by V. Vaughn
“Bad dream?” said that same calm voice. “Get up and move around.”
When he shook his head and stayed huddled, the voice became determined. “Now.” Strong arms levered him out of bed and he was forced to stand.
He looked at Jen who was eying him assessingly. “You need a drink,” she decided. She handed him the red throw to add to his borrowed costume and waited for him to drape it around his lower body.
Zeke found himself seated at the table drinking hot chicken broth. He waited for the interrogation to begin. Jen faced him placidly but didn’t speak. She was drinking coffee, but she didn’t offer him any. The soup was just as delicious as everything else she had fed him. He gulped it down. He was cold and thirsty. When he had finished his mug, Jen rose and silently fetched more. This time she spoke.
“I should have been keeping a log of your internal temperature,” she said apologetically. “And making sure you were drinking enough.”
“Huh.”
“You nearly died last night,” she repeated matter-of-factly. “You certainly shouldn’t have been outdoors doing heavy labor. You overdid it.”
“I’m fine,” he said sourly. He stalked off to the john.
When he returned the table was laid for supper. Steam curled from plates of mashed potatoes and meaty stew full of carrots. Another mug of soup sat beside his place. Jen was waiting for him with her hands folded on her lap. She smiled at him as he sat down sullenly.
The stew was delicious. He scarfed it down and used the edge of his fork to scour the gravy from the plate. He peeked across at Jenna. She was smiling slightly and only halfway through her own dinner. Dammit, he was acting like a barbarian again.
“Would you care for another serving?” she asked, polite as a duchess.
“Yes, please. When you’re done,” he ground out through clenched teeth. Something about that serene expression curdled his milk of human kindness.
Her brows rose. “Help yourself,” she returned. “There’s plenty.”
Zeke stalked off to the kitchen where sure enough the big pot that had spent the day simmering on the wood stove still held lots of stew. The big dutch oven beside it was full of mashed potatoes. He refilled his plate and returned to his hostess.
“Thank you,” he said grumpily.
“You are most welcome.” Jen continued to eat as though he hadn’t declared war.
Eating mellowed his mood. The vicious edge of the dream faded. He felt as normal as he got these days. Jen still hadn’t spoken except to urge butter and juice on him. Apparently she didn’t want to know about her houseguest’s nightmares. Well he didn’t want to talk about them. So that made two of them. So why did her lack of curiosity annoy the hell out of him?
When they were finished eating, Jen picked up their plates and said, “You should put your feet up. Couch or bed?”
“I’m fine,” he barked.
Again with the brows. She shook her head. “Rest,” she instructed. “Couch or bed?”
He settled for the couch and she produced a heavy woolen blanket to cover him. He did feel better lying down, and it was comforting to have her look after him. He fell asleep before she crossed the three steps to the kitchen door.
Jenna washed up and set her kitchen to rights. She loved her kitchen. Her cousins had listened to her and designed an efficient workspace with counters at the right height for a tall woman, and lots of storage. She didn’t like clutter, so she liked her appliances handy but hidden. Joey and Lenny had exchanged knowing looks when she said she wanted appliance garages. And when Nick and Matt had started to tease her, they had shaken their heads warningly at her brothers.
“Women purely do love hidey holes,” Joe told the twins, as a man might instruct apprentices. Sixteen-year-old Matt and Nick had nodded and, to her amusement, had tried to imitate Joey’s worldly-wise expression.
Whatever his comment had meant, Joe had made her a beautiful kitchen that was a pleasure to work in. Jen did the dishes and decided that Zeke would probably need a snack before bed. There was a lot of muscle on that man to feed, and he needed fuel to recover. She set to work to whip up a batch of cheese scones and a pan of brownies.
Zeke’s rumbling breath from the sitting room told her he was still napping. Well, no surprise there. She checked on him. His face had lost the white, drawn look it had had after their shower room sex. And, aside from his heavy stubble, he looked more or less normal. Only she supposed his stubble was pretty normal for a Bascom.
