Slowly she slid to the ground, taking off her hat again to bat away the ever-present flies. Dalton crouched in front of her, his dark eyes dancing with amusement, one brow raised in question.
“I look a mess.” Stupid, but yeah, that was the first thought that came to her mind after a marriage proposal. Way to go, Jess.
“But you clean up good.”
She’d thought she would never marry again—thought that was the kindest thing to do for anyone foolish enough to ask. Hell, she was such a disaster that she’d never intended to let anyone get close enough even to think of asking her.
Marriage. A pastor, her friends, his family, vows. A husband. In-laws, a family of her own. A place to belong forever.
She deserved that, didn’t she? She wasn’t a disaster anymore. She wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t a total failure, either. So her marriage to Aaron probably would have ended if he’d lived to come home. Divorce happened. It didn’t make her unlovable, unworthy, or unfit to try again.
“If you need that long to think about it…”
Instead of stiff, the way it had been that night over coffee in the gazebo, his voice was warm, teasing. The man she’d met three months ago who’d had little to say, no softness, no happiness, nothing but hard sorrow, had learned to smile and laugh and tease again, in part because of her. Was that incredible or what?
She blew out her breath. “I was so concerned about you finding out Dillon was back, I never considered…never expected…”
“We’ll worry about Dillon later.” He didn’t even spare a glance for his brother. “Right now, it’s just you and me.” He took her hand, his fingers warm, strong, callused, and so gentle with her. “Should I do this again tonight? Someplace more appropriate? Dinner at Luca’s, with candles and flowers and wine?”
“I don’t drink anymore. I can’t handle it,” she said, still full of wonder inside. Then she realized what she’d blurted out, and her gaze jerked up to his. He didn’t seem shocked or surprised or disgusted or anything else bad. He’d started this conversation looking at her as if she were the most important person in his world, and he was still looking at her that way.
You’re surrounded by people who love you, Carly had told her. You’re blessed, sweetie.
Damn straight.
“We haven’t talked about a lot of stuff,” she said. “Of course we’d live at the ranch. And if your mom has a problem with me, she’s just gonna have to deal with it, okay? Because if you put a ring on my finger, I’m not going away. And I don’t know about kids, if I want them or not, but I do want dogs. Oz needs a brother or two. And—and—” Damn, she was babbling. She’d never babbled.
Drawing a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut to clear the dampness that had suddenly formed. Must be dog spores in the air.
All the little voices in her head sniffled with her.
“One more thing,” she whispered. “I tend to get a little insecure, so you have to tell me you love me every day.”
His smile slowly faded, and he studied her intently, with such emotion on his face. Solemnity. Promise. Hope. Soul-deep sincerity. Along with something she could only describe as great satisfaction. No, more than that. Pleasure, pure and complete. Maybe even joy.
“I want you living in my house, Jessy, because you already haunt me when you’re not there,” he said in a low, husky voice that made her shiver. “Mom’s here to make up with you, and you’re damn right you’re not going away. Dogs are fine, and if we have kids, great. If we don’t, that’s okay, too. And as for the other…”
She’d already half forgotten what the other was until he stood, lifted her to her feet, and bent his head to hers. “I love you, Jessy. After Sandra died, well-meaning people told me that when God closed a door, He opened a window. You’re my window. You’ve brought light and warmth and sunshine and fresh air and hope to my life. I know I could live without you, but I don’t want to. Say you’ll marry me, please.”
Still trying to hold back the tears, she squinted at him. “I’m not as perfect as you think I am.”
He laughed, the freest, happiest sound she’d ever heard. “You’re perfect for me, Jess. That’s all that matters. You and me.”
“What about Dillon?”
His hands tightened just the slightest where he held her, and annoyance flickered through his eyes, but it was mixed with relief. Anger aside, he was grateful to know his brother was alive and well, as she’d known he would be. “He’ll have to find his own girl. Like I told you, I don’t share.”
