Battle for the Soldier's Heart

by Cara Colter

  That’s what you got when you grew up in a perfect world. Despite what she wanted to believe, Grace had been sheltered. A home where there wasn’t enough food on the table had never crossed her mind. And never would have if he hadn’t opened his big mouth.

  The stricken look was quickly replaced with one of pure stubbornness.

  “I’ll invite whomever I please for dinner. And what’s more, Rory Adams, I am not looking for anyone to run my life. I would only be interested in a relationship of equals.”

  “A what?” he sputtered.

  “Never mind.”

  “A relationship?” he said, incredulous.

  “I didn’t mean it the way you are taking it.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “I’m sunburned.”

  “You should know I am not a guy who is interested in a relationship of any kind. Not equals. Not unequals.”

  For a moment she scanned his face, and he steeled himself, daring her to see the yearning that had nearly swallowed him earlier.

  “I’m not looking for a relationship, either!” she protested.

  “You just said—

  “That just slipped out. I meant it generically, as in no kind of woman with any sense of her self would tolerate being bossed around.”

  “Directed,” he inserted.

  “Whatever! Personally, I’m not looking for a relationship of any kind. I’m done with that sort of thing. I’m a career woman. And a very successful one.”

  “That’s not true, Grace.”

  Her jaw dropped. “It is. I can show you my financial statements!”

  “I wasn’t referring to your success at business. I don’t believe you’re done with that sort of thing, the big wedding followed by the cute house followed by a baby. And then another one. Three. I bet you want three.”

  “I don’t. I’m done with those dreams!”

  “I can see in your face that you’re not. I can see in your face exactly what you’re looking for. What you’ll always look for—what your mom and dad had. A perfect family to go with your perfect days. The cottage in the summer. The Thanksgiving turkey. The big

  Christmas hoopla.”

  “After the breakup of my relationship I’ve decided none of that is for me.”

  “I can clearly see what is making you such easy prey for Serenity.”

  “I am not her prey! What an ugly thing to say!”

  Ugly. Raw. Cynical. That’s what he was. It made him unworthy of her kisses, but maybe it also made him the perfect one to deflect Serenity.

  “You think you’ve given up on your hopes and dreams, but you really haven’t.”

  “I have!”

  “They’ve just gone underground. Serenity knows what you want. You’d give your right arm for Tucker to be Graham’s. A substitute for that baby you thought you and Henry were going to have.”

  “Stop it!”

  He could see angry little spots of color on both her cheeks. Good. He had succeeded at nipping any attraction she was feeling for him in the bud. So he shrugged. “Okay.”

  Just as suddenly as it had come, her anger was gone. “Don’t you want Tucker to be Graham’s son?”

  The truth was it was much easier to contemplate Tucker not being Graham’s, and that’s how he was playing it until he had cold, hard proof that showed him differently.

  “I’m coming for dinner tomorrow,” he announced.

  “You’re not! I haven’t invited you.”

  “I’m not letting you deal with Serenity on your own. You’re naive. You’re way too innocent.”

  “I am not innocent,” she sputtered. “What on earth would give you that idea?”

  The fact you could barely wear that bathing suit. Your kiss.

  “Let me help you deal with it,” he said quietly.

  For a moment she looked stubborn. But then she looked at the note in her hand and he saw the doubt on her face.

  “I won’t say anything to Serenity,” he said, playing that doubt. “I’ll let you handle it. But I’ll be there, gauging what she says, running it through the meter of my cynicism. I’ll offer you my opinion after, but I won’t force it on you.”

  And if I pocket a spoon with a little saliva sample on it, who’s that hurting?

  “All right,” she said, clearly unhappy with the surrender, unhappy that she was accepting what she needed most and wanted least.

  Not to do this alone.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “I bought the house from my parents when they moved, so I live where I always lived,” she said with stiff pride, as if the fact she had never left her family home proved everything he had just said about her.

  And it did, didn’t it?

  He sighed. “What time should I be there?”

  “Fiveish?”

  In the world he had started moving in, dinner didn’t happen at five. It happened at eight or nine. After cocktails. And hors d’oeuvres. After endless small talk, and sometimes a little careless flirting with people who were no more interested in relationships than he was.

  The banality of it all suddenly made him feel like his world had become unbearably lonely.

  He was being pulled into her little world. And he didn’t like it. But he was just going to have to suck it up until this Serenity situation was cleared up.

  And then nothing, but nothing—not even the memory of the way Grace’s lips had tasted crushed beneath his own—was going to keep him from personally supervising that job in Australia.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “MR. Adams, are you all right?”

  “Huh?” Rory had been staring aimlessly out his office window. He’d had the dream last night. Worse than normal. The two teenage boys, the bullets. This time, he had ducked, as if he could see the bullet coming, as if he had deliberately let Graham get it instead of him.