She got out her knitting and went to work on Matt’s socks. She was probably going to have to make a fifth pair this month. She didn’t think Zeke was going to give back the pair she had lent him. In her experience, once a man felt the comfort of hand-knitted wool on his size fifteens, he never wanted to wear anything else. Socks that fit made all the difference.
Was she going to be knitting socks for this big, tough soldier for the rest of her life? She hoped so. But the combination of snarling and leering didn’t suggest that he had tender feelings for her. What had Mama said to her girls when they were young? If you give a man milk, why would he buy the cow? An old fashioned sentiment, but here on the Ridge folks were plenty old fashioned.
She couldn’t for the life of her think why she was so drawn to this cantankerous mountain of a shifter. He was bad tempered. Uncommunicative. Far from handsome. Battered. And he had the manners of a savage. Of course, he was also wounded. And yet having him in her house felt good. Better than good. It felt right. She was in such trouble.
The scones and brownies had cooled to room temperature, and she had turned the heels of Matt’s socks, when Zeke opened his eyes. He swung his feet off the couch and padded to the bathroom with no more than a grunt in her direction.
Zeke looked at his five o’clock shadow disparagingly. He rubbed it with his fingers. He needed a shave. He didn’t want to shave with that damned dull blade and nick his face up again. But the thought of Jenna’s peachy-soft skin made him reach for her pink razor. Gone. She had set out a blue disposable on the countertop. It was still in its plastic pouch.
This was the first sign he’d found of the owner of his sweater. He scowled at the commonplace object. Was he going to have to kill someone to keep his angel? Because he planned to keep her. If she would let him. Fate had given her to him and he intended to hold fast to his prize. If that meant running off some other, better man, he was fully prepared to do battle.
But that was different from using the SOB’s razor. Only the memory of showing up unshaven to evening inspection his first week at West Point, made him pick it up. Ten days in full kit marching quick time as penance for a five o’clock shadow. Because scruffy wasn’t allowed in the army.
Sgt. Lindstrom had used him as an object lesson to teach his plebes that when the army said, ‘Jump” they meant ‘Jump’. No excuses. No explanations. Just accept responsibility. That you hadn’t been given the opportunity to shave since breakfast was just bad luck. That it wasn’t fair you were the only seventeen-year-old who needed to shave at all, let alone twice a day, was of no consequence.
Long time ago now. Life had been simpler when old Lindstrom was in charge and you just had to do what you were told. And the penalty for fucking up was extra drill — not watching your buddies evaporate into red mist and fragmentary scraps. He scraped bristles off his neck. What business did he have claiming an angel when Ryan and the rest of his team had come back stateside in body bags?
He looked himself in the eye and knew the truth. He had nothing to offer this kind and beautiful woman. Even before he had betrayed his team, he hadn’t been any female’s ideal mate. None of the men in his family were any good at family life. He had no reason to think he would do any better.
There was Granddaddy Clive with his string of wives. How many? Four? Five? His own grandfather had died too young for him to know if he would have stuck with Grandma Mary. But his father was on his fourth wife, and had had Lord alone knew how many affairs. And ever since Clive had died, he an
d Pat had known that Jeremy planned to trade his latest wife in for a younger woman, even though Diana wasn’t much past forty.
His stepmother Diana was on her second face lift. Well, of course she was. Having dieted herself into a size zero, she had lost all the muscles in her face and neck. The skin on her face drooped as if she was an old woman. Her arms looked like twigs. But that didn’t excuse Jeremy for stepping out on her.
It was true that Uncle Freddie, Laura’s and Calvin’s father, had only ever had one wife. Even when Aunt Brenda was killed by that drunk driver, he hadn’t brought home a step-mother for his kids. Or even a girlfriend. Of course, could be Freddie was just more discreet than Jeremy and Clive.
