D-Day hesitated for an instant, as though to make sure she knew he was only humoring her, scooted his long front legs toward his back legs, and sat.
“What a good fuzzy wuzzy poophead you are,” she cooed, ruffling the dog’s ears. “I’m so proud of you for taking up space and adding to the carbon footprint with your millions of calories of puppy chow per day!”
The dog grinned, giant tongue lolling halfway to the ground.
“Attagirl,” Adam told her, and his praise made her want to lean against him and nuzzle that stubbly chin. Dear God, she was turning into a dog.
“You did okay,” he told her now. “It’s going to be hard, but you’re as stubborn as the dog, and that’s half the battle.”
“What’s the other half?”
“Time and patience. If you get the patience part down, the time part will be shorter. And you need to be in charge. Dogs can tell when you’re insecure and take advantage of that.”
It was embarrassing that he’d seen through her so easily, and she felt her mouth tighten. She’d always been insecure but had usually been able to fake it well enough to get through what she wanted to do. Having to tuck tail and flee Houston had put a serious dent in that skill.
“Let’s get a drink,” Adam suggested, indicating Lizzie should lead the dog into the barn. The kennels inside sat empty but clean.
D-Day zeroed in on a big pan of water and began to slurp with gusto.
She’d left her coffee mug on the kitchen counter. “I don’t suppose you have a glass out here or at least a hose?” she asked as she hooked the human end of the leash over a hook on the wall and ran her hands over D-Day’s patchy fur. The dog leaned against her as she caressed him.
She looked up at Adam and caught a flash of longing in his gaze, but was it for her or the dog? Whatever it was, she doubted he’d let himself go after it.
Which was fine. D-Day would find a loving new home, and she didn’t want Adam to want her. She was not in the market for a man. Especially one who was packing up to move on even as he fixed up his family home.
“If you don’t want to drink out of the bowl, how about a lukewarm bottle?” He handed her a plastic water bottle from a case sitting on some crates. “Sorry. Forgot I had water out here when I offered you beer.” He unscrewed the cap from one for himself and took a long drink.
“I’m still alive,” she said, though she drank greedily. “Speaking of carbon footprints,” she commented, “I understand the new mayor—remember Joe Chance?—he’s started a recycling program. He’s got shipping containers set up behind the middle school, and on weekends, you can drop off all kinds of things, even computer parts.”
“I recycle,” he said.
“I can see that.” She looked around at the pile of trash bags—filled with plastic bottles and aluminum cans—that filled one corner of the barn.
“I was going to make a trip to town later this week.”
Lizzie decided not to push. Emma mentioned that he was uncomfortable even talking about going to town. “I can take a load if you like.” It seemed like the least she could do, since he was helping her with the dog.
“I can do it,” he said a little too quickly.
“Okay.”
He polished off his water and screwed the cap back on. “Watch this.” He scrunched the bottle.
D-Day, who had finished his drink and moved on to licking his own butt, left his fun and turned an alert ear toward the sound of the plastic. Adam squeezed again, and the dog leapt to his feet, straining at the leash.
He handed Lizzie the bottle. “Try this as a reward.”
Lizzie was as interested in the new development as D-Day. She took the bottle, accidentally brushing her fingertips against Adam’s wrist during the transfer. An arc of energy as potent as a shock but much more pleasant ran along her arm. She was tempted to touch him again and see if it felt as good the second time but was afraid it would be even better.
Adam pointed at D-Day. “Get its attention and give a command.”
Refocusing on the dog, she scrunched the bottle and spoke. “D-Day.”
The dog looked at the bottle.
“D-Day.”
He reluctantly tilted his head up a degree, meeting her eyes for an instant.
She made the wonderful, amazing, scrunching plastic sound again, and the dog quivered with excitement.
“D-Day, sit.”
This time, the dog looked at her, sat, and waited.
She made one more scrunch and handed the bottle to the dog.
He pounced on it, took it into his mouth, bit down a few times, tossed it in the air, repeated the process.