For a moment, images ran through her mind: her parents, her sisters, their children who’d never met their aunt Jessy. Aaron, sweet, full of life, always smiling, saving adult behavior for his job, acting like a happy kid the rest of the time. Herself the day of the notification visit, sinking deeper and deeper into trouble in the months that followed. Who could have guessed that a cowboy who’d been part of her trouble would be the one, along with her girls and an abandoned mutt, to help her save herself?
She raised her hand to his face, gently tracing along his jaw, then twining both hands behind his neck. “Yes.”
His mouth nuzzled hers. “Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, I love you. Yes, I could spend the rest of my life without you, but I don’t want to.”
He gave her one of those kisses then, nibbling at her lips, her tongue, sending tremors through her all the way to her toes, making her languid and lazy and tense and aroused and dazed about everything in the world except Dalton, this kiss, and the promise they were making to be together.
Forever.
* * *
Little in life was perfect, but at nine thirty that night, Jessy’s world was as damn close as it could get.
She and Oliver had reunited Dillon with his family. It hadn’t been all smiles and hugs, though no one, Dillon least of all, had expected that. Letting go of his resentment wasn’t easy for Dalton, but she believed it would happen. He just needed time. Notified of Dillon’s return, Noah had coolly said he’d see him the next time he was home…if his brother hung around that long. He just needed time, too.
Ramona had made a lovely apology, and Jessy thought she’d been pretty gracious in accepting it. She might have escaped the South first chance she’d gotten, but she hadn’t escaped her Southern manners.
Oliver had a new home with Dillon. He and Oz hadn’t exactly hit it off on his first visit. In fact, they’d stood nose to nose, fur bristling and growling until their owners separated them. David had leaned close to Jessy and murmured, “Remind you of anyone?”
And the biggest, best, most perfect thing of all: Dalton loved her and wanted to marry her. She’d been so humbled and, at the same time, had wanted to shout her good fortune from the rooftop of her building.
Warm water sloshed as Dalton shifted position an inch or two, the bubbles still covering her breasts but barely. Her head was tilted back, resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed, and she gave a big, lazy, satisfied, happy sigh.
“What are you thinking?” His mouth brushed her ear, sending shivers through her that, she swore, heated the water a degree or two.
“I was just wondering what I did to deserve you.”
He nipped her earlobe, then laved the tender skin with his tongue. “I’m the reward for all the good you’ve done.”
Normally, Realist Jessy would have protested that she hadn’t done any good. She was a loser who couldn’t hold on to a job, had betrayed her husband, had trouble staying sober, and couldn’t even earn her family’s love.
But tonight Realist Jessy kept her mouth shut. She was a good person, not perfect, still struggling, but she still showed up every day. She made the effort. And that counted for a lot.
Her skin wet and sudsy, she slipped and slid until she was facing Dalton, kneeling, his muscular thighs flanking her. Had she mentioned how much she loved this old claw-foot tub? “Am I your reward?”
His grin shot another burst of heat straight through her. “You’re my i
ncentive to appreciate life and the people in it.” Ruefully, he added, “It’s too short to be pissed off all the time.”
So he was going to forgive Dillon. She’d known he would. Maybe, before long, the Double D Ranch would have both D’s on the place again. Or remembering Dillon’s words in the motel lot, maybe not. But she’d still be getting two brothers-in-law. How cool was that?
The air conditioner kicked on, and goose bumps appeared on Jessy’s exposed flesh—and in this position, that was a lot of flesh. She was about to stretch out in the tub again and snuggle up to Dalton when her cell phone rang. She knew from the ringtone it was one of her girls, so she gave him a one quick minute look, stretched across to the small table where the cell rested, and picked it up.
Before she got out more than the huh of hello, Lucy shrieked. “Jessy, Jessy, Jessy, guess what?” She blurted out her news in one breath before shrieking again, this time with dismay. “Norton! Crap, I’ve got to go.”
