Soldier's Heart: a Wounded Love novel

by Megan Green

  Kevin returns, delivering a much needed reprieve from my thoughts. I shake my head, trying to clear all memories of that day from my mind. . Sitting at the bar of my family’s restaurant isn’t the place to allow those to seep in. I place a hand on the bar, trying to steady the tremor that is wracking through my body. My heart rate accelerates, and I think of the pills in the center console of my truck. The pills I know will stop this thing dead in its tracks. But I know I won’t be able to get to them before it takes over. I need to get out of here. I need to get away from all these people. All these witnesses to my weakness. The stool clatters to the floor behind me as I shove my way through the crowd of people waiting for the restrooms. Slamming the door to Kevin’s office, I crash into his desk, my hands forming fists around several sheets of paper they find beneath them. Rolling my neck from side to side, I take a few slow, deep breaths.

  Just being away from all those people has already set my nerves at ease. My breathing remains erratic, but I can feel my heart rate slowing slightly. I hold my hand in front of my face, watching as it slowly steadies before my eyes. Within a few moments, I know I’ve dodged a bullet, so to speak. I was able to stave off the worst of it. Beth will be so proud, I think sardonically.

  The door swings open behind me, and someone enters the room. I know without turning it’s Kevin.

  “Okay?” he simply asks.

  I nod once before turning to look at him. He looks tentative, but he’s been through this before. It doesn’t scare him like it used to.

  “Am now. Sorry about that. Hope I didn’t scare anyone away.”

  He shrugs. “Nah. Ma’s pork is too good for some crazy person to frighten anyone off,” he says with a smile.

  His tone is dismissive, humorous, but that word—crazy—sets my teeth on edge. I know he means nothing by it. I know that. And I know Beth would argue I’m not crazy, that there’s nothing wrong with me. But what other explanation is there for someone who wakes out of a dead sleep in a cold sweat, screaming at the top of his lungs and reaching for a weapon to defend himself from an enemy who isn’t even there? Sounds pretty fucking crazy to me.

  I swallow back the lump that has taken residence in my throat. I say a quick goodbye to my brother, promising I’ll stop by his house sometime this week for dinner with his wife and girls. It’s the last place I want to be, but I’ll say just about anything to get out of this office before he questions me.

  The drive back to the house I rent is slow. The normally ten minute drive takes more than double as I drive ten miles an hour under the speed limit and stop every couple of miles to calm myself again.

  I pull into my driveway and lean my head back against the seat, exhaling loudly. Looking at my house, I take note of the small property. The paint is chipping, and one of the upstairs shudders is hanging loose. I really need to take a couple hours and get this place cleaned up, but it’s hard to find the willpower these days. I really lucked out with this place, though. It may not look like much from the outside, but from my upstairs bedroom window, I can see the ocean. It’s not right on the water, but it’s as close as I could get on my meager military disability checks and the money I get from my occasional shifts at Wright Taste.

  I jump from my truck, grabbing the mail from the mailbox on my way to the front door. Stepping inside, I note how quiet it is. There’s a delicate line between quiet and too quiet. Loud noises unnerve me, for obvious reasons. But sometimes, the quiet is even worse. The silence is when the memories surface. When I can hear their voices. Their cries of pain. The silence is what overwhelms me.

  I rush upstairs and down two of my pills before that can happen. I stomp over to my bedroom, collapsing into the chair next to my bed as I sort through the mail in my hand.

  Junk. More junk. Bill. Junk.

  A plain white envelope, with only my name printed in neat block letters on the front. No return address. No postage. Hell, my address isn’t even on there. Just my name. This piques my interest. I sit a little straighter in my chair as I rip open the envelope.

  A single page greets me, the same, unassuming block letters sprawled across the center of the page. Five simple words. But they’re the five words I’ve thought to myself every single day for the last six months.

