“I see her just fine,” Kyle’s voice rumbled from the top of the stairs.
Aimee froze, her heart lodged in her throat. Slowly she turned and met Kyle’s murderous glare.
“And I see you, standing in my house, when I made it clear I didn’t want you here. Care to tell me how that happened, Aimee?” His hands clenched on the banister, crumpling the thick green garland. “Or is this more nursing I don’t need?”
Tears welled in an instant. She blinked them back, unwilling to reveal how deeply his accusations cut. Though they had experienced there share of fights, she’d never witnessed such cold, hard, nothingness behind his eyes, and in that moment, as Kyle stared her down, she realized her marriage had come to a final, devastating end. Though her intentions had been born from love, to Kyle, her actions were betrayal.
Kyle’s voice cracked through the engulfing silence. “Get out. All of you. I’m not some puppet dangling from your strings.”
Chapter Sixteen
Even from this distance, Kyle could see Aimee’s eyes fill with unshed tears. Walsh’s angry glare locked with his, and as Aimee started for the front door, Walsh grabbed her by the arm. She resisted, but the closeness they had come to share was unmistakable. Closeness that grabbed Kyle by the heart and turned it upside down. They’d allied against him. Sure, they’d always been good friends, but this bordered on treason. He had told Aimee he couldn’t confront Walsh. He thought she understood this was different than a simple disagreement between friends. Instead of offering safe harbor, she threw him right into the firefight certain to destroy him.
He ignored the little voice in his head that told him he brought this on himself and forced his heart to harden as Aimee walked out the front door. But Walsh didn’t move. Nor did Mom Walsh—the one possibly innocent party in all this.
Turning, he sought to remove himself if Walsh wouldn’t disappear. He couldn’t look at his former friend any longer without doing something insane like launching over the banister and wringing his neck. Or saying something even worse. All the things he’d shoved deep inside rose dangerously close to the surface. Ugly, cruel, things that Kyle understood came from a jealousy he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t rationalize. Walsh hadn’t pulled the trigger on Denton. His injuries hadn’t ended his career—looking at Walsh rubbed salt in wounds that refused to heal.
Worse, he was directly responsible for the current fucked up state of Kyle’s life.
“Coward.”
The sharp, biting word sliced through the air like gunfire and froze Kyle in the bedroom doorway. He curled one hand into a fist at his side, attempting to choke back the sudden, raging desire to tear Conner Walsh into pieces.
“That’s what it is, isn’t it, Kyle? You’re fucking afraid to live.” His angry accusations grew louder as did his footsteps. The stairs creaked with his weight. “What I can’t decide is if you’re afraid if you try, you might fail, or if you’re afraid Denton, Parker, and Jones will become just another job and you’ll forget.”
Kyle pivoted to confront the accusations, fury heating his face. “Fuck you, Walsh.”
“You think I don’t know what it’s like?” Walsh reached the top of the landing and drove a heavy fist onto the banister. “I was there too, damn it! I woke up to the sound of your gun discharging. I have the dreams. I have the same fucking scars, only my leg didn’t take the blast yours did.”
Like daggers thrust beneath Kyle’s skin, the fury in Walsh’s frosty blue eyes cut deep. Kyle looked away, unable to confront the truth of his friend’s equal suffering. This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to see Walsh, hadn’t been able to tolerate the idea of hearing his voice. The sight of the RPG burst to life in his mind. The heat of the explosion. And Denton…mutilated, dying, Denton asking Kyle to end his life.
Kyle’s hand dug into the wooden doorframe as memories swamped through him.
“You’ve blamed me for keeping you alive. Alive, Kyle. And you’re determined to die, even while your heart’s still beating. Wake the fuck up and look around you! Look what you’ve done to your marriage, to Aimee! What you’re doing right now.”
Walsh’s voice softened by several degrees, and his strong fingers gripped Kyle’s shoulder. “He’s dead, Kyle. Let him stay in the grave. It’s what he wanted, and you’re a fucking better man than I am. I couldn’t have pulled that trigger.” A heavy sigh broke free. “You did. You gave him mercy. It doesn’t make you a saint, but it sure as hell doesn’t make you a killer.”