Jeremy’s brother Gilbert always said that bears loved only once. But Uncle Gil was a bachelor, and if he had loved only once he had a funny way of showing it. When Gilbert Bascom had got out of the Marines and started on at B and B Oil,, as far as Zeke could tell, he had loved his way through a succession of women. At least Zeke thought he had. Gil was pretty discreet. And he treated his dates with respect. And at least old Gil had the sense to prefer a woman with some heft to her.
Calvin and Patrick’s predilection for bony women was beyond him. They always had some skinny new trophy woman hanging around. Every single one of their many girlfriends looked stretched and hungry, their hair fluffed up to compensate for their thin faces.
He didn’t like to imagine what making love to a sack of bones felt like. Or why Cal and Pat favored it. For sure it was nothing like holding on to luscious built-for-bear Jenna. She was solid muscle covered in buttery soft flesh.
Just thinking about her ripe curves made him hard again. Well, that was one question answered. He had been wondering for the last six months if his case of wilt was permanent. Clearly, Jenna was a cure for whatever had ailed his favorite organ. Just one more reason to hang on to his angel.
12
There was more food on the table when Zeke returned to the sitting room. Jen was sitting on her recliner knitting, but she lowered the footrest and stowed her needles and wool before joining him at the table with another cheerful smile.
Gracious. He could be gracious. He was an officer and a gentleman.
“These are wonderful,” he said around a mouthful of scone. The flavor of cheddar cheese exploded in his mouth.
“Thank you,” she said primly, but her eyes were dancing.
He tucked in eagerly. Because one, a soldier never knows when he’ll get his next meal. And two, sooner or later she would throw him out of paradise.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Hmm. I suppose you want to know about my screaming in my sleep?” Diana had probed his wounds raw trying to get him to spill his guts and ‘Get the poison out’.
Jenna shook her head. Her fat braid bobbed. “It’ll pass,” she said gently. “Once you realize that you’re lucky to be able to dream at all.”
His mouth fell open and he stared at her. “I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD,” he informed her stiffly.
She seemed unimpressed. “Hmm.” She got up and began to clear the table. “I’m not sure I believe in PTSD,” she said calmly.
Zeke found himself looking at her round ass as she sashayed away from him with their dishes. Didn’t believe in PTSD! When he had nightmares that woke him up screaming and sweating? When loud noises made him shake? When he could barely haul his ass around half the time. He stormed over to the blank black window and stared out at the night.
Jenna had turned on the lantern over the door again, and he could see out a surprising distance. The mounds of snow were blunt hills with not a mark to show where he and Jenna had passed. The futility of their efforts depressed him more.
A gentle touch on his arm made him turn violently. But his angel was smiling at him. She led him back to the couch and handed him a gel filled sack. It fit perfectly in his palm and unconsciously he began to squeeze it.
“Tell me about your buddies,” she said quietly.
He opened his mouth to say he didn’t want to discuss his mission, before it registered she had asked about his team. “They’re all dead,” he croaked.
Her face was sympathetic, but she persisted. “Tell me their names,” she said. “What they were like.”
He began with Tyrone Ryan. Tyrone who he had met the first day of his new life at the Academy. Tyrone who was nearly as big as him and had been his best buddy since they were raw seventeen-year-old cadets. Tyrone who had howled at his troubles with his five o’clock shadow.
“That’s a white people’s problem,” he had said stroking his smooth black chin complacently. He had been in his twenties before he had had to routinely add a blade to the razor he used on his face every morning in obedience to army discipline.
Jenna listened to his stories and kept asking questions. “What did Ryan like to drink? What sports was he good at?” Nothing about battle. And everything that was at the heart of his friendship with his buddies.
“Sounds like a good fellow to have your back,” she declared. “You’ll miss him. What about the others.”
She made him remember his team as the good friends they had been. They were all Rangers. The best of the best. As tough as Uncle Sam could make them.
“They’d all have died for me,” he said hoarsely. His fist clenched his gel bag tightly and he passed it to the other hand and let that have a go.