“That was great,” Adam told her, bending to take the bottle back from D-Day. “You don’t want to let it get all chewed up.”
She did not look at Adam’s butt when he bent over. And oh, no, he did not catch her looking.
He blinked away what might have been a twinkle in his eye and indicated the mountain of plastic bottles. “Until I get to the mayor’s fancy new recycling dumpsters, you’ve got plenty of training toys.”
She grinned. “Now all I need are pants with giant expandable pockets to carry empty water bottles around with me. That would look awesome.”
He raised an eyebrow, as though picturing her with giant lumpy water bottle thighs.
She shook her head. “I’d better get out of here,” she told him. “Let you get on with your home repairs.”
He turned and looked at the half-scraped house. “Gee, thanks.”
Chapter 7
Adam awoke sweating and panting, the remnants of a dream hammering at his awareness. Unlike the normal nightmare involving his teammates, his dog, explosions, and blood, this time, Lizzie’s luscious, naked self had been spread beneath him. He’d been about to enter her hot, willing body when the crash of tires braking hard in gravel heralded oncoming danger. A locomotive bore down on them. He’d tried to pull her away from the impending crash but couldn’t hold on.
Deep breath. Okay. Slowing the heartbeat. It was a dream. He blinked, trying to clear his way back to the good part, but a slamming car door refired his waking adrenaline surge and told him the first sound had been real.
Damn. He rarely slept more than a few hours at a time and got laid even less often—in his dreams or otherwise. What asshole was out here at this time of—he looked at his watch—9:30 a.m.? He really had slept.
A movement near his legs startled him. He jumped out of bed and turned, pulling up short before he slammed a fist into the intruder.
The dog stretched, yawned, and tilted its head sideways as though to ask if everything was okay.
“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” he asked it. In the week and a half it had been at his house, the stupid thing had weaseled its way from the barn to the crate and the crate to the bedroom floor because its whining and howling was loud enough to wake the neighbors—and the nearest one was three miles away. But this bed-sharing thing? That was too much.
The dog wagged its tail, swiping a pillow onto the floor in the process.
“Get down.” He pointed at the floor. D-Day licked Adam’s hand, then took its sweet time reaching two long front legs over the edge before jumping down and bounding to the window. It shoved its nose beneath the bottom of the blind and barked a greeting.
Adam padded to the window, pretending not to hope it was Lizzie, but then remembered the reason he was oversleeping in the first place was that he’d offered to take morning dog duty. She had an appointment in town with the Brunch Bitches, as she called her mother’s Fourth of July party-planning group.
He was almost afraid to look outside to find out who was here, but he raised the blind anyway.
A gleaming white Camaro Z/28, vintage #beforehewasborn, sat in the barnyard, sunlight glinting off of the windshield. The thing had a metallic red racing stri
pe along the side and major chrome on the wheels. To complement the obnoxious train-whistle horn, bass from some long-dead metal band thumped from subwoofers loud enough to set off a seismograph. Adam wondered if it had a neon undercarriage light, too.
Holy shit. They were here. A couple of solid bangs on the front door below triggered a burn in his gut. He considered locking the door and pretending to be gone. He couldn’t deal with this right now. He wasn’t ready, would never be ready to face his mistakes.
D-Day leaned into his side, and Adam absently reached down to stroke the dog’s ears.
Talbott and Jake were his two best friends, and he’d promised that if any of his guys needed anything, they could come to him. Talbott said he and Jake needed help. It was time to pay up.
With a deep breath, he slid the window open to let the warm morning breeze flow over his skin, then called out, “Talbott, you motherfucker, get off my porch before I call the sheriff!”
He heard a deep, rich laugh, and then a headful of stubby black knots appeared from beneath the cover of the front porch as Marcus Talbott stepped into the yard. He looked up at Adam and grinned, spreading his arms wide, and in a really bad John Wayne voice, drawled, “We’re here, Hoss!”
Adam hadn’t heard the nickname Talbott had saddled him with—so to speak—in a long time, and it sounded good. “What did you do to your head?” Adam asked.
