by Traci Hall
Jackson snapped back. Was she inviting him inside?
“I’ll help.”
She held the door open for him, and he followed her. The instant they were out of sight, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around him to hold him tight—he couldn’t have broken free if he’d wanted to.
And he didn’t.
He buried his hands in her soft, soft hair and cupped her head so that he could study Emma and memorize each new line and freckle. He gently brought the pads of his thumbs to her smooth jaw and plump pink lower lip. Her eyes, swiped with copper, glittered sensually as she absorbed his touch. Auburn lashes at half-mast as she relaxed into him.
He dropped one arm to her hip to balance her, the other still cradling her head as he lowered his mouth. She lifted to him, their lips whispering across each other’s mouths before crashing together like surf against the sand.
She tasted different but the same. It was meeting his other half, something he’d been missing and suddenly needed more than his next breath.
“Em.”
“Jackson.” Her words were hot against his lips and brought the embers of desire flaming bright.
She entwined her fingers behind his neck and pressed in to him.
He clasped her tight, feeling the warmth of her feminine curves, the temptation she offered.
The smack of sneakers up the porch steps made them break away like guilty teenagers.
Jackson’s chest heaved. They weren’t that anymore.
Em’s eyes flashed, the pulse at her neck fast as a hummingbird’s.
“Emma,” Matty asked, innocently entering the kitchen. “Can I have some lemonade?”
“Sure, hon. I was just getting the cannoli out. Are you ready for dessert?” Emma turned her back to him, and Jackson detected a tremor in her voice.
Jackson knew then that he’d never be over Emma Mercer, not if he lived to be a thousand.
Chapter Ten
That night, Jackson and Matthew put on Captain America instead of Spiderman for a change of pace.
The evening at Emma’s had ended with picking tomatoes off the vine and sharing cannoli. If he could just forget about the kiss in her kitchen, then things would be fine. But instead, that intense attraction had flared again while they’d done the dishes! He sat back against the couch, running the scene over in his head.
He’d handed her a dish from the running stream of water, and she’d accepted it to stack in the dishwasher. His wet, slick hand against her warm fingers. Zing. Foolish as it was, there had been a spark of attraction that had flared so brightly he’d almost dropped the plate. But it was not okay for him to touch her soft and floral-scented skin. He’d hurt her before, and he couldn’t ever forgive himself if he did it again.
“Popcorn?” Matthew asked from the kitchen pantry.
“No. Thanks.” How did the kid have room for more food? Not that he was complaining, but he figured it was a good thing Matthew was in shorts for the summer. He’d need longer pants come September. Jackson would take Matty shopping for school clothes so Livvie didn’t have to worry about it.
Jackson washed his face and changed into loose pajama pants and a sleep T-shirt. He caught sight of his blue uniform hanging in the closet. It seemed to call to him. His commander needed him back. Body taut, he walked toward the open closet, touching the fabric of the uniform, the stripes and pins and commendations he’d earned for bravery.
What he remembered—when he allowed himself to think on it—was artillery fire, brave men fighting for their country in a desert war that stretched the boundaries of courage and skill. You survived, you were lucky. He’d been lucky. So far.
Others had not been.
He slammed the closet door, shut off the light to his bedroom, and rejoined Matthew on the couch.
“Here, Uncle Jackson. Want some?” Matty, in Pokémon pajama bottoms that were showing some ankle, handed him the bowl.
Out of reflex, Jackson scooped a small handful and chomped a few kernels as he sat back and fluffed the cushions. “Hit play, Matty. Let’s watch the good guys win.”
Sure, superheroes were fake, but it was nice to know when you started the movie that they would end up on top.
In an actual battle, you had no damn clue.
Eyes heavy, he relaxed, thinking of how great Emma had felt in his arms. How right she’d fit against him. They’d been magic together, and he knew they could be again—but he couldn’t do it. Wanted to, oh yeah, but he had to stay away from her warm body. She knew how to kiss him. Emma.
