Operation Soldier Next Door

“It would help,” she said, rather pointedly again, “if you took this. It’s getting heavy.”

Hastily he reached out.

“Take the towel, too, it’s hot,” she warned.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said as he took the indeed heavy pot, wondering if he sounded as awkward as he felt. And as if on cue, his stomach growled loudly.

Her smile was genuine this time. “Obviously somebody needs to feed that beast.”

Somehow he found the grace to smile back at her. “Guess so.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

His brow furrowed as he thought.

“The fact that you have to try to remember means it’s been too long. No wonder you’re grumpy. Eat something.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Grumpy was a dwarf,” he said.

She arched one eyebrow at him. “Old Disney references?”

“Gramps,” he explained.

“Ah. A traditionalist.”

“Still on videotape, if I remember right.”

She laughed at that. He liked the sound of it.

“Thank you,” he said, lifting the pot. His stomach growled again.

“Eat before it gets cold. If you have leftovers, it’s good over noodles.”

He nodded. Realized much too late that he’d made her stand outside holding a heavy pot for far too long. Feeling that required...something, he said hastily, “I’d ask you in, but it still reeks in there.”

“Like a place that’s had a big hole blown in it?”

He nodded again. Drew in a deep breath as he set the pot on the glass table beside the door, which thankfully hadn’t shattered from the concussion of the blast. And wondered why this seemed so hard. “About the grumpy... It was a long trip, and then the explosion. I—I’m sorry.”

She gave him a look he couldn’t quite interpret. “Actually, I think it’s the dog you should apologize to. I can at least understand.”

He sighed then. “I know.”

“You don’t like dogs?”

“I love dogs. I just... He reminded me of another one.”

“Does he? I’ve never seen one with coloring like that.”

“I don’t mean looks. More intensity.”

“He is that, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer. “Who’s the other dog?”

“Sunny. Well, Sunniva, which is Latin for something. But we always called her Sunny, because...well, she’s that, inside and out. She’s an MWD—Military Working Dog—who was with us overseas. She’s the reason I’m still alive, along with most of my squad.”

He was a little surprised he’d said so much. Normally he would have said, “Just a dog I knew,” or some such. But nothing seemed to be normal just now, him least of all.

“Dogs are amazing, aren’t they? They give so much and ask so little.” Her voice was soft, her tone utterly genuine and more than a little awed. Exactly how he felt when he thought of Sunny and what she had done. “She wasn’t hurt, was she?”

He liked the urgency in her question, the concern for an animal she didn’t know and never would.

“No. She got clear.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s still there.”

He didn’t add that because of that, anything could happen; he could see that Lacy got it.

“You miss her,” she said, still in that soft tone.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It must be a bond like no other.”

Yes, she got it all right. “Yes,” he repeated, unable to think of anything to add. Then abruptly he remembered what he hadn’t said. “And thank you. For the food. When I cook, it usually requires a meat identifier.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome. But...a what?”

“You know. Potatoes mean beef. Applesauce says pork chops. Cranberry says it’s turkey. Otherwise you can never tell.”

She laughed, seemingly delighted by the old, corny military joke. But at that point he was out of things to say and was grateful when his cell phone rang, ending this silence that he thought should feel awkward, but oddly didn’t.

To his surprise, it was the county arson investigator.

“Foxworth has even more pull than I realized,” the woman said when he asked. “We got the report back from the federal lab just now. I didn’t expect it for days yet.”

Somehow he wasn’t surprised. Quinn Foxworth had that air about him, not just of confidence and authority, but genuine power, the power to get things done.

“And?” he asked.

“You want the whole thing or the bottom line?”

“Bottom line, please. I probably wouldn’t understand the rest.”

“No leak. The valve on the bottom tank was open.”

Tate opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. He had no proof, but he knew. Gramps would never, ever do that. He was meticulous, always had been, and age hadn’t changed him. Besides, Tate would have smelled it. He’d had the window open, and it was right beside the shed. And there was no mistaking the purposefully distinctive odor of propane.