Awol Bride

As he did she said, “So you did become a doctor, but what about career military?”

“Yes, that too—so far,” he answered as if there was some question to that. But she didn’t explore it. Something seemed to be on his mind today, troubling him. He was checking for cell service obsessively and with every failed attempt the frown lines between his eyebrows dug in a little deeper.

But the days of feeling free to just ask him anything, the days of confiding in each other, were long gone.

Once he’d checked her wound and judged that it was healing properly, he cleaned around it, redressed it and sealed it in a makeshift wrapping that allowed her to take a shower and very carefully wash her hair.

It wasn’t the best shower or shampoo she’d ever had but it still made her feel worlds better.

Then she put on another pair of Conor’s gray sweatpants and a matching gray sweatshirt that were many sizes too big for her but were warm and soft inside.

The trouble was—despite the fact that they were clean—the sweats smelled like Conor.

Not that it was a bad scent. The opposite of that, actually. They carried a scent she remembered vividly, a scent that was somehow clean and soapy yet still all him. A scent she hadn’t been able to get enough of when she had feelings for him. A scent that brought back memories that she had to fight like mad to escape.

But fight them she did. And mostly failed.

After a lunch of potato soup made from dried potatoes—and making sure that Maicy was well enough to be left alone for a while—Conor decided to snowshoe down the road that led to the cabin in hopes of finding a cell signal.

He left her with orders to rest but because Maicy felt well enough to look around a bit, she spent the afternoon getting the lay of the land, for her own peace of mind.

It wasn’t as if she thought Conor wouldn’t come back this time. It was just that her past had taught her to always make sure she could take care of herself in any eventuality.

So she explored the supplies in the mudroom, counting bottles of water and calculating how long they would last, and learning what types and quantities of foodstuff were available.

She located flashlights, lanterns and kerosene, an abundance of candles, boxes of matches, more snowshoes, heavy gloves she hoped she never had to put her hands into because they were pretty gross-looking, and a second ax.

She even opened the back door and stuck her head out so she could get an idea of how to reach the woodpile from there.

Then she found the stairs that went from the mudroom to the basement and she made her way down.

She checked everything out, read the instructions attached to the generator so she could feel as if she had a working knowledge of its operation. She located the two extra propane tanks and studied how the one that was currently attached to the water heater could be replaced if necessary. She also discovered where Conor had come up with the additional blankets and pillows that he’d used to sleep on the couch.

Then she returned upstairs and opened every cupboard door to see what was inside, figured out how to work the wood-burning stove, and decided she was going to make the evening meal—canned chili and cornbread from a mix.

The only thing she didn’t go through was Conor’s duffel bag. But as daylight was waning and he still hadn’t come back, she began to plan what she would do if he didn’t return. How she could use a pair of the snowshoes that were in the mudroom and layer on more of the clothes he must have in his duffel, if she needed to go in search of him.

But then she heard stomping on the porch just before the front door opened and in came Conor.

He was so covered in snow that he barely looked human, bringing with him her suitcase, purse and the pink cake box she’d snatched from her wedding when she’d run out of the church basement.

“You went to my car?” she exclaimed, thrilled to have access to her own things—especially to clothes that didn’t smell like him.

“I was almost there before I got cell reception, figured I might as well go the rest of the way to get your stuff.” He set everything down, took off his gloves and coat and opened the front door again to shake the snow from them before laying them near the fire to dry.

“You kept the fire going—that’s good. I didn’t think I’d be out this long. And what are you doing over there? You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, surveying things.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m cooking. And you brought dessert.”

“I did?”

“That pink box. It’s the top tier to the wedding cake. My friend Rachel Walsh made it. We met in college.”

“I wondered what that was. I just figured I’d bring everything I found. I have to make a confession and ask a favor, though,” he added.

“What?”

“I, uh... I got into your purse to find your cell phone.”

Maicy did not like the idea that he’d gone through her purse. But there was something grim in his attitude as he removed his boots and put those by the fire, too, so she curbed her own reaction to that and gave him an excuse. “Were you thinking that mine might work better up here than yours?”

“I already tried that on the way back. It doesn’t. But the favor I need is for your phone to be a backup so when my battery is drained, I can use yours while I recharge in the car—which we shouldn’t do often because we don’t want the car battery and the gas depleted, either.”

“Bottom line,” Maicy said, “is that even if I can get service on mine at some point, you don’t want me to use it.”

He bent over so his head was toward the fire and ran his hands through his hair to rub the water out of it with a punishing force.

Maicy couldn’t help the glance at his rear end—until she realized that was what she was doing. Then she put a stop to it by putting the cornbread in the oven.

When she turned back to the utility table Conor was standing with his back to the fire, apparently to get warm.

“I’m sort of sitting on a powder keg,” he told her. “And the phones—for what little good they’re doing—are my only hope.”

A single explanation occurred to Maicy and it hit her hard enough to make her blurt out, “You have a pregnant wife somewhere who could deliver any minute.”

And why had there been a note of horror in her voice?

Or, for that matter, horror at the thought. She’d been about to get married. She would be married right now had things gone differently. Why was it unthinkable that he might be?

But it didn’t matter. She still hated the idea.

“No. I’m not married and nobody is pregnant,” he said as if he didn’t know why she would even suggest such a thing.

“Do you have kids?” Another burst she couldn’t stop.

“No,” he repeated, adding a challenging, “Do you?”

“No.”

“This is about Declan,” he said then, getting back to the issue.

“Your brother,” Maicy said, trying to follow what he was saying while gathering her scattered thoughts.

“Declan was hurt in Afghanistan a few months back. In an IED explosion,” Conor explained.

“That’s a bomb, right? An IED?”

“Right. It stands for improvised explosive device.”