Operation Soldier Next Door

At a sudden thought she abandoned the steaming coffee and went back outside. She’d meant it when she’d offered the Plexiglas panels to him, but she wasn’t at all sure he’d come over and get them, even if they would save him having to go buy sheets of plywood and cart them home. She didn’t know if he even had a car, since he’d arrived on a motorcycle.

She doubted Martin’s classic old El Camino, that sleek cross between car and truck that he’d just called “the buggy,” was running at the moment, although she was sure it was in perfect condition. The old man had puttered with it constantly. The engine rumbled happily, and the cherry-red paint always gleamed. She’d watched him often enough, handed tools to him, a bittersweet process because it reminded her of all the times she’d helped her father the same way as a kid.

She felt a pang as she remembered the last time she’d seen the car, the day she’d helped him put it into storage in the garage next to the workshop, carefully on blocks and covered. She’d had no idea then that it would be the last time. Would he keep it, this rather cranky grandson of his? Or sell it off for the no doubt nice bit of cash it could bring from a collector? She hoped not, hoped that his willingness to move in here was more than just that he needed a place to live.

She walked to the west side of her house, where the extra panels were leaned against the wall. She picked one up, thankful it was fairly light despite its size. She could carry it alone, although it was a bit awkward because of the width.

There was no fence between the two properties, and both she and Martin had liked it that way. She crossed over, walked to the big maple tree and set the panel down, leaning it against the trunk where he couldn’t help but see it when he came outside. Then she went back for the second, which she thought would be enough. Only then did she pause and look at the house that was nearly as familiar to her as her own.

She couldn’t see the damage from here, and for a moment an ache overtook her. Everything looked the same, as if Martin would look out at any moment, smile, wave and invite her over for a chat and some of his own coffee. Now that stuff would keep her awake, she thought. For a week.

“He’s here,” she whispered, as if to the old man. She had caught herself speaking to him now and then when she looked over here, or came over to check on the place. It was a silly, wistful thing, but it eased the ache a bit. “He’s here and he’s safe, Martin. A bit cranky, but no more so than he has a right to be, all things considered. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

From a distance, she added to herself as she turned to go back home. He’d made it pretty clear he’d rather be left alone. It went against her instincts not to help a neighbor who was having some trouble, but if that’s the way he wanted it, she’d give him time to settle in before she made any more overtures.

And you neglected to mention he was so hot, Martin, she thought with an inward laugh at herself as she headed back to her house. She’d only seen pictures of him much younger, as a baby, a child and a gangly adolescent before they’d shifted to a man in uniform and often loaded down with gear. She knew herself well enough to know her first reaction to military personnel was always positive, but she’d always thought him genuinely nice-looking.

She just had never thought of him as camo-wrapped sexy. For that matter, she’d never quite realized how sexy just a pair of plain, simple boxers could be on a tight, fit male body when you were looking at the real thing, not an artfully posed photo.

And Tate McLaughlin was definitely the real thing.

* * *

Tate screwed the last corner of the second panel down tightly, tested the seal, decided it would do nicely for the moment. There was no rain predicted for the next several days, so the heavy tarp on the roof should hold. He’d gotten the charred edges of the hole cut away, so that should help with the burned smell. He stepped back and looked at his makeshift repair. The large acrylic panels were the perfect size, as she’d guessed, and the predrilled holes had made attaching them a matter of a few long wood screws. It would also make working on repairs easier, only having to remove the panels.

It was nice of her to offer the temporary fix.

Nicer of her to leave them out for him to find rather than making him come get it. He appreciated that. After years of having to react and respond to rapidly changing circumstances instantly, he wanted the chance to ease into things more gradually.

And thinking about easing into things in conjunction with his new neighbor was not the smartest move he’d made this afternoon, he thought wryly. Neither had been the moment this morning in the thankfully undamaged bathroom, when during his shower he’d caught himself thinking about her ratio of leg to body. She wasn’t strikingly tall, maybe five foot six or so, but she surely had a lot of leg.

Lovely, shapely leg.

His thoughts had taken a decidedly raw turn then, and one she certainly wouldn’t appreciate when all she’d done was try to be helpful and neighborly, that’s all.

Really nice, neighborly young woman, sweet, thoughtful and helpful.

The memory jabbed at him, the words from the email Gramps had sent him after she’d first moved in next door.

Leave it to Gramps to omit the salient detail that she was a looker. And, of course, he’d had advice to offer at the end of that email.