Gunshots peppered the sand around camp. Mortar fire singed his nostrils. The stench of blood tainted the hot desert air. Good guys. They were supposed to be the good guys, fighting for freedom.
The enemy used the dry terrain to their benefit, their robes blending in with the sand and making them impossible to see.
Remi crawled up next to him behind the sandbags, keeping his head down as the enemy fired round after round into the American compound.
“Shockley’s been hit,” Remi said, sweat dripping down the side of his face.
“Dead?”
“Soon.”
No point in calling for a helicopter, then, he surmised. “Anybody else?”
“They’re trying to destroy the howitzer.”
They’d put false intel out that this compound had a new weapon in order to draw the faction out to the east. Here they were, but air support was not. “We’ll counter with snipers.” He was used to being bait—thrived on the anticipation as he watched the enemy fall into their trap. Nobody in his unit was supposed to die, but that was war, wasn’t it? Taking chances with your life.
It was what they did.
He aimed his scope over the sandbags and sighted the sniper to the left. There! He got off a round, and his enemy went down. Problem was, there were always more.
Remi dove as a grenade lobbed over the sandbags—too close. Smoke filled the foxhole. Remi’s left side jerked as if shaken by an invisible hand, and blood pooled beneath Jackson’s feet.
Not Remi, he whispered. Not Remi.
“Uncle Jackson!”
Jackson woke and tried to orient himself. He sat up, feeling the nub of the couch cushions beneath the pads of his fingers, tasting popcorn instead of blood, hearing the sounds of gunfire—from the television. Not in Afghanistan. Not in battle.
On the couch.
His pulse raced and sweat poured down his back, his temples, and he swiped his hand over his face.
It was bad. So bad. His body shook, and he swallowed past the dry knot lodged in his throat. Remi from Louisiana.
“Uncle.”
He heard the sound of Matthew leaving, heading toward the kitchen. Heard the faucet being turned on and his nephew getting a glass from the cupboard.
Jackson wanted to get up, to shake off the pain-filled memories, but he seemed glued to the couch and couldn’t free his mind of the blood. The screams. The dry desert air that stung his nose.
“Here.” Matthew’s brown eyes were impossibly wide. “Have some water.”
He accepted the glass with trembling fingers. Sipped. Pounded the sounds and smells and horror back behind the wall he’d built. He’d been vigilant against them, but tonight’s dinner had been so normal that he’d made the mistake of relaxing his guard.
“My fault,” he whispered, taking another small drink of the water, unable to meet Matty’s gaze. “My fault.” Iowa. Remi, or Shockley? Or letting down his guard?
He breathed in and out, as the Marine doc had taught him to do.
Jackson, so focused on getting home to his nephew, had told the guy everything he wanted to hear.
So he could be with Matthew.
It was normal to have a few bad dreams. He realized they freaked Matty out, and so he’d tried real hard to keep from a deep sleep. Pots of coffee, high-octane energy drinks, tea.
He knew how to rest with one eye open, usually.
Damn lasagna and cannoli and a pretty girl—he’d been
fooled into complacency.
“Uncle Jackson.” Matty took the water from his loose grip. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Jackson said with a weak nod. “Fine.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears.
He settled back against the couch, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his forearms resting on his knees. When he finally looked at Matthew, his nephew was staring at him with determination.
“What?” Jackson asked, his sense of trepidation returning.
“I want you to call Emma.” Matthew’s chin jutted forward.
“No.” Jackson closed his eyes.
“She can help.”
“No.” He scrubbed a palm down his face. “Just a dream, Matty. That’s all.”
“How long do you think you were sleeping for?”
“What?” Jackson opened his eyes and focused on Matthew. “I dozed off for a few minutes.”
“No, Uncle Jackson.” Matthew’s stubborn chin quivered. “You slept like that for an hour.”
Jackson felt the scowl forming on his face as he looked at Matthew. “You timed me?”
Matthew held up Jackson’s smartphone, his hand shaking. “I have it on video.”