  And still, there was a sense of having awoken too soon. There was still a piece missing, something important. Words.

  Not that it mattered. There were no words that could make him feel better, that could take away this feeling of tremendous guilt. There were no words that could make the realization of a man’s powerlessness over life and death any easier.

  Sometimes, you couldn’t protect the people you cared about. His mother. Graham. Was the dream more intense because he had spent time with Gracie? Because he was seeing how his inability to stop bad things from happening had gone out like a wave and swamped other lives?

  If he could protect Grace from Serenity would it make up for all his past failings?

  “I’m fine,” he said gruffly to Bridey. “I’ve been invited out for dinner tonight. Could you get me something to bring?”

  “The regular?”

  “Yeah, whatever.” What was the regular? A bottle of good wine, exquisitely expensive, roses in the same price range. “No, wait.”

  He didn’t want to bring wine if Serenity was there. She’d probably swig it all back and then try to drive herself and the kid somewhere.

  And he actually didn’t want wine with Grace again, either. Because after one glass at lunch, she’d lost her inhibitions enough to put on a bikini.

  And kiss him.

  A kiss powerful enough to send a man packing to Australia!

  “Uh, no wine,” he said. “And not roses for the flowers, either.” Somehow, Grace wasn’t a rose kind of girl in his mind. “Something less, uh, formal. Less, uh, ostentatious.”

  “Got it,” Bridey said.

  He arrived at Grace’s feeling foolishly like a boy on his first date. He wished he hadn’t brought the flowers at all, because the bouquet was quite large, a colorful explosion
of daisies and daffodils, mums and lilies.

  There was no sign of Serenity’s decrepit old truck yet.

  He looked at the house—Graham’s house, really—and waited for the sadness of the memories of them together here to hit. They didn’t and he felt thankful for all that Grace had done to it. She had made the house her own, painted, changed the facade, added colorful plantings beneath the windows and up the walkway.

  She came to the door, and he found himself steeling himself—not against memories of him and Graham, but against memories of him and her.

  And the way her lips had tasted: the hint of passion in them, the faint eagerness. And the way she had made him feel.

  As if he could trust her. As if he could trust her with things he had told no one.

  She opened the door and looked over his shoulder. “No Ferrari today,” she said. “Hello, Rory.”

  “I traded it in on something a little more me.”

  “The Ferrari was you.” She studied the 1965 Chev truck parked at the curb, and said, “That’s you, too. Ah, a man of many faces.”

  She meant it lightly, but he didn’t take it that way. He was a man of many faces, and some of them would probably terrify her. That would be a good thing for her to remember. That he was not always what he seemed.

  She took the flowers with such genuine delight that he was glad he’d brought them after all.

  “Daffodils in July!” she said. “Imagine that! Come in.”

  The house, too, was completely changed and he felt some stress he had been holding leave him.

  “You’ve fixed this up,” he said.

  “I love my house. I’m afraid my idea of a good time is hanging out at the hardware store mooning over engineered flooring and cabinet pulls.”

  So, it was exactly as he had guessed. She wanted to pass herself off as a career woman, but she was pretty solidly invested in the whole concept of home.

  And she had it so right. The living room he was looking at was a relaxed space, but everything from the furniture choices to the paint colors invited you to feel at home, to relax, to sit and maybe to stay for a long, long time. There was even a teddy bear nestled among the couch cushions that didn’t look the least ridiculous. It added to the cozy feeling of just coming home.

  There was a feeling here of safety.

  He frowned at that. He felt safe. Why wouldn’t he feel safe? He wasn’t in the land of blood and sand and tears anymore. And he was never going back there.

  Though, standing in her living room, he was acutely aware maybe he had not totally ever left that land.

  Because a place like this—cozy, inviting—was foreign to him. The whole concept of home was foreign to him. His own houses growing up had always been temporary. Sooner than later, his family would be moving all their broken furniture and chipped dishes. No nice touches like those yellow-shaded lamps or the Finnish rug on the floor.

  And his place now?

  A showpiece of modern design. All black leather, steel, shiny surfaces, hard angles. It had a temporary feel to it. And it was temporary. He bought real estate as an investment. He did not attach to it.

  He had not known he wanted “homey” until he saw this.

  “Come through to the kitchen,” she said. “I’m peeling spuds. I thought Tucker might like homemade fries. I hope you don’t mind. The menu is pretty kid-friendly tonight. Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes.”

  “Mind? That’s a menu out of every man’s dream.”

  That earned a smile, and then she led him to the kitchen, which also reflected more changes to the footprint of the old house. A wall had been dispensed with, the kitchen, dining room and living room were all seamless, one harmonious space.

  She set him down on a stool at a granite countertop island that gave a hint of separation between the kitchen and the other spaces.

