by Julie Miller
After pulling her hood up over her ears, she shut the door behind her and locked it. The damp bite of wintry air chapped her cheeks and hurried her steps past the gate and up onto the deck where the motion sensor light over the back door popped on, turning a small circle of night into day.
“Daisy? Is that you?”
Startled by the voice in the night, Daisy spun around. Once she’d identified the disembodied voice, she drifted beyond the edge of the light to bring her neighbor to the north into focus. “Good evening, Jeremiah.” Although Jeremiah Finch’s balding head was little more than a balloon-shaped shadow above the hedge on his side of the fence, she recognized his little Chihuahua in a pink and black sweater underneath the hedge where the snow wasn’t as deep. As much as her neighbor loved his little princess, he liked to keep his yard in pristine condition, and would either immediately clean up after the dog, or hook her onto a leash and lead her to the bushes as he had tonight. “I see Suzy is bundled up against the cold. New sweater?”
“Knitted it myself. Are you coming down with a cold?” he asked, no doubt hearing the rasp in her voice.
“I’m fine. Just a little too much singing. And you?”
“I’m well. Suzy and I will be going in now. Good night.”
“Good night.” As formal and shallow as their conversations might be, Mr. Finch had proved himself to be a good neighbor. Besides maintaining a beautiful home, he didn’t mind picking up her mail and watching over her house when she had to leave town. And she often returned the favor.
After he and Suzy had gone inside, Daisy slipped her key into the dead bolt lock.
One sharp, deep bark and the excited sound of yapping dogs told Daisy her furry family already knew she was home. She peeked through the sheers in the window beside the door and saw her beloved trio gathering in the mud room with tails wagging to welcome her before pushing open the door. “Yoo-hoo! Mama’s home.”
Muffy, her little tiger of a Shih Tzu led the charge out the door. A silver-and-white-haired boy cursed with a girl’s name by the elderly owner who had to surrender him when she moved into a nursing facility, Muffy often made up for the insult by being the toughest and loudest guard dog he could be, if not the most ferocious-looking. Patch, her deaf Jack Russell terrier mix, took his cues from the other dogs, and followed right behind the smaller dog, no doubt barking because Muffy was. Both stopped for a friendly greeting and some petting before dashing out into the snowy yard. Patch, especially, loved being outside, leaping from snow bank to snow bank and snuzzling through the drifts as though feeling the cold against his skin made him giddy.
Her senior dog, Caliban, hobbled out the door on three legs. Daisy got the feeling that when her biggest dog stopped for a scratch around the ears, the Belgian Malinois was humoring her rather than seeking her affection. Poor guy. He’d spent a career at KCPD before the cancerous tumor that had led to the amputation of his left front leg forced him into retirement, and then he hadn’t been able to live at his handler’s home because the K-9 officer’s child was allergic. Daisy reached inside the door to grab one of the rope toys that seemed to be the tan-and-black dog’s only joy and tossed it out into the snow. As she watched him trot down the two steps into the yard, Daisy’s heart squeezed in her chest. The experts who claimed that dogs didn’t feel emotions didn’t know Caliban. That dog was sad. He’d lost his job, lost his favorite person, lost his home and routine. When Pike Taylor had asked if she could take the dog for the last year or so he had left, Daisy had willingly opened up her home and her heart. Muffy and Patch had welcomed the older dog, although the two little spitfires made him cranky at times. Caliban had a good home here, but Daisy was still looking for the key to breaking through that reserve of his.
Smiling at the distinct personalities of each of her children, Daisy crossed to the railing to watch her three charges. Muffy was all business, inspecting the perimeter of the yard and trees along the back fence. Caliban was nosing around the gate and garage, avoiding the snow as much as possible. And Patch...
“Patch?” Daisy hiked her purse behind her hip and leaned over the railing. Where had he snuck off to? He wouldn’t answer her summons unless he was looking right at her or following one of the other dogs. “Where did you go?”
