Harlequin Special Edition July 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Widow of Conard CountyA Match for the Single DadThe Medic's Homecoming

by Rachel Lee

  He didn’t answer, but what could he say? And why was she wandering this particular path? “I guess I’m still sorting things out.”

  “I think we spend our lives doing that.”

  “True.” She wasn’t watching her feet closely enough, and she stepped into a hole. A cry of surprise escaped her as she started to tumble forward.

  Then powerful arms seized her, keeping her upright, and the next thing she knew, she leaned against a rock-hard chest.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  No, she wasn’t okay. Everything she’d been trying not to notice about him, everything she’d been trying not to feel, came rushing in a dizzying wave to her consciousness. She wanted him. Hell, maybe she needed him. Maybe any man would have done after all this time, but she wasn’t going to deal with that now.

  Now, right now, being pressed against a man’s hard, warm chest, wrapped in strong arms, surrounded by his scents, was an aphrodisiac beyond compare. Her body reacted and her mind shut down as every cell within her reminded her that she was a woman and she had needs.

  Her nose pressed into him and she had the strongest urge to just burrow in. Instead, she tilted her head back and looked up at him.

  He looked straight at her, and everything in his gaze reflected the longing she was feeling. She held perfectly still, afraid of shattering the welder’s arc of desire that was burning in her as it had not burned in so long.

  How could she have forgotten this yearning, an ache so deep and so hard, it hurt? How could she have forgotten the magic of hanging suspended in an instant out of time, breathless with anticipation, on a knife edge of hope? How could she have forgotten how easy it could be to beg?

  But before the words oh, please could escape her on a whisper of breath, his head lowered and his lips met hers.

  Warm, firm lips, tentative as if he expected rejection. She wanted no part of that, not now. Sliding her hands up his arms, she gripped his shoulders, needing him even closer. She didn’t want light, feathery touches, or seduction. She wanted hard and fast and basic before something, anything, intervened. Before a sensible thought had a chance to pop up.

  Here, now, on the ground in the gloaming...just now.

  Whatever he thought he’d forgotten, he hadn’t forgotten how to interpret a woman’s moves. The pressure of her grip on his shoulders caused him to kiss her harder, his tongue sliding over the crease of her lips demanding entry. She was only too happy to provide it.

  The world washed away in a rising tide of physical sensations that seemed to clamp her in a vise. The hunger was almost painful, and each movement of his tongue stroking hers caused a spasm between her legs. Had she ever risen so far so fast?

  Did it matter? She knew she was racing toward a pinnacle from little more than a kiss. But she wanted more, so much more. She wanted to feel his hands on her everywhere, his mouth in places that hadn’t been kissed in a long, long time. She wanted to rediscover the joy of being a woman and she wanted him to take her there.

  A groan escaped him. His arms tightened. Yes!

  Then, so fast she nearly stumbled, he let go of her. She forced her eyes open, and saw him looking at her with horror. Horror?

  He swore. Then he turned and walked away from her, from the house, and into the deepening night.

  What the hell had just happened?

  Chapter Seven

  Liam stomped off over bare ground, toward distant trees and mountains, spewing every cuss word he knew and maybe even inventing some. How would he know? They tripped off his tongue easily enough so maybe he had just forgotten he knew them.

  What he hadn’t forgotten was that Sharon was Chet’s wife. Widow. What he hadn’t forgotten was that he was broken in some important ways and she deserved better. Far better.

  “God, Chet,” he muttered into the deepening night, “don’t hate me, man.”

  Unfortunately, he didn’t think Chet would hate him. So there went that excuse.

  He dropped down finally to sit cross-legged in the grass. He could hear a stream’s liquid voice nearby but couldn’t see it. Closing his eyes, he remembered the nights when he and Chet had sat together in the mountains of Afghanistan, in the dark, talking quietly while keeping watch. Often they had been sitting back-to-back, night-vision goggles giving them a view of the surrounding country, sometimes mountains, sometimes farmland. They were forward posts, partly a net of protection for their fellow soldiers, partly intelligence gathering. Always he and Chet were instantly alert at any movement or unusual sound. At night, sound could carry far.