Jackson’s body tensed as if waiting to be hit. Betrayal ate its way up his throat. His nephew had videoed him sleeping? Calm down, Jackson. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you won’t believe me!” Matthew shouted, tears in his brown eyes, his small chin square with courage as he faced him down.
Jackson rose from the couch, anger in every movement. “You just want a dog.”
“That is not true. You know it isn’t.”
It took all of his self-control to keep from verbally lashing out.
“I’m worried about you,” Matthew said, holding his ground.
“I’m fine.” His jaw clenched.
“You don’t have to suffer.”
“Suffer? Matty, you don’t know what it was like over there—and God willing, you won’t ever have to know.” He stood, stretching to his full height, his arms behind his back. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I tried.”
“So, you used my phone?”
“I needed you to see for yourself.” Matthew shook the phone for Jackson to take. “You say you don’t have nightmares, but you do.”
Tempted to smash the device underfoot, Jackson took it, furious. “Go to bed, Matty. We will talk about this in the morning.”
He felt too raw, too violated, to be fair.
Matthew stared at him from the corner of the couch, uncertainty in every bone of his body. “I should have called Emma.”
He didn’t want his nephew to be afraid of him, for heaven’s sake. Right now, he couldn’t trust himself not to shout. “Now.”
Matthew skittered off the couch and ran down the hall to his room, where he slammed the door to show his protest.
Jackson stared at the phone, then closed his eyes, asking for the strength to actually see what his nephew saw. Despite how badly Jackson had wanted to shield him from the horrors of war, it hadn’t happened.
He pressed play. Him, sleeping, muttering as his arms were drawn up to his chest.
Just sleeping. Odd, to watch something that you don’t remember. What was the big freaking deal?
Then his eyes twitched—his hands lifted to his chest in fists. The fury on his sleeping face sent a cold shiver down his spine as he watched the video play.
“Get down, Remi!” What had been a whisper in his dream had been a shout from where he’d been sleeping on the couch.
His cheeks flushed a dark crimson, his body taut—watching himself made his stomach churn, but he made himself look. For the whole hour. Then he sat abruptly on the floor, his legs crossed, his strength gone.
No wonder Matthew was scared.
Jackson had been fighting sleep, thinking he was fine. Handling things okay—but things were not fine. How to fix this messed up situation, his way?
He’d start sleeping in his room, and no more dozing on the couch, so Matty wouldn’t have to hear. He just had to hang on another month, and then he’d be back in the Marines where nobody got any damn sleep.
God, from watching this video, he was in no shape to take care of anybody. He thought of Emma, her calm demeanor, her sweetness.
If he found out that she was behind the video… He forced a breath, from the soles of his feet to his aching head. Call Emma.
She was the last person he could drag into this mess. She was overwhelmed with work and school, but she would help because she cared, but then he would have to leave her all over again.
Pressing play, he watched the video again and knew he had to take some sort of action. Forcing himself to face the issue head on, he powered up the laptop and did a search on PTSD.
…
After how fast Jackson and Matthew had left last night, Emma was surprised when Jackson called her the next morning. “Hello,” she answered, sitting down at the kitchen table.
She never, never, never should have kissed Jackson Hardy. Handsome soldier, a man of integrity, hardened by war, but kind and loving toward his family. A dangerous combination for any woman, especially one who’d loved him once before.
She’d thrown herself into his arms after that heated look he’d given her on the porch, and he’d felt so good. But it had taken her an hour of scrubbing out the kennels to find her emotional balance before bed, all to have it disrupted by his starring role in her dreams.
“Morning.” Jackson’s gruff voice relayed his anger. She heard an undertone of fear. A hint of vulnerability.
She braced herself. Was it Livvie? Had something happened overnight to his sister? Or Matty?
“What’s going on?” she asked in a very calm tone.
“I want to talk to you. Can I come over?”
“Sure. I don’t need to be at the shelter until this afternoon. I’ve got coffee on.”