“It was my responsibility to bring you all out alive.” The words left Kyle’s throat, hoarse and thick. “I knew something wasn’t right.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at Walsh. To confront the one person who could bear witness to his failure.
“None of us would have supported a pull out.”
Walsh’s grip tightened, slowly pulling Kyle’s shoulder around until Kyle had no choice but to face him.
“You asked us. You didn’t make the judgment error—we did. I did. I turned it into a fucking joke, man. You think I don’t live with that every morning I roll out of bed? That I don’t ask myself, what if I’d backed you? Would we have all gotten out of there then?” His hand fell away and his shoulders sagged. “Truth is, by then it was too late. Even if we scattered the instant you said something, that RPG was already on us. Some of us weren’t coming home, no matter what.”
Kyle pursed his lips to stop the sudden rush of hot tears that welled in his eyes. In his heart, he knew Walsh was right. Still, nothing erased the ingrained training to assume responsibility for the fate of his team. Moreover, he didn’t know how to offer comfort to his best friend. Not when he hadn’t figured out how to soothe the wounds that festered in his own soul.
“I’m going,” Walsh said quietly. “It’s Christmas, and truth is, I didn’t come here to fight with you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and grabbed Kyle’s wrist. Turning it over, he set a closed fist over Kyle’s open palm. “Housebound and all—I thought you might need a gift for Aimee.”
Walsh pressed a hard metal object into Kyle’s palm and turned him loose. His wedding ring glittered in the dim light. Something deep inside seized. He’d left his footlockers behind. Refused to claim them—Walsh must have retrieved the ring before the Army shipped his belongings back to Bragg.
As Walsh descended the stairs, Kyle closed his fingers around the object that had once meant so much to him. Now, even it was meaningless. He’d just told her to get out. Turned on her, the way he’d turned on everyone.
“C’mon, Mom. I’ve got meatloaf at my house.” From the front door, Walsh beckoned to his mother.
“I’ll be out in a minute, Conner. I want to talk to Kyle.”
Kyle choked down a groan. As if Christmas could get any worse, the last thing he needed was a lecture from Mom Walsh. He’d rather she just disappear so he could pretend he hadn’t blown up like that in front of her.
Instead, she started up the stairs, and the front door closed. Rooted in place by his shame, Kyle rested the back of his head against the doorframe and braced for a well-deserved scolding.
When she reached the landing, she sat in the chair beside the small table that held Aimee’s sewing supplies and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not your mother, Kyle, but you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a second son.”
He nodded.
“I don’t know a lick about anything that happened over there, save what I just heard. But I know you. And I know you need Aimee more than you let on. So why are you determined to push her away?”
Blowing out a hard breath, Kyle shook his head. “Let it be. It’s better off this way. She doesn’t need me dragging her down.”
“Kyle Gardner, don’t give me that nonsense. What are you trying to protect her from? You served her with divorce papers after the both of you pulled through tragedy and were well on your way to recovery. Did you bang your head on the flight to Afghanistan?”
He closed his eyes and sighed. She wouldn’t under
stand. He’d done all he could to pretend things were good between them. Inside, he was scared as hell that Aimee would fall apart again if something happened to him, if he told her too much about a mission…if the media started in on soldier losses and he was out of contact for too long.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Mom Walsh quietly exclaimed. “The baby. You got it in your head Aimee couldn’t handle your grief. You pulled away before you gave her the opportunity to prove she could. You never told her you wanted another child, did you?”
Her observations hit too close to home, and Kyle ground his teeth together to fight back a wave of heartbreak. Quietly, he answered, “She’s not strong enough.”
Mom Walsh tsk-tsked. “She’s still here, isn’t she? You divorced her, and she refused to leave. Why don’t you try talking to her—tell her what you really want, see what she has to say.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that easy. I know her. She’ll try to make me happy at her own expense. I can’t ask her to chance all that again.”