“And you for them,” Jenna said softly.
He stared at her.
“Unless, you mean to tell me, they wouldn’t have taken a bullet for the team?” Her voice was very gentle.
He swallowed. “They saved my butt a hundred times. Hell, a thousand.”
“And you, of course, were riding their coattails all the way.”
“Hell, no.” He was indignant. “I’d have died for any one of them. That’s the way it works.”
“Hmm. And now they need you to live for them. Turns out that’s the hardest task of all.” Jenna got up and put more wood in the stove.
“Huh.” Zeke was stupefied. “What do you mean?”
“Just that you survived, and your friends would want you to live a full life.” She paused. “A happy life. Because those strong, competitive, badass roustabouts you’ve described were also generous, loyal and wise. If you’d died, you’d want your friends to live well and raise a glass to you now and then. Do you truly believe your pals want less for you?”
“Except that I killed them,” he ground out.
Those dark brows went up. “Shot them in the back did you?” she inquired pleasantly.
“Worse. I sent them to their deaths and watched from safety.” He blurted out the shameful truth.
She sat down and opened up her knitting bag. “Tell me about their families,” she said as if she hadn’t heard his confession.
“Huh.”
When Jenna stopped knitting and produced a tiny pair of scissors from her knitting bag and snipped her wool and grinned at him, Zeke was startled into silence. How long had he been yapping on about his buddies? Not just about his recently lost team, but all the guys who hadn’t made it home. Jen had listened and hardly said a word, although she had chuckled heartily at some of his stories.
And about two hours ago she had made him get his boots and clean and polish them. He didn’t know how he could keep forgetting about looking after them. But the familiar chore had soothed some place deep in him. Half of Army life was cleaning gear and making sure you were ready to turn out at a moment’s notice. If leaving his only pair of boots to dry in their mud had some deep subconscious meaning, he didn’t want to know what it was.
Anyway, Jenna had stuffed them with crumpled newspapers so they hadn’t dried a funny shape. And working dubbin into the leather had brought back a hundred pleasant memories of eager youth and merciless practical jokes. Things he hadn’t let himself think about in months.
Now Jenna was beaming triumphantly at him and holding up a sock the match for those he was wearing. “This,” she announced s
elf-importantly, “Is my one trick.” She reached into the sock and pulled out its mate and waved the two socks like flags.
“How’d you do that?” he asked as he was supposed to. Although, come to think of it, it was perplexing.
She grinned cheekily. “Family secret,” she teased.
He picked her up from her chair and held her in his arms. “I’m a Bascom too,” he whispered as his mouth claimed hers.
She led him to her room, and he was hopeful. But she pushed him towards the bathroom and said, “Toothbrushes are in the left hand drawer. I have some chores to do before I come to bed.”
Zeke rubbed his face and checked his beard. Not too bad. He decided he could wait till morning. He felt a thousand times better than he had when he woke from his nightmare. Not perfect. But better. And he was pretty sure he had his angel to thank.
His family hadn’t wanted to hear about his buddies. And he had skipped all the memorial services. And although he had attended all the military burials, he hadn’t imposed himself on his friends’ families. Not when he was responsible for their deaths. Assuaging his grief at their expense had seemed like pouring salt in open wounds.
There was no sign of Jenna, so he peeled off his sweater and socks, folded them neatly, and got into her bed to wait. He lay in her bed, inhaling her luscious scent and felt peace envelope him. He was fast asleep by the time she had checked the generator and added logs to the stove and found something for tomorrow’s meals.
Jen stood looking down at her soldier. He had had a bad time by the sound of things. Lost his team and lost his sense of purpose with them. Her daddy had always said that the hardest thing about being a sergeant was ordering boys as dear as sons to do things that would surely get some of them killed.
“But every soldier is someone’s son. You just gotta give your orders and hope they mostly make it. And if they don’t, you have to remember their lives not their deaths.” And Master Sergeant Bascom had heaved a sigh that rattled his big body.