All this time he’d ignored her signs.
For God’s sake, he’d thought he was a reminder of Drew—he was. A painful reminder.
What to say? How to make it right? Could it ever be right again? She had every right to throw him out.
Fuck! He squeezed his eyes shut tight to block the barrage. He was fooling himself—he couldn’t do this. He didn’t have the right. The pale white scars flashed through his mind, and he cringed. There was no way he could take away that pain. Jesus, he had caused it.
Once again, his world was wheeling.
He lifted his head, seeing the house in a different light. How many times had she screamed inside this house? Who had heard her, other than Chance and Desi? Why had no one come to her rescue?
What the fuck had happened to the guy who saved puppies and threw himself on a grenade?
But Alex knew the answer—Drew made a good soldier. Drastically different from being a good man.
He wasn’t any shining example, either. Certainly not after today. All along he’d wanted to help her. In the end, he’d failed her utterly.
Jesus, this was too much to cope with. They couldn’t ever be normal again. She’d never forgive him. She needed a hero, a man who would make her happy, not some jackass bent on having his way. And for the life of him, he didn’t know how she could ever tolerate his touch when he must likely remind her of that life.
No, there was no future here. He had no right to that happiness.
He jammed the truck into reverse and backed out of her drive. He’d go home tomorrow. The clothes he’d bought at the hardware store weren’t worth the heartache retrieving them would bring.
At the edge of town, a blue and white sign lit up Colton’s only hotel, and he pulled into the lot. It took a handful of minutes to obtain lodging from the kid behind the desk. After paying for a night’s stay, he let himself inside the stuffy little room and sank onto the edge of the bed. Head hanging in his hands, he fought back a riptide of stifling emotion. Damn it. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was leave Reagan. But he couldn’t see a way to forge the divide that spanned between them. He wanted to kill his best friend all over again. And yet, he didn’t know how to move beyond the fact that Reagan hadn’t trusted him with the truth.
Because it was his fault. He’d pushed and pushed, convinced he knew what was best for her.
A bitter snort slipped free, and he lay back against the pillows. The whole damned mess was his fault. From Drew’s death, to this. Some fucking hero he was. He could have given her everything she needed, could have proven himself.
Instead, he acted just like Shelley.
Now, he was even considering bailing like a coward. No…he had to go to her house tomorrow. Had to see her one last time. It would be torture. Looking at her and actually saying good-bye… If he managed to get through it without falling to his knees in tears, he’d be amazed. And that would be embarrassing as hell. He certainly didn’t want her parting memory to be him as a soggy, weak mess.
But leaving her was like the final nail in a suffocating coffin. He’d lost everything—his best friend, the woman he loved, good friends he’d made in the marines, and now, even his sense of self to some degree.
The woman he loved? He stumbled over the realization, his heart wrenching again. Yeah, he did. Loved her beyond reason. How the hell it had happened, he couldn’t say, but he’d fucked it up astronomically, and now he felt…empty. Anxiety strangely lurked beneath that nothingness. His head was a mess, but somewhere, behind all the racket in his brain, he knew his solace would come with her. Just like he knew safety lay outside of the hut that had trapped Drew and him, but he couldn’t find a way to get there in time. Now, he didn’t know how to meet Reagan in that out-of-reach place.
Or even if he deserved her. How many more times would he cause her pain without realizing it, because he was too damn dense to read her signs?
Screw it. He’d get his things and walk away. Reagan deserved better. She would find her hero, find her happiness. And she couldn’t with him standing in the way.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Alex woke to bright sunlight. Silence blanketed him, save for the muted call of an owl. He stared at the ceiling, on the cusp of something he couldn’t fully comprehend, but it rushed through his veins with the same spike of adrenaline that came with being stuck in a foxhole with bullets whizzing overhead.
Reagan expected him to get his things and leave today. He could do so and be out of Colton before she woke.
No. That wouldn’t happen.
Oh, he’d be gone when she woke, but he—they—weren’t done yet. His shock had passed. The truth lay before him. His best friend had been a bastard of a husband. Shelley turned on Reagan, and judging from the reaction of half the town yesterday, Reagan’s closed-off nature garnered her few allies. Only a coward would walk out of Colton and leave her to suffer that isolation.
He might be many things, but he wasn’t a coward. He’d damaged her enough; now he needed to fix it. Make apologies the best he could before wishing her well and giving her the wings to find happiness. With or without him.
He swung his legs off the motel room bed and fished his keys out of his pocket. She’d be pissed as hell when afternoon rolled around and he showed up on her doorstep, but this time, when she ordered him to leave, he’d be ready. He could go back to Chicago with no regrets. She needed a hero, and while he didn’t possess a Purple Heart, he had a medal or two under his belt. Maybe lending them to her for a little bit would cool some of her fire. He doubted it, but hell, he was born to fight. And fight he would. For her.
He crossed to the door and yanked it open. Goddamn Drew. Goddamn Shelley.
The woman in that neglected house across town should be applauded. For the silence she maintained and the secrets she kept—no doubt to preserve Drew’s honor. For the strength and resilience she possessed. For fighting a battle that had to have been more damaging than anything Alex experienced on the field. She was the real hero, and it was about time Colton took note of it.
