing stirring but old cotton curtains she’d sewed years ago. Frowning, she went up to the third floor. It was much too hot up here during the summer, so the three bedrooms were used only for storage. Garret wasn’t here, either.
The first prickle of unease snaked up her spine.
She climbed down the stairs much faster than necessary, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed as she found herself searching the second floor yet again. But nothing—no one—moved. The house was simply empty.
He’d left.
She’d known it would happen, had told herself quite logically that the day would come. But that realization didn’t quite prepare her for the sudden sinking feeling in her stomach, the new tremor in her hands. All at once, she felt empty and not herself at all.
Then in the next second, she heard a sound from the backyard. Bunching her loose skirt in her hand, she bustled down the remaining stairs and along the back hall. She came to a heart-stopping halt in front of the back door, her eyes opening wide. Through the window she could see an ax arch up in the hot July sun, then come whistling back down into a small log. It split cleanly and toppled to the ground.
Without breaking rhythm, Garret placed a new log on the stump and hefted the ax once more. Bare muscles glistened in the hundred-degree heat and high humidity. Sweat rolled down his biceps and chest, disappearing into his black furred chest as the ax arched up and swung down with relentless precision.
She felt her mouth go dry and her legs begin to tremble. She placed her hand flat against the window for support, her eyes still glued to the man in front of her. With a bandanna tied around his forehead, his jet hair spiked with moisture around his shoulders, he looked wild and reckless. And he looked comfortable and efficient with an ax in his hands. She opened the back door.
Garret didn’t know how long he’d been chopping, and it didn’t matter. He’d found the old ax in the shed and the tool had called to him. From his earlier memories, he knew he’d used an ax to chop wood as a teen. In the fire-seared corners of his mind, he knew he’d carried an ax for far more serious purposes. He’d picked up the old tool out of fascination, and the comfortable feel of it in his hands had sent chills up his spine. It was like coming home.
He’d followed his instincts after that, finding a pile of logs outside the shed and setting them up on the stump one after another. In the beginning, the movement had tested rusty muscles. Now, a fourth of a cord of wood later, he moved like a well-oiled machine. He felt the sweat and the heat and the thirst. He felt the slow burn of tired arms and the tingling pain of his wounds.
He felt good. And as he moved through the pain and heat and thirst, he could remember the sign every SEAL saw from the first day of training: “The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.”
He hefted the ax above his head, and let it whistle on its way back down.
“What in the world are you doing?”
Suzanne stood on her back porch in a yellow twentiesstyle dress, her hands on her hips. She looked lovely, her hair rolled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked angry.
He swung the ax up and felt his blood sing. He slammed the ax back into the wood, watching it split with instant satisfaction.
Suzanne, however, wasn’t put off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her come bustling down the porch steps, her lips thinned into the kindergarten-teacher look he was beginning to know so well. But rather than stop in front of him, she went immediately to his back. He heard her gasp, but even then it took him a few minutes to put it all together.
He flexed his back muscles, and without the distraction of the ax, felt the instant burn. He’d torn open the wound, of course.
“Would you just look at this?” Suzanne said promptly. She stomped in front of him with such an enraged look, he could only grin. It fueled her anger even more. “You’ve torn open your scab,” she reprimanded him sharply. “All of Dr. Jacobs’s hard work gone, just like that. Your back is a horrible mess. And for what? I don’t exactly need firewood in the middle of July!”
“Well, firewood never does go bad.”
“You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you? You’ve ripped open your back and by all rights should be in a heck of a lot of pain, and you’re proud of yourself!”
“Right on both counts.” He grinned, finding himself intrigued by just how flushed her cheeks became when she was angry. He liked her hair like that, too; it looked much softer than when she had it pulled all the way up on the top of her head. All the loose strands waved around her face like a delicate frame. He was almost tempted to wrap some of them around his finger, except that she was indeed correct. His back suddenly hurt like blazing hell, and movement no longer sounded so appealing.
He didn’t mind the pain, though. Physical pain he understood. And he certainly liked it better than the dreams he didn’t understand. Zenaisa. Zenaisa and Zlatko at the outskirts of Sarajevo. He recalled that much now. But what was a Navy SEAL doing at a camp in Sarajevo, and why did just the thought of both those names fill him with feelings of pain and loss?
His face darkened, a
frown crinkling his brow.
“What is it?” Suzanne asked instantly. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you remember something?”