You admire the pretty ones, but you marry the real ones. If you’re smart.

Not likely. Not him. Sometimes he thought about his grandparents and their sixty-year-long marriage, in love up until the day his grandmother had died five years ago. This had been their dream, this simple home surrounded by trees and life, and Gramps had never even thought about leaving. He still loved her, and Tate knew he had until his last breath. It was sometimes the only thing that gave him comfort about his death, knowing that the old man wouldn’t have minded going because he missed her so much. He even understood; his grandmother had been a heck of a woman—smart, tough, and yes, pretty—up until the disease that took her had robbed her of everything but that indomitable will.

And if you’re as lucky as I was, you get both in the same package.

Even now he smiled at the pure love in those words. They made him think of their wedding portrait, the black-and-white image stiff, formal, but yet still unable to erase the twinkle in her eyes or the amazement in his. Gram had been a looker, too, no question.

Which brought him careening back to an image of a woman with big eyes that seemed to go from blue to gray, a mane of long, dark hair and legs that went on forever. Legs that had been bare to his view. Legs that made a man think about sliding between them, of feeling them wrapped around his—

“Get your mind out of the gutter, McLaughlin,” he ordered himself sharply.

The moment he derailed that dangerous thought he became aware of a tickle at the back of his neck. Once, it would have meant he was being watched, and given where he’d been at the time, that was never a good thing. But he wasn’t there anymore, and he was relieved to see that the time it took to remember that was getting shorter and shorter.

He wanted it to be zero. He wanted his reaction to such things to be curiosity, not the instant urge to go into protect mode, or worse, attack mode. He was getting there, but he wanted to be there. Gramps had always said he was impatient. Tate supposed he’d been right. Because he was very impatient for his mind and gut to match the peace around him.

It’s normally a very peaceful neighborhood.

That’s what I wanted.

Yes, above all else, that’s what he wanted.

He turned around and found himself face-to-face with a dog. This was the dog from last night who belonged to the Foxworths.

The animal was sitting politely a few feet away, watching him. Very politely. As if at attention. And yet right at the edge of his comfort zone, as if he knew where the boundary was, somehow.

“Cutter,” he said. The dog’s tail wagged, but he didn’t move. Just watched, alertly, intensely. That steady gaze was unsettling, as was the intelligence behind those amber-flecked dark eyes.

He’d seen that kind of intensity before, in another set of canine eyes. Eyes that had belonged to the dog who was one reason he was alive today.

His stomach knotted. Cutter made him realize how much he missed that dog. Sunny had saved a lot of lives that day, alerting him and the squad in time to get nearly clear of the IED that had been set beside the road, awaiting their passage. Spahn had been killed instantly. He and Cav and Owen had only been injured, and the rest of the guys had escaped unscathed, thanks to Sunny’s warning.

This dog looked nothing like the yellow-furred Sunny, yet he still reminded Tate of her in that fierce intensity and intelligence. He had the feeling that when intent on something, Cutter would be as unswayable as Sunny had been while working, with nothing in her mind but the task of sniffing out danger in the form of explosives.

And he didn’t like the memories that the dog’s presence was stirring up. Didn’t like thinking of Sunny still over there, doing her job. Saving others as she’d saved him, intent on her work. Loyal, steadfast and unwavering until it was time to play. He’d give anything to have her race up to him again, crunchy water bottle in her mouth, banging it against him in an invitation to play.

It hurt too much.

“Go home, dog,” he said gruffly.

The dog didn’t move.

“Get,” he said, louder, fiercer.

For a moment longer the dog just sat, staring at him. And then, finally, he got to his feet and, with a last look, trotted off.

Relieved, Tate turned to go pick up his tools.

And saw his neighbor standing next to the tree where she’d left the panel. Watching.

He had no idea how long she’d been there. Maybe she was the reason for the tickle at the back of his neck, not the dog. She was frowning, clearly not happy about something. She shifted her gaze to the departing Cutter and back to him. Then she gave a shake of her head, turned on her heel and headed back toward her house.

She couldn’t have said more clearly that she didn’t like the way he’d reacted to the dog. He wasn’t proud of it himself, but it had come from someplace deep inside. He didn’t want the dog around. He brought on too many memories Tate couldn’t do anything about.

And it was just as well Lacy Steele was peeved at him. Maybe she’d stay away.

Chapter 5 (#uc2168f76-7182-5e51-bd47-473b1730e57c)