Grinning, Jessy put the phone back, lowered herself into the water and onto Dalton’s long, naked, impressive body, nuzzling his neck. “Eleven minutes ago, Hector Juan Lewis Gomez made his appearance in this world. He’s fat, happy, and healthy, and Mamacita is ecstatic. Cowboy, we’ve got us a baby boy to spoil. How about we celebrate?”
Since losing her husband in Afghanistan,
Carly Lowry has rebuilt her life. She’s
comfortable and content…until she meets
handsome Dane Clark, who rekindles desires
Carly isn’t quite sure she’s ready to feel.
But when Carly discovers the real reason he’s
come to town, can Dane convince her
he’s the hero she needs?
Please see the next page for an excerpt from
A Hero to Come Home To.
A Hero to Come Home To
Prologue
Thirteen months, two weeks, and three days.
That was the first conscious thought in Carly Lowry’s head when she opened her eyes Tuesday morning. It was like an automatic tote board, adding each day to the total whether she wanted it to or not.
Thirteen months, two weeks, and three days. The way she marked her life now. There weren’t events or occasions, no workdays or weekends, holidays or seasons. This was the only important passage of her time.
Thirteen months, two weeks, and three days since the helicopter transporting Jeff had been shot down in Afghanistan. Since her own life had ended. Her stubborn body just didn’t recognize it.
Closing her eyes again, she groped for the remote on the nightstand and hit the power button. The morning news was on, though she paid it little mind. She didn’t care about the latest bank robbery in Tulsa, or the sleazy lawyer’s newest excuse to keep his high-profile client out of court on homicide charges, or which part of the city had construction woes adding to their morning commute.
Here in Tallgrass, Oklahoma, none of those things had happened in a long time. It was a great place to raise kids, Jeff had told her when they’d transferred here. Low crime rate, affordable cost of living if they discounted the air-conditioning bill in the dog months of summer, and all the amenities of Fort Murphy right next door. He’d loved downtown, with its stately buildings of sandstone and brick, none taller than three stories, as solid as if they’d grown right up out of the soil. He’d liked the old-fashioned awnings over the shop windows and the murals of cowboys, buffalo, and oil rigs painted on the sides of some of those buildings, along with restored eighty-year-old ads, back when phone numbers had only three digits. He’d loved the junk stores, where detritus of past lives showed up, their value and sometimes even their purpose forgotten. Rusty faded pieces of the town’s history.
He’d loved her. Promised their time in Tallgrass would be good. Promised that when he retired from the Army, they would settle in just such a little town to finish raising their kids and turn gray and creaky together.
He’d broken his promise.
A sob escaped her, though she pretended it was a yawn and threw back the covers as if sleep might entice her if she remained in bed one minute longer. Truth was, crying every night wasn’t conducive to a good night’s sleep.
She avoided looking in the mirror as she got into the shower. She knew she had bed head, her pajamas made no attempt whatsoever at style, and her eyes were red and puffy. When she got out ten minutes later, she concentrated on the tasks of getting dried, dressed, and made up instead of the signs of tears, the fourteen pounds she’d gained, and the simple platinum band on her left hand.
She was ready for work early. She always was. While a cup of coffee brewed in the sleek machine she had bought as a surprise after Jeff had coveted it at the PX, she opened the refrigerator, then the pantry, looking for something to eat. She settled, as she did every morning, on oatmeal labeled as a “weight-control formula.” She ate it for the protein, she told herself, because she needed the energy at work, and not because those fourteen pounds were huddled stubbornly on her hips and plotting to become twenty. To help them along, she added creamer and real sugar to her coffee, then topped off the meal with two pieces of rich, chocolate-covered caramel.
It was still too early for work, but too late to stay in the house any longer. After making sure the papers she’d graded the night before were inside her soft-sided messenger bag—of course they were—she stuffed her purse in, too, before grabbing her keys and heading outside to the car.