Daisy looked down to see the clear impression of man-sized boot prints in the snow. The security light created shadows through the deck railings that had obscured them earlier. But there they were, a messy set of prints circling around the deck to the gas and water meters on the back of the house. She spotted Patch, his muzzle and jowls white with a snowy beard, following the tracks past the meters to the dormant lilac bushes at the corner of the house.
That wasn’t right. Goose bumps pricked across Daisy’s skin. She crossed to the side railing and squinted into the darkness beyond her porch light. Between the blowing snow and the shadows, she couldn’t make out whether the tracks ended at the side of the house or if they continued into Mr. Finch’s yard next door. Or maybe they’d originated from there? Maybe Jeremiah had spotted something that concerned him in the backyard. Still, she couldn’t see the fastidious gentleman climbing over the chain-link fence when there was a perfectly good gate between the house and garage that granted easy access to the yard. It would be hard to tell exactly where the footprints led unless she went out in the knee-deep drifts to look with a flashlight. And as much as Daisy wanted answers, she wasn’t keen on being anywhere alone in the dark.
She swallowed hard, trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why someone would be wandering around her backyard. She’d had the same utility worker from the city for years. He knew his way around her backyard, and didn’t mind the dogs when they were out. Maybe he had a substitute walking his route, someone who didn’t know there was only one gate. Patch spent a lot of time snuffling around in each footprint until he lifted his leg and peed in one. Why were there so many tracks? Had more than one person been in the backyard?
“Muffy? Caliban?” She put her chilled lips together and tried to whistle, but she doubted even a dog could hear the wimpy sound that came out.
Then she spotted Caliban’s white muzzle as he carried his toy back up the steps to dutifully sit beside her. “Good boy.” Had he sensed her fear? Did he just have impeccable timing? “Good, good boy.” Daisy scratched around his ears and rewarded him by pulling on one end of the rope and letting him enjoy a gentle game of tug of war. But the game ended quickly when Caliban released the toy and spun toward the back door. A split second later, Muffy zipped past her, barking like mad. That response could mean only one thing. They’d heard the doorbell at the front of the house. She had a visitor.
Although she was hardly prepped for company, she was more than ready to go inside. She caught Patch’s attention and gave the signal for him to come. He dashed through the doorway in front of her.
The doorbell chimed again while she bolted the back door. The dogs raced ahead of her, yapping and tracking snow across the long, narrow rug and refinished oak of her hallway floor. Patch leaped over the two plastic tubs of Christmas ornaments she’d stacked beside the stairs, waiting for the tree she planned to get this weekend. Daisy hurried after them, dumping her purse on the bottom step of the staircase leading up to the second floor, pulling off her hood and stuffing her gloves into her pockets.
She pushed her way through the semi-circle of barking dogs, put Caliban and Patch into a sit and picked up Muffy, her brave boy who had the most trouble following orders and greeting an unfamiliar visitor. If this was the potential tenant Pike Taylor had okayed for her, she wanted time to explain that her pack of dogs were looking for treats and tummy rubs, not the opportunity to take a bite out of a stranger. Daisy flipped on the Christmas lights over the front porch and made sure the dead bolt was engaged before peering through the window beside the door.
“Wow.” She mouthed the word, fogging up the glass.
&nbs
p; The man standing on her front porch was hot, in a rugged sort of way. He stood six feet tall, give or take an inch. He wore a black stocking cap fitted tightly to his head and a beige coat that pulled at his broad shoulders and thick arms. With his hands down at the sides of his jeans and his legs braced apart, he stood there, unmoving. If it wasn’t for the puffs of his warm breath clouding around his gray eyes, she’d have thought him a statue, impervious to the cold. Daisy’s throat went dry at the inverse response of heat that could be nerves, or something decidedly more...aware...that he triggered inside her.