He tossed his bags into his pickup, then slid behind the wheel. Seven in the morning. The hardware store opened at eight. Small towns had gathering places, where the old guard could often be found for breakfast and coffee. Don most assuredly held an old guard card.
Alex slammed the truck into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. He’d start there, where a man’s reputation could be shattered or memorialized in a single utterance.
He drove into the heart of Colton, past the Cock ’n’ Bull, to the oldest quarter of town. A dingy sign hung over one bricked-in doorway, faded letters reading Mo’s Bakery. Coffee. Breakfast.
Alex parked in the first open spot he found and jumped out of his pickup. Saying a silent prayer that he’d made the right guess—though, really, Colton didn’t have much else to offer—he strode confidently through the door. A bell tinkled, announcing his entrance. From behind a wide counter that screamed 1960, a gray-haired woman greeted him with a cordial smile. To the left of the display case, eight men gathered around a long table. Don dipped his head, acknowledging Alex as well.
He returned the short nod and approached the counter. “Cinnamon roll, please, and a cup of black coffee.”
“Of course. You’re Alex McCray, aren’t you? Served with Drew Sanders, right?”
Resisting the gut response to grind his teeth, he forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
A speculative light glinted behind her smile, telling Alex exactly what he suspected—word had spread of yesterday’s picnic. Reagan’s explosion knocked her down a few more pegs in their eyes. He bit back a flicker of annoyance.
When she returned with his order, he tossed a few bills on the counter to cover the cost and provide a decent tip, then turned and marched straight for the secluded group in the corner.
Don looked up, startled. “McCray. Morning.”
Noticeably, no one offered the empty chair. Alex hooked it with the toe of his boot and pulled it
out. He took a seat and sipped from his coffee. “Morning, Don. You know what time the VFW opens?” Glancing around the small table, he took in the faces. Aging men, some a good decade older than the others. They all had the air, the presence Alex associated with servicemen. That little bit of piety combined with good ol’ down-home warmth. He’d stake his entire retirement that every one of these men had served at some point or another.
Don motioned to the man across from him, a graying, freckled man with a full white beard. “Hank, what time are you opening it up today?”
“Well, that depends,” he drawled. “Jeannie says I’ve got to mow the grass.” He cocked his head at Alex. “You need something, son?”
“Actually, I do.” Alex took another drink from his cup, and then set it aside. He tore off a hunk of cinnamon roll. “But I think I can accomplish it here.” He popped the bite into his mouth, chewed, and took his time surveying the men. “There’s a lady in need on the north side of town. A teacher, probably to your grandkids.”
The table shifted as a collective unit, each man clearly uncomfortable as their focus dropped to their mugs.
“Seems she married a soldier. A marine. And his marine family isn’t doing right by her, now that he’s dead.”
Don cleared his throat. He turned his coffee mug between long, tapered fingers. “What are you getting at, son?”
Alex held his gaze. “I don’t know about you, Don, but I swore myself to the creed, ‘Death before Dishonor.’ Yet I see a whole lot of dishonoring going on.”
“Now, wait a damn minute,” the man to Don’s left barked. “You don’t mean to tell me you believe that young man who gave his life protecting his team would come home and knock his wife around. We never saw any evidence of it.”
Fire lighted in Alex’s veins. The pure, instinctual need to stand up and fight for right. He thumped the flat of his hand onto the table, making coffee cups jump. “Drew Sanders was my best friend. He died, not protecting his team, but protecting me because I made a bad call. And I’ll tell you now, without a doubt, he beat his wife. With a goddamn belt. She’s got more honor than any one of us at this table. She kept his secret. Left you to your hero fantasies. And what does she get in return? Her integrity drawn through the mud.”
“Easy, son,” Don said calmly.
Alex pushed himself out of his seat. Hands still braced on the table, he bent over the men. “There’s no easy to it. Even if you’ve said nothing, you’ve condemned her. And it’s past time someone does what’s right. She needs your help. You”—he pointed at Don—“have supplies.” He nodded at the man next to him. “And you’ve probably got a son who can wield a hammer.” He shifted his gaze to the man to his right, a heavyset quiet man with old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses. “And you—do you have a son or daughter?”
The man nodded uneasily. “My son’s thirty-two tomorrow.”
Alex shook his head sadly. “And where was he when the tree fell on Reagan’s house?”
Color raced into the man’s face, all the way to the top of his balding head. He dropped his gaze to his plate. Shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“All right, you’ve made your point.” Don leaned back in his chair and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Did you come in here today to shame us like mangy dogs, or did you have something else to say?”
Drawing in a deep breath of air, Alex pushed down his temper and lowered himself into his seat. He plucked off another bite of his roll, chewed it slowly. When he swallowed it down, he folded his hands in front of him and eyed every man in turn. “I want that tree out of her house. I want that porch put back on, exactly like it was. Down to the nail holes. I want her windows fixed, and I want you all to make it happen. I’m not a hero. No more than any of you. But if this town is so intent on seeing me as one, you tell me where to throw my medals around. Because I’ll give every goddamn one of them away to undo what she’s suffered.”
