Boots on the Ground: Homefront, Book 1

by Rebecca Crowley

  “A little.”

  For a moment they stood in absolute silence, their gazes locked, her expression clouded with what he hoped were the same carnal impulses currently roaring through his bloodstream. The long prairie grass rustled in the breeze, the buzz of insects swelled and receded, and his heart thudded so loudly he was sure it could be heard all the way out in Oklahoma.

  He lowered his eyes first, slipping past her and dropping to his knees in front of the tire. “It’s getting late, and you probably want to be on your way home. I’ll take care of these.”

  “Sorry for dragging you away from your friends for so long.” She swept up her shoes, dangling them by the straps. He kept his eyes on the wheel, torn between conflicting urges to keep her with him as long as possible and to get this car fixed so he could drive as fast and far as he could from the most unsettling tidal wave of emotions he’d had in a very long time.

  “I bet they’ve barely noticed I’m gone. Too busy exaggerating their kill rates.”

  He regretted his flippant remark in the awkward beat that followed. Laurel was a classy girl from a good family—she didn’t want to hear about enemy body counts.

  He cringed inwardly. So many damn years in Uncle Sam’s employ that he couldn’t talk to women who were candidates for anything more than a one-night fling to scratch a mutual itch. This civilian life was not off to a good start.

  “At least you get to travel in the army. That’s pretty cool,” she offered.

  “Yeah, Iraq and Afghanistan. Nice beach weather, shame about the IEDs.”

  “Still.” She shrugged. “That’s a life you can hang your hat on.”

  He lowered the jack, tightened the lug nuts and stood up, glancing at her car and then squinting at the horizon, desperate for a change of subject. “Where were you going, anyway? Looks like you were headed out of town.”

  “Driving off a bad date.”

  He gave in to his smile as he stowed the tools and shut the trunk. “He forget to pull out your chair? Suggest you go dutch?”

  “Worse. He bored me.”

  His eyes leveled on hers as he yanked open her driver’s-side door. Her chin was high in coy defiance, and he imagined some high-flying lawyer or local politician nursing his disappointment with very expensive brandy. “Poor bastard.”

  She walked around to meet him, shoes in hand, but didn’t get in. “I’m free next Saturday night, in case you were wondering.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets, wrenching himself back into flirt mode as unfamiliar optimism surged through him. He still had a chance—he hadn’t totally screwed the pooch, not yet.

  “Why would I be wondering?”

  “In case you need someone to buy you a drink as a thank-you for fixing a tire. I’m just saying, I’m available.”

  “Are you asking me out? Because as a rule, I only go on dates when I’ve done the asking. It’s a guy thing.”

  “Did you hear any question marks in what I said?” She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. “Those were statements, Mr. Reid. I simply informed you of an upcoming gap in my social calendar.”

  He let a beat of silence pass between them as he studied her teasing expression, the playful sparkle in her eye tempered by an undercurrent of optimistic anticipation. Medical degree and family name aside, he liked this girl. He liked her a lot.

  He straightened to his full six feet and three inches—actually more like four inches in these boots—and put on his most gentlemanly tone. “Miss Hayes, it would be my pleasure to take you to dinner next Saturday night.” He cast a significant glance at the wheel. “I’ll drive.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Then, as if worried he would take that as her real answer, she took a hasty step forward, closing most of the distance between them. “I’m kidding. Of course I’d like to go out with you. I’m already looking forward to it.”

  She beamed up at him, her expression full of self-assurance, but from the way she wrung one hand in the other, he had a feeling she was as nervous about making the wrong move as he was. Suddenly his blood roared with an urge to hoist her over his shoulder, march her back to his truck and toss her in the bed. He’d lay her down on the camouflage tarp and slide his hands under the silky material of her dress, her heels thumping against the corrugated metal as a startled, delighted giggle lilted from her throat. They’d make love under the crisp Kansas stars and he’d fall asleep with her sweet-smelling hair fanned out over his bare chest. He wondered if she wore satin underwear. Hell, she might not wear underwear.