It was a chilly morning, but she didn’t dash back in for a jacket. A utilitarian navy blue one was tossed across the passenger seat. Since college, she’d kept one in the car for cold restaurants—not that she ate out much anymore. Eating alone was bad enough; doing it in public exceeded her capabilities.
Two miles stretched out between her neighborhood and the Fort Murphy gate, then less than another to the post’s school complex, where she taught. Most soldiers reported for duty an hour or more before school started, so she could wait that much longer at home and make the trip in less time, but moping was as well done in the car as at home.
She moved into the long double-lane line turning off Main Street and into the post. The only traffic jams Tallgrass ever saw were outside the fort’s two main gates in the morning and afternoon. Jeff had liked to go to work early and stay late because life was too damn fun to sit idle in traffic.
He’d never sat idle.
Finally it was her turn to show her license and proof of insurance to the guard at the gate, who waved her through with a courteous, “Have a good day, ma’am.”
Oh, yeah. Her days were so good, she wasn’t sure how many more of them she could handle.
“You need to talk to someone,” her sister-in-law had advised her in last week’s phone call.
“To who? I’ve talked to the grief counselors and the chaplain, I’ve talked to you, I’ve even tried to talk to Mom.” Carly’s voice had broken on that.
Lisa’s voice had turned sympathetic. “You know your mom doesn’t ‘get’ emotional.”
A thin smile curled her lips as she turned into the parking lot for the schools. None of her family “got” emotional. Mom, Dad, and three brothers: scientists, every last one of them. Logical, detached, driven by curiosity and rationale and great mysteries to solve. Unfortunately she, with her overload of emotion, wasn’t the right sort of mystery for them. They were sympathetic—to a point. Understanding—to a point. Beyond that, though, she was more alien to them than the slide samples under their microscopes.
Easing into a parking space, she cut off the engine. Large oaks, with last fall’s brown leaves waiting to be pushed aside by this spring’s new ones, shaded the U-shaped complex. She worked in the one ahead of her, the elementary school; the middle school was, appropriately, in the middle; and the high school stood across the vast lot behind her.
Only two other employees had beaten her: one of the janitors and the elementary principal. He was a nice guy who always came early—problems of his own to escape at home, or so the gossips said�
�and brought pastries and started the coffee in the teachers’ lounge. He was about her father’s age, but much more human. He understood emotion.
Still, she didn’t open her car door, even when the chill crept over her as the heater’s warmth dissipated. The comment about her mother hadn’t been the end of her conversation with Lisa. Her sister-in-law had returned to the subject without missing a beat. “You need to talk to someone who’s been there, Carly. Someone who really, truly knows what it’s like. Another wife.”
Lisa couldn’t bring herself to use the word widow, not in reference to Carly. Carly couldn’t, either.
“I don’t know…” She could have finished it several ways. I don’t know if I want to talk to anyone. I’m all talked out. Or, I don’t know if talking could possibly help. It hasn’t yet. Or, I don’t know any other wives whose husbands have died.
But that wasn’t true. Wives—widows—didn’t tend to stay in the town where their husbands had last been assigned. They usually had homes or families to return to. But she knew one who hadn’t left: Therese Matheson. Well, she didn’t actually know her, other than to say hello. Therese’s kindergartners were on recess and at lunch at different times than Carly’s third-graders, and their free periods didn’t coincide, either.
But Therese had been there, done that, and had the flag and posthumous medals to show for it. Therese really, truly knew. Would it hurt to ask if they could meet for dinner one evening? One dinner wasn’t much of a commitment. If it didn’t pan out, so what? At least she would have eaten something besides a frozen entrée or pizza.
Therese would be at school before the eight fifteen bell. Carly would find out then.
* * *
“Tuh-reese, where’s my pink shirt?”
Thirteen-year-old Abby’s voice had always had a shrill edge, from the first time Therese Matheson had met her, but it had grown even worse over the past months. It was designed to get on her nerves quicker than a classful of kindergartners who’d had too much sugar, too much whine, and not enough rest.
A Love to Call Her Own Page 29