“This isn’t a social visit.”
Okay. The tone conveyed anger, and the only other time he’d been angry had to do with his PTSD. “All right. I’ll see you soon.” She ended the call and quickly got up from the kitchen table.
The dogs, all eight of them, woofed as she raced from the kitchen, her hair flying behind her. Getting dressed would be good, something professional. Emma needed the reminder that she couldn’t be the woman he’d kissed in the kitchen.
Opening the closet, she shoved hangers back and forth on the rack looking for something that would convey the right message—strictly business—but she didn’t own black because it showed the dog hair the worst. Princess joined her in the closet, tugging on a bootlace.
“Cargo shorts, brown. Cargo shorts, khaki. Cargo shorts, tan. Oh wait, cargo shorts—army green. Oh, here’s a pair in navy blue.” Pathetic.
Cinnamon joined Princess in the shoe pile and Pedro barked.
“Out!” she announced, shooing the fur babies forward. King sprawled across her bed with Lulu at his side.
Finally choosing dark brown shorts, a tan polo, and brown half boots, Emma stuck her hair in a ponytail, but then took it out, letting it fall to her shoulders. Brushed her teeth—no coffee breath—and then left her bedroom, the animals following her. She paced her office. Not a social visit.
Emma pulled an article from her shelf on PTSD that she’d found for dog training, scanning it for useful information. She made a copy for Jackson.
Ten minutes later, Jackson knocked on the door, dressed for a somber occasion in black jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a black T-shirt. She brought him to the living room.
“Hi.” She gestured to the couch, which she’d covered with a quilt—good thing, or Jackson would be wearing enough fur for his own coat.
The dogs sensed that it wasn’t playtime and greeted Jackson in a subdued manner before she gated them in the kitchen. Bandit and Romeo sat at the gate where they could see, as if eavesdropping.
Emma joined Jackson in the living room. He regarded her from his place on the sofa, his
arm across the back, his heel over his opposite knee. Defiant. “Sure you don’t want coffee?” she asked.
“No.” He dropped his phone on the stack of magazines in the middle of the table. “Did you tell Matty to video me?”
Not to do with Livvie. Emma took a centering breath and sat on the chair next to the couch. She remembered the conversation as she and Matty had cleaned the yard. “Matthew had shared with me that you didn’t believe you were having debilitating nightmares.”
Jackson’s green eyes went dark with anger. “Yes or no?”
Would Matty be in trouble? “No, I did not.” She kept her voice even. “But he feels powerless. You told me that you were fine,” she said in a gentle, non-accusing way. “Handling it, as I recall.” She nodded, encouraging him to speak.
She now understood the phrase “glaring daggers”—Jackson’s razor-sharp expression left her flayed and stinging. His muscled jaw clenched as he exuded fury.
Bandit whined across the gate separating the dogs from the living room. “I asked him to call me when you were having another episode, if he was afraid. I could be there to help you.” She kept her hands folded over her knee so that she didn’t offer comfort to Jackson.
“He said he should have called you.” He drummed his fingers over his kneecap.
“Did you watch the video?” She searched his face.
Jackson emanated controlled anger, every muscle tense as he watched her from the couch. “Yes.”
“You don’t have to show it to anybody else.” She waited a few seconds before adding, “It allowed Matthew to be proactive. He’s very concerned.”
“Have you seen this?” Jackson’s chin angled sharply toward her.
“Of course not.” She gentled her voice. “How could I have?”
“Going behind my back doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.” Jackson leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his legs as he stared at Emma.
“Jackson, that’s not true. In fact, I asked your permission to talk with Matthew.”
She scooted to the edge of her chair, her knees an inch from his, looking into Jackson’s eyes. “Matty wants your nightmares to stop and is asking for assistance. He can’t do anything about Livvie being in the hospital, but with you, there is something he can try.” He looked at her with such a crushed, vulnerable expression that her breath caught. This was a man used to being in control, in charge, and he didn’t know what to do next.