  Laurel was looking at him expectantly. The image of that old drunk Leroy’s advances flashed in his mind, and the recollection of the way her expression had vacillated between fear and an unwillingness to admit she needed help washed over his red-hot fantasy like a bucket of ice water. She didn’t want a sex-crazed animal with no impulse control, she wanted a gentleman, and while he was no high-society mister himself, he sure had manners. He cleared his throat and stepped back.

  “There’ll be a quiz on everything you learned tonight, so be ready.”

  She grinned, dropping into the driver’s seat. “I’ll misappropriate your patient contact data and give you a call.”

  “Best breach of confidentiality I’ve ever heard.” He slammed the door shut behind her. “You drive safe, now.”

  With a wave she started the engine, U-turned, and pointed the car toward town. Grady lifted his hand in farewell and watched as the car receded down the highway.

  “Well,” he remarked to the empty road, “I’ve got a date with the doctor. Not bad for a banged-up old grunt, huh?”

  And with the lightest step he’d had in weeks, he got back in his truck and started the engine.

  Chapter Three

  “She wants it both ways—that I work enough to pay child support and take him overnight so she can go out with her friends.” Wade shook his head as he ran the paintbrush up the wall. “That woman’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

  Grady said nothing as he climbed another rung on the ladder to reach the seam where the wall met the ceiling. It was raining so hard that the road crew couldn’t go out, and he’d been grateful when one of his colleagues said his brother was looking for someone to fill in on an indoor painting job.

  “Wade’s a hard worker, but he needs supervision,” Bill had explained on the phone. “The client’s supposed to come home around six o’clock, so try to wrap it up by then. Get the payment for the day and say I’ll be in touch once the walls have a chance to dry.”

  After six hours listening to twenty-one-year-old Wade recount his extensive personal dramas, Grady thought he needed a lot more than supervision. Still, a day spent babysitting was better than a financial hit from the bad weather.

  “I wonder how much a place like this costs.” Wade put his hands on his hips and looked around. They were painting an upstairs bedroom, and though Grady had refused to join Wade on his curious wander through the house, it was hard to ignore the wealth surrounding them. Even the walk from the front door to the staircase was like turning a page in a fancy home décor magazine, from the plush leather sofa set visible in the open-plan living room, to the thick-pile carpet, to the fresh orchids in a delicate-looking vase, to the frames that held actual paintings, not posters.

  Grady was a meticulous saver, especially these last couple of years, and he’d never been prouder than the day he put down a big cash deposit on his twenty-acre spread. But as he took in the brand-new fixtures and top-of-the-line windows, all he could think of was his leaky roof, the driveway that needed new gravel, the prehistoric electric wiring, the kitchen that was so outdated it was barely usable…

  “It costs more than you or I will ever earn, so don’t even waste your time wondering.”

  “But you were in the army.” Wade turned back to his task. “I heard soldiers make good money.”

  “Considering how often you get shot at, it’s not that good.”

  Wade smiled at the wall. “Still better t
han this. Were you a Ranger or special forces or anything cool like that?”

  “Nope, just your garden-variety infantry.”

  Grady climbed down to reposition the ladder and caught Wade wrinkling his nose. “If I was going to join up, I’d be in the Marines. They’re hardcore. Or the air force, learn to fly a helicopter. What do y’all do in the infantry anyway? ”

  “Go looking for fights.”

  Grady indulged in a quick, satisfied smile at the ensuing silence as he climbed back up the ladder.

  His happiness was short-lived, because in the next second Wade piped up, “Oh, man, you must’ve been in Echo Company. I heard y’all had a bloodbath over there. How many guys did you lose again?”

  “I’m not sure,” he lied, his shoulders stiffening at the change in topic. He stared hard at the last few inches of unpainted wall, as though he could concentrate so fully on the task at hand that he wouldn’t hear the piercing, nasal drone of Wade’s voice.