He shook his head, then negated the movement by half nodding. “No. Yes. I don’t know. Nothing I understand.”
Suzanne was quiet for a long moment, the anger draining out of her. Generally, she wasn’t that emotional a person. Garret just got to her somehow. And his back really was a mess, the blood mixing with the sweat to stain the edge of his jeans. Still, a part of her could sympathize with his frustration. It must be horrible not knowing what had happened to him.
“We should get you back inside,” she said at last. “See what we can do about bandaging that wound. You’re not going to get well if you keep treating yourself like this.”
He nodded, his eyes still troubled and looking out in the distance at something she couldn’t see. “I like the ax,” he said abruptly.
She nodded, not understanding.
“I shouldn’t, you know,” he continued on. “I had training in guns, explosives, diving and parachuting apparatuses. I know the difference between C-4 and C-5a. I know about altimeters, MP-16s and Draegers. So why the hell do I keep remembering an ax? I think I was a fire fighter, Suzanne. Now why would a Navy SEAL be a fire fighter? What happened to my team? Why doesn’t anything make any sense?”
His words ended starkly, and his dark eyes bore into hers with deep frustration and raw need. Her hand came up to rest lightly on his sweat-covered shoulder.
“It’ll come back to you,” she said quietly, her hazel eyes steady and calm as they found his. “Dr. Jacobs said to give it time, and it’s only been a week. That you’re remembering things is a good sign. Sooner or later, they will all fall into place, and then you’ll know what to do.”
He nodded, but his face was still grim.
“Garret,” she said after a minute, her voice hesitant. “Garret, Mitch found out that you’re listed as AWOL.”
He stiffened immediately, and she wished she could recall the words. But he deserved to know what was going on with his own situation. His hands clenched at his sides, the muscles in his neck cording with frustration. She stood there wordlessly, waiting for him to work through his feelings. Still, she jumped when he abruptly kicked a piece of wood halfway to the porch.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered darkly, then threw in a few other words that instantly colored her cheeks. He managed an apology, but his eyes weren’t in it.
“It’s okay,” she told him stiffly, her chin coming up. “I know you, Garret. I know you would never desert from the navy. As soon as you get your memory back, you’ll be able to explain everything.”
He glared at her. “Why do you believe in me?” he quizzed her irritably. “I’ve never done anything but leave you at a bus stop.”
“You’re a Guiness,” she said simply, though her heart was beginning to hammer in her chest.
There was some truth to his words, except that Garret hadn’t exactly run out on her, or anyone else for that matter. He’d always said he would leave when he was eighteen, and he’d done exactly that. He’d always wanted to be a soldier, and he’d done exactly that. She just couldn’t imagine him running away from anything.
“Come inside,” she said at last, when he continued to stand there, still and glowering. “We’ll take care of your back before you cause any more damage.”
After a brief hesitation, he followed her in. It seemed the only thing to do. The navy thought he’d gone AWOL, and he supposed he had. He’d been shot in D.C. yet he’d come directly here instead of returning to his unit, all because he simply felt he had to.
Hell, maybe he had lost his mind. Maybe he had deserted. He couldn’t remember a damn thing that suggested otherwise. And he didn’t dare do anything until he knew more. Like who would shoot him in the back, and why was he so certain the person was still out there, looking to finish the job.
His back burned with a leaping flame as he climbed the porch steps. Then exhaustion and thirst hit him like a freight train, reminding him suddenly of his weak muscles and the blazing heat. He wavered on the last step, and without asking, Suzanne slipped an arm around his waist.
He wanted to pull away, knowing he was blood-covered and sweat-soaked and entirely too filthy for her beautiful dress and graceful manners. But she simply thinned her lips and looked at him with stubborn eyes that challenged him to say anything. He accepted her help and cursed himself for his weakness.
In the guest bedroom, Suzanne made him stand in the middle of the room while she used a damp cloth to wipe down his bare chest in quick, efficient swipes. The cloth trailed around the waistband of his jeans, causing his stomach muscles to contract. But she didn’t seem to notice, her face grim and her hands busy. She stepped around to his back and shook her head at the sight.
The minute she dabbed at the wound, she felt him stiffen, and knew it must hurt like the devil. She tried to be gentle, but the scab tangled with the terry cloth, tearing the wound slightly more. Garret didn’t move, but sucked in his breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m being as gentle as I can.”