“You’re not giving her enough credit. Just like you, she was injured. But she healed. We all have scars. Whether they hinder us is our own choosing. If she hadn’t decided to accept hers, why do you think she applied for a position in a pediatric hospital?”
Kyle’s frown deepened. “Because she’s crazy. She’ll walk in there, give her heart to those little kids, and the first time she looses one, she’s going to break apart.”
“You can’t protect her. That’s not your right.”
“It’s my job as her husband.”
“No,” she insisted more firmly. “Maybe to keep her safe from intruders, and harm, but you can’t protect her from life. If Aimee wants children, you’ve got to trust her to know whether she can handle it or not.”
Kyle blinked. Aimee didn’t want more children. She’d avoided his hints. Hell, she’d been adamant about the IUD. Squinting at Mom Walsh, he silently ordered her to explain.
“Oh, for God’s sake, you two are so intent on tip-toeing around each other, it’s absurd.” Mom Walsh let out a laugh. “How come two people who know each other so well, can’t seem to see you both want the same things? Let me show you how strong your Aimee is.”
He quirked an eyebrow as she twisted to open the middle drawer on Aimee’s sewing table. She pulled out a folded square of white and green fabric.
“We sat here every Saturday last fall after you and Conner deployed. She made that quilt down there on the couch.” She gestured over the railing at the heavy blanket Aimee had covered Kyle with two nights ago. “And she made this. She was going to give it to you for Christmas, before you up and divorced her.”
With a snap of her wrists, Mom Walsh unfolded the fabric. Tiny squares of green, mixed with a spattering of yellow swatches here and there, framed larger whites. Kyle’s gaze pulled to the white fields where baby rattles, bottles, and blocks stood out. His heart thumped hard. Surely…
He limped across the room and took the blanket from Mom Walsh’s hands. His fingers rubbed the green satin edging she’d sewn only halfway around. The rest of the satin dangled free, the blanket unfinished. Her uneven stitches told him she’d made it by hand, not with the machine in the basement.
“What are you saying?” he asked, disbelieving.
“She took the decision out of your hands. For better or worse, she knew what she wanted, and she was going to tell you this way.” Blue eyes twinkled with mischief, and a wry smirk curved the corner of her mouth. “She’s stronger than you think. She just needed to heal.”
Holy shit. He’d had leave scheduled for Christmas. Leave he had cancelled and then scheduled a mission around, when he’d decided divorce was the only solution. If he’d come home…
Guilt and regret pounded into him with so much force he had to grab the banister to keep from stumbling. He rubbed the ring in his palm with his thumb. He’d told her to leave.
Fuck.
The hum of Walsh’s engine in the driveway snapped Kyle’s head up. Aimee hadn’t started her car. She’d walked out the door, but she hadn’t left. He hurried to the window and glanced in the drive. Snow still covered her car.
Which meant she’d walked. To the lake between the houses. Where she always went to think when she was mad at him.
“Mom?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes?”
The acrid scent of smoke tickled his nose. “What’s burning?”
She sniffed the air and chuckled. “Smells like turkey to me.”
Suddenly, that burnt turkey felt like life and death. He grabbed her leathery hand and gave her a pleading gaze. “Can you fix it?”
Mom Walsh patted the back of his hand and knowing eyes locked with his. “Go on. I’ll see what I can do.”
Kyle moved as fast as his injured leg would allow him, down the stairs, across the living room to the socks he’d abandoned two nights previous near the couch. He pulled them on, stuffed his feet in his work boots. Then, he glanced around for his cane.
“Have you seen my cane?”
He pulled the couch away from the wall, checking to see if it had fallen behind. Seconds passed like hours, each one marking one more unacceptable wrong that lay between him and Aimee. Thrusting the couch back against the wall, he muttered an oath. Where the hell had he put it?
The lighted Christmas tree in the corner caught his attention, and his gaze honed in on the burnt out bulb in the cock-eyed star. Screw it. The lake wasn’t that far. If he fell, he’d crawl. They were all a little broken. A little flawed. He didn’t need to be ashamed in front of Aimee.