  Isaiah shows up precisely at nine. Joey and I have been up since six, making sure all of the mundane daily chores are complete before he arrives. I’d slipped upstairs for a quick shower and was bouncing down the stairs when I heard his tires on the gravel. I check my appearance in the hall mirror. My hair is still wet, and I have no makeup on. Luckily, I seem to have gotten a tiny bit of color on my cheeks from the warm sun yesterday, so I don’t look too awful.

  A quiet voice niggles at the back of my mind. Why do you even care what you look like?

  I don’t, I snap back.

  Then why are you fluffing your hair and checking for blackheads?

  I’m not. I’m…talking to myself. No, not just talking. I’m arguing with myself. Dear lord, I’m going insane.

  I take one last long look at myself in the mirror and move before my subconscious tries to decide to argue that fact. I step out onto the porch and meet Isaiah as he’s coming up the steps.

  “Morning,” I smile brightly at him. We’re going to start today off on the right foot.

  He gives me a sideways look before mumbling something vaguely resembling a hello. His heavy eyes let me know he’s still half asleep.

  “Want some coffee? Did you have breakfast? Would you like something?”

  He winces at my exuberance. “Let me guess, you’re a morning person?”

  I laugh. “Nope. Not at all. I need at least four cups of coffee before I’m able to even function on a halfway human level. You have to remember I’ve been awake for three hours already. It’s practically the afternoon for me.”

  He arches his eyebrow at me again. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that. Damn him for being able to do it. And have that dimple. And impossible good looks. And defined arms. And…and… get it together, Emma! I chide myself. I turn to the door, gesturing for him to join me before leading him into the kitchen. Pouring two mugs of coffee, I add a splash of creamer to my own and offer it to him. He takes it from my hand and reads the label.

  “White chocolate macadamia nut?”

  He slides it across the counter without adding any to his mug.

  “Hey, don’t knock it until you try it. It’s delicious.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he says as he takes a gulp of his coffee. What is it with guys and black coffee? Do they think adding a little flavor will cause automatic revocation of their man card? A little spice in your life never hurt anybody, right?

  I sip slowly at my mug as he drains his in a few mouthfuls. Seeing as this is like my sixth cup of the day, when he finishes, I rinse both mugs and set them in the sink. We make our way out to the kennels, where Joey is busy cleaning and reorganizing the shelves of dog food, toys, blankets, leashes, and all the other various debris that has accumulated there over the last year or so since we last did it.

  “What’s up, guys? How you doin’ today, man?” he asks, extending a hand to Isaiah. The two share a brief but firm handshake and make small talk for a moment before they turn to me.

  “Beth called a minute ago. The new vet she wants to send wants to meet with me before he drags his ass all the way out here. You guys think you’ll be okay without me for a couple of hours?”

  I narrow my eyes at Joey because he knows I hate being left alone with the new guys. It always takes a few visits before we warm up and feel comfortable with each other. Like I said, I can be a lot to take in for these guys. Joey leaving will ensure the next few hours will be awkward as all hell.

  I look to Isaiah, who also seems to be trying to convey silent messages of discord. Our pleas seem to be lost on Joey though. He takes my lack of response as agreement and quickly makes his goodbyes and leaves. Why is he always disappearing when this guy is around? It’s like he wants me
to make a complete fool of myself, but he doesn’t want to be around to witness it.

  We watch him stride across the yard and get into his Jeep. Joey gives a backward wave as he drives away. I turn to Isaiah.

  “So, what should we do first?” I ask.

  He looks at me skeptically. “Shouldn’t you be the one telling me that?”

  I blush. “Oh, right. Well, um… want to take the pups for a walk? We haven’t had a chance to do that this morning.” He gives me a frightened look, and I laugh. “I don’t mean by yourself, silly. We’ll take them together. I’d never leave a first timer by himself. You’d never make it back alive.”

  He gives me a crooked smile. “I’ve faced terrorist groups and Al Qaeda leaders. I think I can handle a few tiny dogs.”

  I smile, mischief rising in me. “Oh really? In that case, you get to take the leashes first.”