  “Aw, come on, Grady, you must have some killer stories. Was it like Call of Duty? How many of ’em did you get, you personally? Do they count up that kind of thing, give you some kind of a bonus, like overtime?”

  For a split second Grady closed his eyes, unable to stop the slideshow clicking through his mind. Firing the Humvee’s .50-cal machine gun and praying to God they didn’t have to abandon the vehicle and run because his legs were numb from hours standing up over bumpy terrain. Locking eyes with Chance as the private they knelt over asked whether he was going to lose his leg, both of them knowing his chest wound would kill him before dawn. The color draining from Ethan’s face as his commanding officer called in an airstrike on a village they were all convinced harbored no hostiles.

  Grady sucked in a sharp breath, and the scent of paint fumes jerked him back to the present. He resumed painting in earnest, ignoring Wade’s griping with gritted teeth. He was going to have a normal life, goddammit. He had his own ranch, he had a date with a hot doctor, and he wasn’t going to let the howling ghosts of his past haunt his future.

  He climbed down from the ladder, replaced the lid on the paint can and began to gather up the drop cloths. “You almost finished? The client’ll be home any minute.”

  As if on cue, the front door opened and shut downstairs. Grady stacked the can he was holding and started toward the hallway. “Fold that last cloth, grab the stuff and meet me downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll go sort out the payment.”

  He ran his hand through his hair as he jogged down the stairs, pleased not to find any major clumps of paint and idly wondering what to do with it after thirteen years of regulation cuts. Should he keep it super short? Grow it all swoopy and shaggy? Dye it green and get a Mohawk, just because he could?

  “Hi there, ma’am,” he called as he rounded the bend in the stairwell. “We’re nearly—”

  He stopped so short that the rubber soles of his work boots squeaked on the wooden step.

  Laurel’s eyes were wide with shock as they locked on his. “Grady? What are you doing here?”

  “I was—I didn’t—this is your house?”

  She nodded.

  “I painted the bedroom.”

  She frowned. “Where’s Bill?”

  “One of his guys didn’t show up and he had to fill in on another job. I know his brother from the road crew, and he threw me the hours.” At her blank stare he added, “On account of the rain.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, clearly trying to take stock of the situation. Grady’s heart hammered and he stared down at the floor. Was this the most embarrassing moment of his entire life?

  Mentally he rifled through thirty-one years of shameful, humiliating incidents.

  Yep, this would be number one.

  “Okay,” Laurel repeated, more brightly this time. When he looked up she was wearing the same uniquely female, determined, everything-will-be-fine-so-help-me smile he’d seen on more of his various foster mothers’ faces than he cared to recount. What was it about him that forced women to tap into their instinct to simply endure?

  Suddenly he was seven years old again, trembling with fear and waiting for the backhand slap that never came as that month’s foster mother stepped into the kitchen to find he’d accidentally spilled a two-liter bottle of soda all over the linoleum floor. He hunched his shoulders and took a studious interest in the thumbnail on his left hand.

  “Bill said you need to pay for today. Then he’ll call you once the paint’s dry.”

  The pause that followed grew so long that he reluctantly dragged his gaze back to Laurel, who was peering up at him with an inscrutable expression.

  “My checkbook’s in the kitchen,” she said finally.

  He followed her down the long corridor to the big, bright, airy kitchen where stainless steel gleamed even in the weak light of the rainy evening. She opened a drawer and nodded toward the table. “Have a seat. Can I get you something? Water, coffee?”

  He remained standing. “No, ma’am, I’m fine.”

  She glanced up from the check she was writing to give him a sharp look. “Don’t you ma’am me, John Grady Reid, when I am a mere fifty-nine weeks your senior. I’ve seen your date of birth, remember?”

  She signed the check with a flourish and gave him a smile so warm that the tension in his body eased by a tiny fraction.

  “Come on, Grady,” she murmured, moving in front of him to put her hands above his elbows. “Don’t stress. We all have to make a living.”