Talbott ran a hand over his hair. “I’m growin’ dreadlocks.”
“I hope you aren’t giving up your day job, because you’ve got a way to go before you can join any decent reggae band,” Adam said, then winced. Talbott’s day job was nonexistent, since his injury last year had sidelined him from active duty.
Optimist that he was, however, Talbott just grinned and turned to limp toward the car, waving his arm in an exaggerated Come on! motion.
D-Day pranced next to Adam, clearly excited to meet new people. “All right,” he told the dog. “But you’ve got to get your leash on.”
It seemed to understand, because it scrambled down the steps and stood still in the living room while Adam got the lead connected, then waited politely for permission to go out. “Okay.” He gave the dog time to take a leak in the bushes next to the porch, then walked to the car.
Talbott was leaning into the driver-side window, talking to someone in the passenger seat.
The dog couldn’t resist and stuck its nose right between Talbott’s legs, surprising him into bashing his head as he jerked upright. “What the hell?” He put one hand on his head and the other on his lower back as he pulled away from the car window.
“I’m sorry, man,” Adam said. “This one’s got a way to go. I shouldn’t have let it get up in your business like that. You okay?”
Talbott saw that Adam was looking and jerked his hand away from his back. “I’m good. I didn’t know you were working with dogs again.”
Adam wanted to drop the leash as fast as Talbott pretended his back didn’t hurt. “I’m not. Doin’ a favor for a friend is all.”
“Huh.” Talbott patted the dog. “You’re an ugly son of a bitch, aren’t you?” D-Day licked Talbott’s hand and nudged him for another pet, making him laugh. “That’s one of the best things about dogs. You can say anything you want, as long as it’s in the right tone of voice.” He leaned back down and spoke into the car. “Come on, Jake. Get out here and say hello to Sar’nt Collins.”
After a second, the passenger door opened, and another man hesitantly stepped out, squinting into the bright Texas sunshine. Adam’s heart lurched when he saw how much his friend had withered during his hospital stay. An inch or two taller than Adam’s six feet, the young lieutenant had been built like a linebacker, possibly because that had been his position on the United States Military Academy football team. Now Jake’s shoulders seemed to curl in, hunched in case a strong wind tried to take him out. Worse was the enormous scar snaking over the left side of his head, like a giant question mark shining through the growth of short dark hair.
Adam’s chest locked up, not allowing air in or out. His vision began to fade around the edges.
He fought the anxiety. Jake’s injury wasn’t a surprise. He’d seen him in the hospital months ago, swaddled in bandages like some kind of comic book character. He hadn’t seen him since, because he was afraid. Afraid to see what he’d done. Well, he was seeing it now.
The brass, his team, everyone agreed that there was no way to know why Tank had missed the bomb that blew them all up, but Adam knew. He was to blame. He’d pushed the dog too hard or wasn’t paying close enough attention. That was why Talbott limped and threw out his back at the slightest wrong move.
It was why Adam hadn’t visited either of them after that first time in the hospital. Why he’d hoped they weren’t serious about coming to visit him at the ranch.
Vaguely aware that D-Day was pressed against his legs, Adam was surprised to realize that he had his hand on the dog’s head, stroking its ears. And even more surprised to realize the panic attack receded to a dull ping at the edges of his awareness. D-Day barked, drawing Adam’s attention down, away from Jake. The dog panted and head-butted his leg. Yeah, okay, he thought. Get your shit together. He ran his hand over the dog’s head. He couldn’t change the past, but he could atone for it.
Jake slammed the car door and lurched a few steps away, carefully straightening his right arm and unclenching his fist until he stood straight, almost at attention. The contrast between Jake and Talbott had never been more noticeable. Where Jake was pale, whippet-thin, and well over six feet tall, Talbott was dark, barely six feet, and heavily muscled. A few ruptured discs and a rebuilt knee hadn’t stopped him from working out. Hopefully together they could inspire Jake to eat a little more and regain some muscle.