  He picked up a knife and tackled a heap of potatoes while she ripped lettuce into bite-size portions for a salad.

  He was aware of feeling at home here. Not just the setting. But with her.

  He pursued that sense of safety. Music was playing softly in the background. A cat wound around the leg of his chair. Everything was in order, but not in an uptight way. This was a space where a person could relax. Where there would rarely be a raised voice. Or the sound of dishes breaking in anger. And maybe that, alone, made it one of the most dangerous places he had ever been.

  * * *

  Rory Adams was in her space. He put down the knife after cutting the potatoes into fries. He was looking as at home here as if he had been born to this space.

  She glanced at the clock.

  “They’re late,” she said.

  “The thing about a girl like Serenity?”

  Grace truly hated it that he was such a self-proclaimed expert on girls like Serenity, but she managed to bite her tongue. “Yes?”

  “They’re always late.”

  “How do you know so much about girls like

  Serenity?” She tried for a teasing note, but was pretty sure she failed. She was scared about his answer, but when he was silent for a long, long time, she wasn’t sure he would answer.

  “She’s like my mother.”

  And she remembered him again, out on the street that night long ago, taking his mother’s elbow.

  He was concentrating fiercely on the potato, as if what he had just said didn’t matter.

  But she knew it did. She knew it mattered that he told her things like that.

  “Tell me how you and Graham came to know

  Serenity.”

  “Know is stretching it a touch,” he said. “We had ten days leave before we were shipping out. I think it was that first time, Afghanistan. We were shipping out from Edmonton, and the Calgary Stampede was on. None of us had ever been to it, so we decided to go. Calgary is only a couple of hours drive from Edmonton.

  “Guys being guys, we had to make a few pit stops along the way. Quite a few, actually. Finally, we stopped in this rinky-dink little town not far from Calgary, and they were having their own little second-rate Stampede and rodeo.

  “Serenity was running her ponies as part of the midway, plus riding a horse in the barrel-racing competition. Somehow, we got partying with all those rodeo and fairground people, and we never quite made the Calgary Stampede. And never had any regrets about it, either.”

  She read his face. “Until now.”

  “You know, when you’re shipping out and facing the very real possibility you might not be coming back, life has this intensity to it. It’s a kind of a high. But it does not involve consequences. Not one of us—including Graham—ever glanced back at those few crazy days before we left.”

  “So, there is a very real possibility that Tucker is Graham’s?”

  “Well, it’s one possibility. But it doesn’t add up, Grace. Why would she wait until now to let you know?”

  “I’m going to ask her, point-blank, tonight if Tucker is Graham’s. And if he is, why she didn’t let Graham know that.”

  “I think that’s a good plan.”

  She recognized it as a weakness that she liked having his approval. But like many good plans it had a flaw: it relied on Serenity showing up, and by six, Grace was beginning to acknowledge maybe she wasn’t going to. And also acknowledging how eagerly she had wanted to see Tucker again, searching his face and his mannerisms for traces of Graham.

  And the part she hadn’t admitted to Rory? That she was finding more evidence all the time. The crooked way
he smiled, the way his hair grew in a little swirl at the crown of his head, the stubborn set of his mouth, the way he walked.

  “Are you starving?” she asked.

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  But by six-thirty, she knew they had waited long enough. “I’ll cook some for us, and leave some, just in case…”

  Cooking with him almost took away the pang that Tucker and Serenity had not arrived.

  It was fun having a man who knew what he was doing at the grill. It was a cozy little scene: one she had imagined a million times when she was laboring over this little space.

  Imagined it with Harold. Cozy evenings of cooking together, an easy companionship, a sense of home that she had never one-hundred-percent achieved by herself, much as she had tried.

  And now this. Rory Adams in her kitchen, peeling potatoes, taking charge of the hamburgers, laughing at her concern that the flames were leaping too high in the grill. The problem with having a man like this in your space?

  Would it ever feel totally like your space again, or would it always seem slightly lacking, no matter what you did?

  There was no way a cat, a career and a penchant for decorating magazines was ever going to make her feel like this: zingy with an electrical energy, suffused with laughter, so aware. Certainly she had seen a man standing at a grill before, but had she ever noticed the small details of that experience? The smell in the air, the way he did little things with such a supreme confidence in himself?

  She had imagined an evening like this with Harold,

  and they had even had evenings similar to this. So why had it never felt like this? Always a faint discontent between them, something that stifled instead of invigorated.

  For the first time since her engagement had ended, Grace could truly see it as a blessing, and not just pay lip service to the whole concept of “if it was meant to be, it would be.”

  It was seven-fifteen by the time they had finished eating and cleaning up. He had cheerfully buried himself up to his elbows in suds, cleaning her difficult grill, flicking soap with playful threat in her direction when she tried to help.