  Her slender fingers implored him to relax, and her eyes shone with encouragement and acceptance. He exhaled tightly. She wasn’t totally put off—maybe this was salvageable. Maybe he still had a shot with the most intriguing woman ever to turn his head.

  “I just need to get back on my feet,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse to his own ears. “I put all my savings into buying the ranch, and I need the cash flow until—”

  She hushed him with a finger on his lips. “Stop. You don’t have to justify yourself—I get it. Okay?”

  The pleading note in her voice put a fresh but altogether different kind of strain on his stiffly held shoulders. A lock of blond hair had escaped her low ponytail, and he fought a visceral urge to tuck it behind her ear, to take her in his arms, to lay her down on that expensive pine table and prove how much of a man he really was.

  Instead he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Hey, Miss Hayes, how you doin’?”

  They jerked apart as Wade sauntered into the kitchen, the tools in his overalls pockets clanking with each step he took. Laurel hustled back to the counter and ripped the check from the book.

  “I’m fine, Wade. How’s your little boy?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “All right, I guess.”

  Laurel folded the check and pressed it into Grady’s palm, her stare full of significance. “Thanks for your hard work today. I appreciate it.”

  “Wade, why don’t you load all that stuff into the truck,” he instructed, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “It’s done.”

  “So get in. I’ll be along in a second.”

  Wade cleared his throat and Laurel’s gaze fell to the floor as a high, ruddy flush rose in her cheeks.

  Grady glanced between the two of them, his stomach filling with dread as he realized what was happening.

  When he spoke, Wade’s words were as pointed as they were unnecessary. “Miss Hayes is usually kind enough to pay out a cash tip.”

  She shot him a brief, apologetic look as she reached back into the drawer and passed Wade a twenty-dollar bill.

  Humiliation tightened his jaw and burned in his chest. Laurel’s hand hovered uncertainly over the open drawer, clearly unsure whether or not to do the same for him. He gave her the answer, turning his back to usher Wade out into the hallway.

  “Thanks, Miss Hayes, have a nice evening,” the younger man called as Grady practically shoved him through the foyer and out the front door. Wade sprinted through the rain to jump in the truck’s cab, and Grady was poised
to follow him when he heard his name.

  Laurel stood in the doorway, her anxiously clasped hands undermining her assertive tone. “Let’s say seven thirty on Saturday. I’ll book a table.”

  He hauled in a heavy, defeated breath. “Look, I’m not sure this is a good—”

  “Seven thirty,” she repeated firmly. “Don’t stand me up.”

  He fixed his gaze on the flagstones, on the flower-filled planters, on the paint-splattered hems of his jeans—anywhere but on the woman his heart pushed him toward while his head laughed in his face. He’d never been so far out of his league—or more unwilling to let go.

  “I’ll pick you up,” he muttered. “Seven thirty.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to look at the smile he could hear plainly in her voice. He tilted his head in acknowledgment, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away from what was already the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

  Chapter Four

  “Finally I gave in and let him have an X-ray, and even then I’m not sure he really believed me when I told him there was no actual bone in a boner, so nothing could be broken.”

  Laurel sat back with a grin, waiting for the laugh she could count on that story to produce. But Grady only cracked a polite, distant smile, the same one he’d given her all evening.

  Her heart sank. When he arrived on her doorstep with freshly shaven cheeks and gleaming boots, he looked so good her knees weakened, but it was nothing compared to the lump that formed in her throat when she climbed into his truck to find a spotlessly clean cab.

  “Am I making things up, or is this truck a lot quieter than when I rode in it last week?” she’d asked on the way downtown.

  “I did a little work on the muffler this afternoon.”

  The image of him easing out from under the truck with an oil-streaked T-shirt and grease-blackened fingers sent her pulse into a frenzy, but the licking flames of her desire were quickly fanned by his detached manner and painfully obvious discomfort. Gone was the confident, wisecracking charmer who’d come to her aid in the bar, replaced by someone hesitant, uncertain and palpably tense.