Not the fatherly figure she’d been hoping for. His face was a little too craggy to be handsome. The scars that peeked above the collar of his sweater and crept up his neck to the edge of his mouth and cheek to circle around most of his left eye, coupled with the stern set of his square jaw, added to his harsh look. She was certain Pike wouldn’t send her anyone she wouldn’t be safe with. Still, safe was a relative term. This guy didn’t project calm reassurance so much as he looked as though he could scare off anyone who glanced crosswise at him. Although he would fulfill the purpose of having a tenant, she wasn’t sure she’d be comfortable having a man like him in the house.
Still, if Pike said he was okay, she’d at least interview him.
She startled when his head suddenly tilted and his gaze shifted to her silhouette in the window. He’d caught her staring at him. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave an acknowledgement, didn’t react, period. He simply locked his gaze onto hers until she muttered, “My bad,” and hurried to atone for her rudeness. Muffy whined in her arms, and Daisy unbolted the door and opened it, leaving the steel-framed storm door secured between them.
The rush of heat she’d felt dissipated with the chill that seeped through the glass. “Hi. Are you here about the room to rent? I thought we weren’t meeting until after dinner.”
“Master Sergeant Harry Lockhart, ma’am,” he announced in a deep, clipped voice. “Are you Daisy Gunderson?”
Recognition and relief chased away her trepidation and she smiled. “Master Serg...? Harry? Pen pal Harry?” She plopped Muffy down between the other dogs, then unlatched the storm door and pushed it wide open. “Harry Lockhart! I’m so excited to finally meet you.” The dogs followed her out onto the brick porch and danced around their legs. Daisy threw her arms around Harry’s neck, pressed her body against his rock-hard chest and hugged him tight. “Welcome home!”
Chapter Two
Welcome home?
Harry’s vision blurred as something gray and furry darted between his legs. A mix of squeals and barks blended with the deafening boom and shouting voices inside his head, and his nose was suddenly filled with the stench of burnt earth and raw skin.
One moment, the memories were there, but in the next, he blanked them out and focused on the here and now. His body was hyper-aware of the softness wrapped around him like a blanket, and the creamy chill of the woman’s cheek pressed against the side of his neck.
Daisy Gunderson was on her tiptoes hugging him. Bear-hugging him. Giving him a squeeze-the-stuffing-out-of-him kind of hug. What happened to polite introductions and handshakes? This wasn’t the greeting he’d expected. She wasn’t the woman he’d expected.
But when a woman hugged a man like that, it was his natural instinct to wrap his arms around her and...pat her back. He could hear his men ribbing him now, giving him grief over his lousy moves with the ladies the same way he gave them grief about staying sharp and keeping their heads down. He’d been short on this kind of contact for a long time. Months. Years, maybe. The instinctive part of him wanted to tighten his grip around her. A baser part of him wanted to reach down and see if the curves on the bottom half matched the ones flattened against him up top—or whether all that luscious body he felt was just the pillows of her coat squished between them. A different part of him, the part that was still fractured and healing, wanted to bury his nose in the sugar-cookies-and-vanilla scents radiating off her clothes and hair and skin, and let it fill up his head and drive out the nightmares.
Harry did none of those things. Although her scent was as sweet as he’d imagined, nothing else about this meeting was going according to plan. Dogs were barking. She was plastered against him. He patted her back again because he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react to this welcome. After all, he’d never met Daisy in person before.
She started talking before pulling away. “This feels like a reunion between old friends. I just got home myself. A few minutes earlier and you would have missed me. What are you doing here?” She shooed the dogs into the house and grabbed his wrist, pulling him in, as well. “Sorry. I’ll stop talking. Come in out of the cold.”
He watched the little gray-and-white fuzz mop dart back and forth across the area rug in the foyer while the white terrier jumped over him with a yip of excitement when he got too close. Those dogs were wired. They needed a good bit of exercise to take some of that energy out of them.