  “Loki! Stop!”

  “That one is Lucy,” I say with a laugh as Isaiah is yanked to the left by a rambunctious Lucy chasing a squirrel. Max has his leash twined around Isaiah’s legs, Loki is currently defiling a flower with his lifted leg, and Zoey is tugging strenuously against her leash, trying to get over to the other dogs across the park. The only one who is remotely behaving is Jasper. And he’s currently rolling around on his back in the grass.

  “How in the hell do you know which one is which? They all look exactly the same.”

  I roll my eyes. They do not look the same. And they certainly do not act the same. But instead of lecturing him on all the dogs’ different characteristics, I decide to cut him a break. “The collars. Lucy’s is pink. Zoey’s red. Loki, green. Max, blue. And Jasper is black.”

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to write that down. There’s no way in hell I’m remembering that.”

  “You will. Give it a few days. They grow on you, I promise.”

  “Like a fungus,” he murmurs under his breath, and I give him a playful smack. He gives me a wary look. I’m not sure why I did that. It’s not like we’re friends. Yet.

  I remember my plan from yesterday. The one that involves getting to know this man. And helping him. Deciding now is as good a time as any, I make my first strike.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Isaiah.”

  His shackles rise instantly. I can see it in the set of his shoulders. In the stiffness of his jaw. His expression closes off, and he looks dead ahead of him.

  “What do you already know?” he almost growls.

  Well, shit. That didn’t go as expected. I thought he’d tell me where he grew up. Or about his parents. Something easy and straightforward like that. But instead, he’s looking at me as if I’ve asked him the most personal question on Earth.

  Hoping to diffuse the situation, I smile broadly at him. “Oh, not much. Just that you used to be in the Army. Special Forces, right?”

  He nods. “Yes, but there’s no used to when it comes to the military. Once a soldier, always a soldier. But I am no longer on active duty. Do you know why that is?”

  “N-no,” I stammer at the harshness of his tone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I just like to know where I stand with people. What preconceived notions they have of me.”

  I don’t say anything after that, and we continue our walk in silence for several minutes. The dogs seem to sense the tension between us, because they immediately straighten and walk alongside us, the playfulness of a moment ago gone.

  After a long, awkward lull, Isaiah clears his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a dick. Again. I can’t seem to stop doing that around you, but I would like to get to know you better if we’re going to be working together. Tell me something about yourself.”

  My mind goes blank, and I can’t think of a single thing I can tell this man. Nothing that won’t result in the obligatory expectation of a responding answer.

  “What would you like to know?” There, that’s safe. Then he can ask whatever he would feel comfortable answering as well.

  “Why dogs?”

  His question catches me off guard. That wasn’t what I was expecting. “Um, what do you mean?”

  “I mean, why do you do this? Of all the things you could’ve done, why’d you choose to work with dogs?”

  I ponder his question. “Maggie,” I say simply. It may be a single name, but to me it means so much more.

  “Maggie? The old dog?”

  I bristle at his words. Not because he said them with any sort of malice, but because they’re true. This litter will be Maggie’s last. She’s getting too old. We only have a few years left with her, at best. Another pregnancy will be too hard on her body.

  “Yep.”

  He waits for me to continue. When I don’t, he asks, “Well? What about Maggie?”

  “Maggie is why I do what I do. Maggie, and Chris.”

  “Wait, which one is Chris?” he asks, looking at the dogs at his feet.

  I smile softly. “None of them. You don’t know Chris. He was my fiancé.”

  He looks surprised. “Was? What happened there? Get scared off by puppy breath?”

  I shake my head slightly. “Nope. He was killed by a suicide bomber in Iraq.”

  “Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “Emma—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Jesus, I seriously can’t control my mouth around you. It’s like all semblance of a filter disappears when I’m with you. Forgive me. I’m terribly sorry about your fiancé.”

  I let a small smile drift across my lips. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. And it was a while ago. I’m able to think back on it now and remember the good times. It still hurts, of course, and I still miss him every day, but I’m okay now. For a while though, I wasn’t. And that’s where Maggie comes in.”