He could only nod, unable to say a word as the sweat beaded on his brow with the strain. Suzanne disappeared into the bathroom across the hall, returning with a fresh, damp washcloth and a roll of bandages. She pressed a gauze pad over the wound for several minutes, stopping the bleeding. Then, head bent low over the task, she taped a new gauze pad over the wound.
Then the bandaging was done, the damage fixed, and suddenly she was so close to his bare back she could almost taste the salt on his skin.
She rose abruptly, wavering from the sudden movement. But straightening only put her at eye level with his golden shoulders, the muscles sharply defined from hunger and exercise. She breathed in the hot flavors of July and sweat and wood, and the smells tickled her senses. Even lean from hunger, he was a powerful man. And in just a matter of inches, she could flatten her palm against his bare chest, feel the heat of his skin and the texture of his hair. She could run her finger down his arm, following the curve and indent of his biceps down to his scarred forearm and massive hand. His fingers and palms were callused and rough, a workingman’s hand. They’d felt tantalizing and masculine on her skin.
Her eyes drifted up, finding his dark eyes watching her with glittering depths. The awareness sparked between them swift and electric as always. Her body remembered the feel of his hard, sweat-slicked torso pressed against her own soft curves. Her lips remembered the tantalizing caresses of his tongue, the tingling burn of his whisker-roughened cheeks. Her scalp knew the arousing feel of his callused hands tangling with her hair.
Her pupils dilated, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes deepening into the amber, sensual gaze of. a cat purring over a saucer of cream. He caught his breath at the power of her gaze and felt his body instantly respond. His jeans were suddenly tight and confining, but he didn’t move. He still remembered her words of last night, and they hung between them as sure and solid as a steel wall.
Then her gaze fell once more on his full, sensuous lips, and her tongue darted out to lick her own lips with anticipation—
The doorbell rang, and before either could react, the front door unceremoniously opened and footsteps rang out on the hardwood floor. Suzanne was jolted harshly back into reality, staring at Garret with panicked eyes as the footsteps drew closer.
Without wasting a moment, Garret pushed her out into the hallway and flattened himself against the wall behind the door. The pressure on his back made him wince, but no sound escaped as his senses honed in immediately on the approaching stranger.
“There you are,” Cagney called out impatiently . “I brought the tools—What the hell happened to you?”
Too late, Garret remembered the blood and sweat that now stained Suzanne’s beautiful old dress.
“I was just helping Garret out with his back,” Suzanne replied smoothly enough. There was only the faintest trace of tremors in her voice, and G
arret found himself grinning. Not bad for a schoolteacher. “The damn fool tore open his wound again.” Garret’s grin disappeared.
The door swung inward, the doorknob nearly hitting Garret in the gut as Cagney passed through. Cagney’s gray gaze settled on his brother behind the door, and he shook his head.
“Next time, I’ll announce myself as I walk in,” Cagney said dryly.
“It would be helpful.”
For no explicable reason, tension filled the air between the two. It wasn’t helped by Suzanne’s entry and her obvious need to avoid Garret. Cagney looked at her sharply, his shrewd eyes taking in the heightened color on her cheeks. His eyes swung back to Garret, narrowing dangerously. But Garret returned the look just as steadily, neither of them saying a word.
After a long, strained moment, Cagney broke the silence by tersely explaining he’d brought their father’s old wood working tools. As their father had completely redone his shop, starting with the purchase of a Delta Unisaw, Cagney was now the proud owner of a table saw, six-inch jointer, router, wood lathe and planer. Some of the tools were temperamental with age, but it was a fairly robust set. To make sure Garret didn’t have an excuse for not being able to begin, Cagney had also wheedled some cherry wood out of his father. Henry was happy with his son’s new interest, and Cagney had enough guilt to age him before his time.
And he certainly wasn’t in the mood for any more of Garret’s antics.
After a curt discussion, the two brothers went out to the shed to set up the shop. Watching them go, Suzanne allowed herself to release a pent-up breath. This was exactly what she’d wanted. Now Garret would spend his days in the shed, and she would be free to return to her usual schedule of busy, busy, busy. No more tense moments in the living room and certainly no more of that chopping wood.
As she’d told Cagney, Garret really was healing remarkably fast. She imagined that now it was really only a matter of days. He already appeared to be remembering some things. Probably just a couple more days.
She looked down at her vintage dress, seventy years old and now stained with blood and sweat. She shook her head and reminded herself again how grateful she would be when Garret left. On the way back to her room, however, her fingers remained pressed against her lips.