The burliest man of the group leaned forward from his tucked-away position in the corner. He fixed Alex with a narrowed gaze. “He was a Purple Heart awardee.”
Alex ground his teeth together and slowly curled a hand into a fist.
But he didn’t have to say a word. Don leaned forward as well, resting his elbows on the table and leveling his friend with a hard look. “You know what war does to men, Chuck.”
Chuck opened his mouth as if he intended to protest, then quickly snapped it shut. He leaned back in his chair with a mutter.
Don turned to Alex. “That wall has to come off her house. There’s no use putting that porch back on until it’s replaced. You can cut out trees, you can tack on shingles, you can tear down porches, but it’s only a Band-Aid.”
Alex pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. “I trust you know how to see about getting that done.” He strode away, burying the smile that tried to break free. He’d succeeded. They would come. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they would come.
He wouldn’t see it—once he told Reagan what he’d done, any chance of ever fixing things would be ruined. Once more, he’d taken control out of her hands, and damn sure she wouldn’t realize this time it was necessity. She could speak until she was blue in the face, and no one would have listened. Alex wouldn’t have accomplished anything either, if he hadn’t faced a group of veterans and condemned his best friend. Those men knew loyalty, and they knew what it took to turn away.
…
Reagan descended the stairs for the third time. She knew what she’d find in the living room—emptiness, his abandoned clothes only a mere trace Alex had ever slept there, ever occupied space in her house. But each time she entered, pain stabbed anew, as if she looked on everything for the first time. Half the day had passed, and she’d managed to find energy only to water her sapling in the front yard.
The rest of the time, she attempted to work on lesson plans, but ideas remained lodged behind a veil of sorrow she couldn’t penetrate.
It was better this way. Better they say good-bye than become even more tangled together where she lost her sense of self. Her control over her life. But a little voice nagged that he hadn’t oppressed her. Everything came from his heart. Driven by the need to help her. And like the other little slips she’d suffered, she’d mistaken him for Drew and backtracked to a different time and place.
A different man.
She sank into the armchair with a sigh and stared at the couch where they’d first made love. A wry chuckle slipped free as she considered the air-conditioner. Top of the line. Energy efficient. Who in their right mind criticized that?
She’d told him to go. Really ended everything.
If only she could take it all back.
A chainsaw fired beyond her window. Blinking, Reagan hurried to the window. Maybe he’d come back. Maybe…
Dismay drooped her shoulders. Not Alex. Kenneth Yardsley’s son David stood beneath what remained of her broken tree. Chance must have phoned him. And if that wasn’t proof Reagan had overreacted with Alex, she didn’t know what was. She never threw fits when Chance stepped in. She owed Alex the same gratitude and courtesy she gave her best friend’s husband.
Rattling at the front door brought her around with a frown. But before she could answer, it swung open. Alex stepped inside.
Reagan’s breath caught, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. He filled up the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly spanning the full width. He wore the same clothes he had yesterday, but with the afternoon sunlight spilling in behind him, he looked more handsome than ever before. Oh, dear God, her heart raced out of control. “Alex?” she whispered.
He set two large sacks over the back of the couch and gave her an awkward smile. “I dropped in to confess my sins.”
Her brow bunched in puzzlement. “What?”
With a tip of his head, he acknowledged the revving motor outside. “I arranged for him to come. Someone else will handle the rest of the porch demolition and reconstruction.” His gaze held hers, uncertainty reflecting in the d
eep green depths. “It needed to be done, and I can’t finish it.”
“Can’t?” She hesitated, then blurted, “Or won’t?”
Alex shook his head. “I don’t know how to finish what’s left.” He tapped one sack. “Parts. Hardware. I don’t think you’ll need anything else. And I know you don’t like me making decisions for you, but…” He blew out a hard breath. “This time, I don’t really care. You need it.”
Her heart tripped at the sudden emotion that reflected in his quiet stare. Once again, he’d done this for her. Out of goodness. Out of tenderness. “Alex—”
“No, I don’t want hear it.” The muscles alongside his jaw ticked. “You deserve it, Reagan. And I’m leaving, because I know I just did the same damn thing you screamed at me about. The same damn thing Drew did over and over. I couldn’t fix it then, but I can fix this. I refuse—”
“It’s not the same.”
He stopped, mid-sentence, a sharp intake of air hissing between his teeth.
Reagan didn’t wait for him to respond. Twisting her hands at her waist, she rushed into words. “I slipped. I flashed back, and I only now realized what I was doing. You aren’t Drew, and everything you’ve done is priceless. I’m sorry I accused you of being like him. We’re both human. We make mistakes.” She hesitated a moment, then drew in a deep gulp of air. “Don’t go. Please.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Goddamn. Every logical response fled Alex’s brain. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to—her apology rendered him thunderstruck. With a shake of his head, he stalked to where she stood and kissed her hard. The fist behind his ribs let go, granting him a small amount of air. He breathed deeply, pulled back, and exhaled shakily. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed. “Oh, fuck, Reagan. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you stay with him? I’d have helped you. I’d have…” His throat tightened around emotion. Giving up on speech, he threaded his fingers into her hair and held her close.
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