  But they talked, too. Very quietly, in short bursts before returning to silent observation.

  “I kissed your wife, Chet. You know that, don’t you?”

  She’s been alone a long time, buddy. I never wanted that for her.

  No, Chet hadn’t wanted that for her. He’d even felt guilty about it from time to time. Liam could remember those conversations, him trying to buck up Chet by reminding him Sharon knew she was marrying a soldier.

  “But it feels different when you’re living it,” Chet had argued right back. “I married a woman, a good woman, and then I left her alone.”

  “Duty’s a bitch,” Liam had replied.

  It was. Always. He remembered that much for sure. But he remembered the other times, too, and sitting there in the dark by a stream he couldn’t see, he recalled one of them. He wondered if somehow Chet had known that one of those days he was going home in a box.

  “I want her to get over me, Liam, if something happens. I want her to move on and have a happy life. I’d never forgive myself if she didn’t.”

  Liam had tried to prod him out of those thoughts. Thoughts he superstitiously felt could be dangerous. They hadn’t happened often, but they’d happened.

  “Cut it out, Chet. You’re gonna go home and have six kids, and I won’t visit because they’ll drive me crazy.”

  Chet had laughed. “Not six. Just two.”

  Now, not even two. He recalled the conversation earlier with Sharon and realized what she’d been trying to say: there were wounds for everyone because of the war. Many different kinds of wounds.

  “Dumb ass,” he said aloud. The night didn’t argue with the assessment. How could he have gone on about genes and names? That wasn’t the point. Having a piece of Chet was the point.

  It’s okay that you kissed her, he seemed to hear Chet say. Just don’t toy with her.

  “I got nothing to offer her, Chet. I’m a wreck.”

  Depends on who’s looking.

  “Damn it,” he said to the strengthening breeze. “You always were an optimist.”

  The stream seemed to laugh. Just as Chet would have laughed.

  “It’s not funny.” Although he supposed it was in a way. Had Chet come home he’d have carried a lot of baggage. War did that to a man. Nobody came home unchanged. So they were all broken, one way or another. Question was, as he had imagined Chet saying, “who was looking.”

  He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and opening his eyes. He liked it here. He was having a whole lot less trouble overall with anger and frustration, though it sometimes rolled through him like an unexpected afternoon thunderstorm. He knew a big part of the peace he found here was the quiet. The steady rhythm of work, the few people. He still had trouble being around lots of people. He’d felt it at the diner. Almost like it had become too much stimulation. And he liked being on this ranch, liked the physical labor.

  Then there was Sharon. Just as he had about decided that he might never learn to get along with people again, he’d arrived here and found Sharon. She occasionally got annoyed with him, but it blew over, and she didn’t seem in any hurry to give him his marching orders, even though he’d been living in expectation of it.

  He was still full of rough edges, temper and moodiness. He still sometimes said things he shouldn’t. Occasionally, he wasn’t even sure he was making sense. But she seemed to find sense in him even when they disagreed, or he said some stupid thing
like that business about genes and family names. Even when he didn’t get it, she didn’t act as if he wasn’t smart enough; she just explained it differently.

  He didn’t feel on edge around her anymore, and he wasn’t constantly worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing. She had given him space to be whatever he was.

  That was something he was still trying to figure out for himself. The rehab people had tried to make him feel like he had a whole world out here waiting for him, that he’d find his way and a good life. It had sounded good, but he’d known damn well they were ushering him out the door, having figured they’d gotten him as far as they could. Washing their hands of him. Maybe because they had to, maybe because they really couldn’t do any more, and there were so many vets in need of them. Still, given all the deficits they’d warned him about, he’d felt something like trash swept to the curb.

  Especially with no one and nothing to turn to. He didn’t blame his sister anymore, but she was all he had. His parents were long since dead. His buddies, those who were left, had either moved on with their own lives or were still dashing around the globe in uniform. He couldn’t just turn up on one of their doorsteps looking for a haven while he sorted himself out.