  Isaiah sits on a bench and gestures for me to join him. The dogs settle at our feet, playfully tugging on each other’s ears and tumbling around on the ground. “What branch was he in?” he asks.

  “Army, like you. Though he never had the chance to make his way up to your level. Enlisted at eighteen. Completed two full tours. It was during his third when his unit was hit. He was twenty-three.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters again. “Way too damn young. I’m sorry. Did any of them make it out?”

  “Yes. Joey was with him. And my best friend’s husband, Ryan. Joey lost his left leg. Ryan busted his hand pretty bad and had a lot of superficial injuries, but he was pretty damn lucky.”

  “Joey lost a leg?” he asks incredulously.

  I laugh. “Yep. You’d never guess looking at him, huh? He’s pretty much the poster child for prosthetics.”

  “I’ll say,” he says with a grin. “How’d you guys end up working together?”

  “Maggie,” I chuckle. “That seems to be my answer for everything today.” I take a deep breath and launch into the story. “I met Joey briefly the night Chris proposed to me. He’d arranged this whole elaborate thing at the pier. Had all his Army buddies there with him, all dressed to the nines. And all along the boardwalk, he’d staged people to hand me flowers as I walked. It was perfect. He was perfect,” I say wistfully.

  “When we met again, it was under very different circumstances. He wasn’t able to make it to Chris’s funeral because the military wouldn’t let him travel so soon after his surgery. Back in those days, I spent most of my time at Chris’s grave, talking to him. Joey showed up one day, limping terribly on his new leg. We sat in silence the rest of the afternoon, just sort of being there for each other even though neither of us spoke a word. After that, we sort of fell into a routine. I knew he felt guilty for making it home when Chris didn’t. And coming to his grave every day was his way of coping. But I couldn’t really say anything. I was going there every day to cope with my own grief. To feel closer to him. So I guess you could say we bonded over our shared grief.”

  Isaiah’s face pales at the mention of Joey’s guilt. He swallows hard, closing his eyes.

  “You say he felt guilty? As in, he does
n’t anymore?”

  His words would normally make me angry. As if Joey had something to feel guilty about by surviving. But the tone of his voice? The tone of his voice gives me pause. There’s pain there. Pain and so much remorse.

  “I’m sure he still does occasionally. I’ll catch him looking wistfully at Chris’s photo in the living room from time to time. But Maggie helped him as much as she helped me.”

  “So tell me how Maggie plays into all this.”

  I hesitate for a moment. This conversation has already taken a very personal turn. Do I really want to tell this guy even more about my private life? I meet his gaze, and the look he gives me is so pleading, it almost seems as if this story means something to him. His eyes entreat mine, begging me to continue, and I can tell it’s more than just the sad story of my dead fiancé to him. Something in my story resonates with him. Which makes no sense, seeing as how he doesn’t know me. And didn’t know Chris. But when he’d brought up Joey overcoming his guilt, I’d seen something flash in his eyes. I may not know what happened to Isaiah to cause his inner turmoil. But I’d be willing to bet whatever it was, Isaiah blames himself. If telling him the history of how I found Maggie and how she helped both me and Joey—as well as inspired an entire business—might help him overcome some of his own shame, then who am I to deny him this simple thing. I inhale deeply in an attempt to calm my nerves. This is never easy, but then they say the most worthwhile things never are.

  “A few months after Chris’s death, I was in a pretty dark place. I had trouble getting out of bed in the mornings. I ended up losing my job and flunked out of that semester of college. It was only by a miracle and some serious groveling I was allowed to come back, make up those classes, and finish my degree. But I digress. I had pulled away from all my friends except for Joey. He was the only one who seemed to understand my grief. Chris was Ryan’s best friend, but he had Haylee. She helped him get through the worst of it. Me—and Joey—we had nobody. Nobody but each other, and we fed off each other’s depression.