“Lieutenant Williams, how’s it hanging?” Adam asked as he stepped around the front of the car.
Jake nodded and slowly held out his hand for Adam to shake. Adam took it and slapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s nice to see you, Sar’nt,” Jake said.
“Screw nice.” Talbott shook his head. “Dude. How could you lose your sense of direction and still be too polite to be real?”
Sober as a drill sergeant, Jake said, “At least I can still dance.”
“Oh, now that’s just mean,” Talbott shot back. “You can’t dance to save your life. My grandma dances better than you, and she’s been dead for ten years.”
This was familiar. This he could deal with. “Children,” Adam warned. “If you can’t get along, I’m going to have to have your moms come get you.”
Even though Adam had been teasing, he noticed Jake’s smile lose some of its luster.
“We’re just fine,” Talbott said, a note of warning in his voice. “Batman and Robin. The Green Hornet and Kato.”
“More like…the Two Stooges,” Jake added carefully, and the tension ebbed.
“So how about a tour before we unpack all our stuff, Hoss?” Talbott suggested.
The Camaro’s back seat seemed to be packed full. Adam’s earlier anxiety began to resurface. “Um, exactly how long are you two planning to stay?”
“Well, Hoss, you did say that if we needed anything—anything at all—you were here for us. Right now, we need a place to live.”
Adam didn’t have a chance to wrap his mind around that before D-Day began to bark and jump, practically whining with excitement.
“What’s wrong with your dog?” Jake asked.
“Company’s coming,” Adam said, and sure enough, Lizzie’s car came into view.
“Oooh, company,” Talbott said, waggling his eyebrows.
Adam rolled his eyes and walked toward Lizzie as she parked and got out. “I thought you had a meeting this morning.”
“I did,” she said, stopping to rub D-Day’s ears and accept a few kisses. “But Ms. Lucy’s having a flare-up of gout and wanted to get ho
me, so we got through everything fast. I thought I’d come out and spend a few minutes with you. I mean with D-Day. And you. To take some pictures of the property. Before I have to go to the office.”
Adam fought down the pleasure he felt at her slip of the tongue and weak excuse for visiting. He didn’t want to want her, but he’d come to look forward to her visits over the past week or so.
“Are these your friends?” Lizzie asked, taking the dog’s leash and looking over Adam’s shoulder.
“I guess so,” he groused, but he had to admit that as much as their presence jacked up his tension in some ways, he was really damn glad to see them, to see men he knew how to talk to. How to be around. “Jake, Talbott, come here and meet someone.”
“Howdy, ma’am,” Talbott said with a toothy grin. “I’m Sergeant Marcus Talbott. Sar’nt there calls me Talbott, but all the ladies call me Marcus. And this is Jake—Lieutenant Jacob Williams.”
“Hi, Marcus, Jake. I’m Lizzie Vanhook.” She held out her hand, and Talbott shook it. Jake nodded his hello at Lizzie but maintained some distance and didn’t speak.
“Lizzie, huh?” Talbott turned to look at Adam over his shoulder. “Dang, Hoss, you never told us you had a pretty little cowgirl waiting for you at home—or are you new on the scene?” He winked at Lizzie. “In which case maybe you’re not too permanently attached to Sergeant Grumpy Pants here.”
“Oh. No. We’re not…I mean—” Lizzie stuttered.
No, they weren’t, and he needed to remember that and ignore the niggle of disappointment he felt at her denial. “She’s Emma’s friend.”
“In that case, do you have plans for dinner?” Talbott asked.
Lizzie giggled. Giggled.
Adam took a deep breath and counted to ten.
“So that’s a yes?” Talbott pumped his fist. “Sweet! I’ve still got it.”
Lizzie coughed but didn’t look at Adam before she said, “No, I can’t have dinner. Thank you anyway. I’m, uh, actually, uh, here to see the dog and on a professional basis. I’m a real estate agent,” she explained, “and Adam’s generously helping me with D-Day until I make other arrangements.”
Big Chance Cowboy Page 7