  So he’d hit the road on his mission to deliver the letter that just kept burning a hole in his head and heart. At least he’d had a point and destination, but he’d figured he was going to be up the creek once he delivered that letter.

  Wandering, rudderless, unable to even read the packages of food he was buying.

  It wasn’t self-pity. God knew they’d spent enough time making him aware of what was wrong so that he could be prepared when it slapped him in the face.

  But beyond getting that letter to Sharon, the future had been one great big blank.

  All of this thinking was giving him a headache. It struck him that he was just trying to avoid the core issue, anyway: his attraction to Sharon. God, he wanted that woman. And even if Chet didn’t mind, and even if that whole conversation had played out in his imagination, that injunction remained a good one: don’t toy with her.

  Wherever those words had come from, he needed to heed them. Good advice. Watch your step, Liam.

  All of a sudden, Sharon’s face floated before his mind’s eye, and he remembered how she had looked when he’d abruptly let go of her.

  Hell and damnation. He had some fences to mend, though he couldn’t imagine how. Maybe he just needed to go back and take his medicine. By now she probably had plenty of things she wanted to say about the way he’d acted.

  God, it would be nice if he could stay on track with anything besides painting. Like dealing with a mess he’d just made with a woman he liked, rather than stomping off and leaving her probably feeling like...well, something not nice.

  “Back to the house,” he ordered himself. If he had to talk to himself every step of the way, he wasn’t going to get lost following some other train of thought. “Sharon. Talk to Sharon.”

  He didn’t even want to think about what he probably looked like striding across the fields toward the distant light of the house, mumbling the same words to himself over and over again. At least there was no one to see.

  “Talk to Sharon.” It was the only guidepost he had right now.

  When he got back to the house, he found her in the kitchen sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. She didn’t look happy. In fact, she almost glared at him.

  For an instant, he wasn’t sure why. Then, “Talk to Sharon,” popped out of his mouth and he corralled his wandering thoughts again.

  “Yes,” she said acidly, “by all means, talk to me.”

  “About what?” Stupid question, judging by the way her mouth dropped open.

  “About why you kissed me and then looked like I was an ax murderer.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know that.”

  She gaped. “Couldn’t know what?”

  “How someone would look at an ax murderer.” As the words slipped past his lips, he had the strong feeling he had just said the worst thing possible. Now he was in for it, but what the hell did ax murderers have to do with this?

  Then she astonished him. First, a little sound escaped her, like a small bubble, then she erupted laughing.

  Now he was truly perplexed. “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re right. I couldn’t possibly know how anyone would look at an ax murderer.”

  He desperately needed to know something. “Which one of us is talking crazy? Me?”

  “Both of us, I think,” she said, wiping at her eyes, her voice still breaking on a laugh.

  He came farther into the kitchen and she waved him to a seat. “Grab some coffee and sit down.”

  “I thought you were mad.”

  “Now I’m not so sure. Didn’t you come in saying you wanted to talk to me? So let’s talk.”

  He got the coffee and sat facing her across the table. And like a bomb out of nowhere, he suddenly remembered the way she had felt crushed against him, her mouth open to him, so welcoming and warm. His groin ached and he forced himself to look down before he proved his stupidity once again.

  “Why,” he managed to ask, “did you think I looked at you like an ax murderer?”

  “Because you looked so horrified after you kissed me. It was a great kiss, Liam, but it was just a kiss.”

  Just a kiss? He didn’t know if he liked that, but he quelled a rush of disappointment that maybe she hadn’t felt anything like what he’d felt while holding her and kissing her. Best to just listen. His mouth was capable of getting him into a whole lot of trouble.

  “What happened?” she asked finally. “Why did you stop kissing me and leave so fast?”

  “It wasn’t you,” he said with certainty. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad.”

  “So I didn’t do something wrong? I didn’t repulse you?”