Yanking his heavy coat off the wall, he braved the wintry air, and the new fallen snow. Her crisp footsteps marked a path down the drive, across the street, and up the narrow trail that led to the lake. Kyle gritted his teeth, ordered his leg to cooperate. Determined, he struck off after her.
Chapter Seventeen
With her chin tucked into the collar of her winter coat, Aimee stared at the brightly lit Frosty across the lake on the neighbor’s makeshift dock. She didn’t feel the cold—her frozen insides kept it out. Kyle shouldn’t have blown up at her, but she shouldn’t have pushed him beyond his boundaries.
If Conner had just answered his phone…
No, she couldn’t fault Conner. He had tried to tell her. She’d blown right past that warning, convinced she knew what was best for Kyle.
Still, she couldn’t entirely blame herself, either. If Kyle had told her about Denton’s death, she wouldn’t have pushed. If he had told her why he wanted a divorce, she wouldn’t be here to screw things up.
Footsteps crunched behind her in the sparse trees. Assuming it was Conner, coming to rub her nose in her mistakes as only a brother could, she sank deeper into her coat and tried to make herself as small as possible on the wooden bench. Go away, Conner.
But it wasn’t Conner’s long rangy frame that passed in front of her lowered gaze. Kyle limped around the corner of the bench and took a seat beside her. The scent of sage, from the soap she’d left in the shower, clung to his presence. Barely able to breathe, Aimee lifted her head and let her eyes rest on him.
One hand was stuffed into his coat pocket, the other rubbed restlessly on his knee. Her brows tightened as she observed his absent cane. Stubborn jerk—he could have fallen and broken something. “Where’s your cane?” Her worry slipped out before she could stop it.
Kyle cocked his head and gave her a sad smile, before he dropped his gaze between his knees and stared at the snow. He rubbed his left knee once more. She recognized the habit as nervous. Connected his injured leg wouldn’t let him pace.
“I divorced you, Aimee, because I love you.” His quiet voice lingered in the heavy silence of the woods.
Aimee’s breath caught. Afraid to move, she sat completely still.
“Not did. Do. I love you, Aimee.”
Shifting on the bench, he swiveled to look at her more fully and picked her hand up to twine his fingers through her frigid digits. The warmth of his sk
in soaked into her palm. Through misting eyes, she watched the merging of their fingers, the slow way his thumb stroked the back of her hand.
“You are more precious to me than anything. I didn’t know what to do when you fell apart. It scared the hell out of me, and I swore I’d do whatever it took to make sure you never suffered like that again.”
Her vision blurred as the fine mist became heavy, pooling tears. She tried to swallow, to tell him he didn’t need to say anything further, but her throat closed around the words. One blink sent hot droplets searing down her cheeks.
Kyle pulled his hand from his pocket and used his knuckles to brush them away. “I thought if I left I could somehow keep you safe.” His voice roughened with emotion. He cleared his throat. “I was wrong. I made your choices for you, and hurt you more.”
“Oh, Kyle,” she whispered. “All I—”
He settled one finger against her lips. “Let me finish before we both freeze to death out here.”
Sniffling, Aimee nodded. The faint beginnings of a smile lifted the corner of her mouth.
“I’m not what I used to be. My leg’s jacked. I don’t know if I’ll take that position Renfield offered. I can’t feel your hand in mine. But I need you as much as I always have, if not maybe a little more. And that’s a damned hard thing to say.”
Swallowing another rising lump of feeling, Aimee nodded again. “I know.” She inhaled deeply, then let the breath out in measured intervals, searching for her composure. “It wasn’t easy for me to ask for help, either. If I hadn’t, though…”
Kyle dropped her hand and looped his arm around her shoulders to draw her against his side. Several moments of silence passed as his fingers pulled through her hair and she soaked up his body heat. Then he cleared his throat again and turned his head to look into her eyes. “Mom showed me your blanket. It scares me.”
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