Lone Star Winter: The Winter Soldier

She smiled. “I like them, too.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He moved toward the door. “The windows are electronically wired, by the way,” he added with the doorknob in his hand. “If any one tries to open them from the outside, they’ll think we’re being bombed.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“So it is. Sleep tight.”

“You, too.”

He spared her a glance. “Don’t get up until you want to. I’ll haul Puppy Dog over here at daybreak.”

“He likes to chew up things,” she said worriedly.

“You shouldn’t let him eat heating pads, while we’re on the subject.”

“He can reach the shelf I keep them on,” she said. “I didn’t realize it until I saw him jump up to pull it down. By then I’d lost two and I thought I’d left them on the sofa.” She shook her head. “He’s already very tall. His father, Moose, is almost five feet tall when he stands on his hind legs.”

“He’ll be good protection for you when he’s trained.”

“He seems to be training me,” she said on a wistful breath.

“I’ll take care of that. ’Night.”

She smiled. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

“I had good help,” he told her.

She stood staring after him even when the door closed. Her life had just gone up two notches on the complications scale. She forced herself not to think of how hungry he’d made her the night they’d gone to Houston to the opera, of how much she liked being close to him. He’d been very standoffish since, so it was obvious that he didn’t like the small taste of her he’d had. She was safe with him. Safe, pregnant and a widow. She shouldn’t be thinking about kissing Cy. The thought made her uncomfortable, but she slept soundly all night long.

Harley walked in the kitchen door with a wicker basket full of eggs and a disgusted look on his face. He stopped short when he saw Lisa, in jeans and a sweat shirt with her dark blond hair in an unruly bun, making coffee.

She gave him a challenging look back. “Where’s Cy?” she asked.

“Gone to town to have his truck cleaned.”

That sounded intriguing. “Does he do that a lot?”

“Only when dogs throw up in it.”

“Oh, dear,” she said.

“Seems your puppy doesn’t like to go for rides,” he murmured with a grin. He put the basket of eggs on the table. “He’s out in the barn with the boss’s collie.”

“I didn’t know Cy had a dog.”

“He didn’t know he had one, either, until it got run over week before last,” he remarked. “He picked it up and took it to the vet. It was a stray that somebody had put out, half-starved, full of fleas, almost dead from lack of care. Amazing what some dog shampoo, flea medicine, regular meals and attention can do for a mangy old cur.” He shook his head. “For a hard-nosed man, he sure has some soft spots. He’d never make a soldier, let me tell you.” He held up a hand when she started to speak. “Don’t tell him I said that,” he added. “He pays me a good salary and he’s a fine man to work for. He can’t help it if he isn’t exactly G.I. Joe. Considering what he’s been through, I guess he’s got some grit in him somewhere.”

She almost bit her tongue through trying not to tell Harley what she knew about his soft-centered employer. But that was Cy’s business, and she didn’t want to get on his bad side when she’d only arrived.

“I rode over to your place with the boss and drove your little VW back with me. It’s in the garage. None of my business, but are you staying awhile?” he asked curiously.

“I guess so,” she sighed. She poured coffee into a cup. “A man broke into my house last night. Cy let me come over here.”

“Broke into your house? Why?”

She grew pensive. “My husband was an undercover DEA agent,” she told him. “He was infiltrating a drug lord’s organization when he was exposed and executed. Apparently the drug lord likes to set examples, like wiping out whole families of people who oppose him. I’m on his list.”

“Then you sure came to the right place,” Harley said with a beaming grin. “As it happens, you’ll be safer here than anywhere else in the county, except maybe with Ebenezer Scott.” He seemed to stand two feet taller. “I was in the Army Rangers for two years and I’ve had commando training. Nobody can slip by me.”

“I can’t tell you how much better I feel, knowing that,” she said, smiling pleasantly.

He almost blushed. “Good. Well, I’ll get back to my chores. Glad you’re okay, Miss…Mrs. Monroe,” he corrected, tipping his hat on his way out.

“Thanks for bringing my car,” she said.

“No problem.” He shot a grin back at her as he left.

She sat down at the kitchen table beside the eggs and shook her head. He didn’t have a clue what was going on. His life was apparently so dull that he couldn’t live without the illusion of bravery. She wondered how he would respond to a real threat, and hoped she never had to find out. He seemed a nice sort of man, but she had a feeling that he wasn’t quite as formidable as he made out.

Cy came in for lunch, helping himself to bread, mayonnaise and luncheon meat while Lisa poured iced tea into tall glasses.

“I can make sandwiches,” she offered.

He gave her a grin. “I’m used to doing it myself. Want a couple?”

“Just one, thanks,” she agreed and sat down at her place beside his at the small table. “I’m sorry about Puppy Dog messing up your truck.”

His eyebrows lifted under disheveled black hair. “Who told you?”

“Harley.” She gave him a gamine look. “He said that he’d be glad to protect me from potential attackers, seeing as how he’s a trained commando.”

Cy chuckled softly. “I was his age once. Seems like fifty years ago, now.”

She put her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her hands, watching him make sandwiches. “Did you swagger, too?”

“Probably. At least, I did until I saw combat for the first time. Nobody tells you that people scream when they get shot. On television they just grunt or groan and hold the part that’s been shot.” He shook his head. “It’s a lot more…vivid…in real life.”

“Were you afraid, the first time?”

“I was afraid every time,” he corrected with a level stare. “Only a fool pretends he isn’t. You learn to face the fear and deal with it, just like everyone else does.”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

“Difficult to watch people die, yes,” he told her. “Difficult to live with what you do, too. I remember a young boy in Africa who was fighting the rebels. He carried a carbine in his hands and ammunition belts that probably weighed more than he did, strapped around his chest. His name was Juba.” He smiled as he worked. “He had a passion for chocolate bars. We always had a few in our packs, just a taste of something sweet to remind us of civilization. One day, Juba ran ahead of us into a building the rebels had just evacuated. We hadn’t swept it for traps and he wouldn’t stop when we tried to warn him. He broke a trip wire right in the doorway and blew himself up.” His hand hesitated on the knife as he spread mayonnaise on the bread. His eyes were solemn and quiet. “He didn’t die right away,” he added grimly. “We gave him morphine from one of our medical kits. Then I sat under a silk cotton tree with him in my arms and talked to him until he died.” His eyes fell back to his task. “He was eleven years old.”

She winced. “That’s very young to be fighting a war.”

“He’d already lost his parents and two sisters in the cross fire,” he recalled. “He was alone in the world, except for us. We’d thrown in with the government forces. They were overwhelmed by the rebels and advertised for mercenaries. My unit went in. I started with thirty men and came back with three.” He passed her a plate with a sandwich on it and started making two more for himself. “The rebels took over the capital and formed a government of their own. It stood for two months be fore outside troops joined forces with the overthrown government, moved in and took back possession of their country. Before they did, ten thousand people were shot or blown up in the streets.”