  Shock rippled through him. This was worse than he had guessed. “God, no! It was me. Just me. Guilt, I guess.”

  “Guilt?” Her face seemed to sag a bit. “Chet,” she said quietly.

  He didn’t answer because she was right. Chet. He’d felt a sudden shaft of pain, a fear that he was betraying his friend. His best friend. Even though he knew as sure as he knew anything that Chet wouldn’t feel that way.

  “Chet will always be part of both of us,” she said quietly. She ran her finger over the tabletop, drawing an invisible pattern. “Always.”

  “Yes.”

  A few minutes passed. Talk to her. The command remained with him, but he couldn’t figure out what to say. It angered him that he couldn’t remember how to deal with this, hated that he sensed he should know how but that some door in his mind was barricaded. With a major effort of will, he stilled the burgeoning frustration. Focus on Sharon. Focus on how to make her feel better.

  As if he knew.

  “Maybe,” she said slowly, “you should read the letter he sent me. The one you traveled so far to bring me.”

  “That’s private.”

  “Somehow I think you need to read it as much as I did.”

  Private words. Words his best buddy had intended only for his wife’s eyes. He moved uncomfortably on the chair as she rose and went to get it. It felt like trespassing into a place he didn’t belong, but it was Sharon’s letter now, and if she really felt he should read it...

  The limitations on his judgment struck him again. Sometimes he just plain didn’t know how to evaluate things, or whether his reactions were the right ones. So maybe he should just go with what Sharon thought was right. If she felt he needed to see that letter, maybe he did.

  Maybe he’d find some peace in it. Or some resolution. Even just a simple answer to questions that never quite fully formed in his head.

  She returned and handed him the envelope he’d carried so far and for so long, the one stained with blood from his own wounding. A strong wave of emotions ripped through him at the sight of it. Flashes of memory hit him squarely in the heart: watching Chet write this, taking it with so
me joking about it, then watching Chet laugh as he wrote his own. Finding the letter crumpled in his duffel when he’d recovered his memory. Feeling it like the heaviest of burdens, a duty left uncompleted. The constant ache for a friend lost.

  A searing, heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching need that had driven him to take to the road to finish this one last favor for a friend.

  “I don’t know if I can,” he murmured.

  She reached across the table. “I’ll read it to you.”

  An old anguish rose in him, eased a little by time, but as familiar as an old shoe. “Sharon...”

  She looked at him, her gaze liquid. “All right. He told me to move on, Liam. He told me that if I didn’t, I’d turn his heaven into hell.”

  God, that sounded like Chet. The garrote of grief cut at his throat, making speech almost painful. “He was amazing.”

  “In what way?”

  He shook his head a little, swallowing repeatedly, trying to ease the ache that strangled him. “He was a good man.” Inadequate words. Liam had seen how war twisted some people, but not Chet. “Like helping those farmers and herders.” How did he explain what that meant in a place where any man, even one with a herd of goats, could be a mortal enemy? Where you could trust no one, really, except your buddies? But some part of Chet refused to be corrupted.

  “I see the same thing in you,” Sharon said.

  He started to shake his head, but stopped himself. It was an argument he couldn’t have simply because he didn’t feel capable of arguing such a thing. How would he know what kind of man he was? He knew what he was capable of, which was a whole different thing. But Chet had been capable of those things, too. A soldier had to be.

  “Are you moving on?” His gift for saying exactly what popped into his head seemed to be still with him. As soon as he heard the question emerge, he realized it might sound exactly wrong, but it was too late. It was out there now, and he tensed, awaiting her response.

  “I think I am.” Her voice was low, very quiet. “I think I am,” she repeated more firmly. “Part of me died with Chet, Liam, but there’s still a lot of me left. A lot of life ahead of me. I’m beginning to feel...well, I want goats. I want a piece of that dream we were going to build together, because it was my dream, too.” She touched the letter that lay on the table, caressing it with her fingertips. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for bringing this to me. I needed to hear him say it.” Then she looked straight at him. “You needed to hear him say it, too.”