After locking the thick mahogany door behind her, Daisy pointed to the little one. “Muffy, down.” Muffy? The long-haired one was clearly a dude, but he had to give the little guy credit for flopping down on his belly to pant until he got permission to go nuts again. “I can put them in their kennels if you want, but they’ll mind if you tell them to stay down. Make sure Patch is making eye contact with you and use your hand. He’s deaf. But smart as a whip. Jack Russells usually are. He knows several commands. Patch?”
She demonstrated a universal hand signal. The terrier sat, all right, but so did the Belgian Malinois. Who looked a lot like... That muscle ticked beneath Harry’s right eye as he slammed the door on that memory and focused on the dog with the graying muzzle. Poor old guy had lost a leg. But those deep brown eyes were sharp and focused squarely on him, as if awaiting a command. Maybe the dog recognized another wounded warrior. “Is he a working dog?”
“KCPD-retired,” she answered. “That’s Caliban. He lost his leg to cancer. I inherited him when his handler couldn’t keep him. Sorry about the mess. I’m in the middle of decorating for the holidays.” Daisy was moving down the hallway beside the stairs, which were draped with fake greenery and red bows tied along the railing. She swerved around a couple of plastic tubs and kicked aside little bits of melting snow with her low-heeled boots. “Stick to the runner and it won’t be slippery,” she advised. “Could I get you something hot to drink? Coffee? Cocoa? Are you hungry? I baked a ton of cookies last weekend.”
Did the woman never stop talking? He couldn’t even say hello, much less ask a question or explain the reason he was here. “That’s not necessary.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s cold. I’m cold. I’d be fixing it, anyway.”
Clearly, she expected him to follow her through the house, so Harry pulled the watch cap off his head and stepped out. A parade of curious dogs followed him into a cozy kitchen that opened up to a dining room that appeared to be a storage area for unwanted furniture, more plastic tubs and paint cans.
“Ignore that room. My goal is to clear that out this weekend and finish decorating. I’m hosting my school’s staff Christmas party next weekend.” She shed her coat and scarf and tossed them over a ladder-back chair at an antique cherrywood table. “Have a seat.”
“I wanted to talk about the letters.”
“Sit.” She pulled out a stool at the peninsula counter and patted the seat. “I’d love to talk about the letters you sent. Wish you’d kept writing after the school year ended.” He’d stopped in June because that’s when he... He hadn’t written any letters from the hospital. “You’re the first one of our pen pals I’ve met in person.”
“That was nice of you to keep writing, even after I dropped the ball.” Harry put his leather gloves on the counter, unzipped his coat and settled onto the stool. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that some of those pen pals were never coming home. “I want you to know ho
w much my unit appreciated all the letters you and your class sent them. Even if we, if I, didn’t always respond.”
She was running water now, measuring coffee. “That was one of my more inspired projects. I started it with last year’s composition class. Anything to get them to write. Plus, at Central Prep—the school where I teach—we encourage our students to be involved in the community, to be citizens of the world and aware of others. It seemed like a win-win for both of us, supporting the troops while improving their communication skills. When your sister mentioned your Marine Corps unit at church, looking for Christmas cards to send them last year, I jumped right on it.” She tugged at the hem of her long purple tweed sweater after reaching into the refrigerator for some flavored creamer. As she moved about, Harry noticed that her glasses were purple, too, and so were the streaks of color in her chocolate brown hair. “I always model what I ask my students to do, so I adopted you. I don’t mean adopt you like that—no one would adopt...you’re a grown man. We drew names out of a hat. You were the one that was left, so you lucked out and became my pen pal. It’s nice—no, amazing—to finally meet you in person.” She stopped to take a breath and push a plate of sugar cookies decorated like Christmas trees and reindeer in front of him. “And now I’m rambling. Thank you for your service.”
Now she was rambling? Harry was still replaying all the dialogue in his head to catch everything she’d said. “You’re welcome. I was just doing my job. Thank you for your letters. They meant a lot to me.”