by Irene Hannon
A woman who liked to eat instead of push her food around and complain about the calories.
One more check in her positive column—and one more reason to tell her his story.
Except just as he began to psyche himself up to launch into his tale, the front door opened and a half dozen older gents entered and claimed the large round table beside their booth. The ensuing noisy banter and laughter was definitely not conducive to an intimate tête-a-tête.
A lost opportunity.
Or could it be a chance to rethink his approach?
Finn tapped a finger on the table. Maybe this wasn’t the ideal place to initiate an intense dialogue. There were better settings—one in particular.
“You two ready for your check?” Hazel stopped beside their booth after exchanging a few words with the new arrivals.
“Yes.” They spoke simultaneously as Finn held out his hand.
Dana frowned. “No—let me pay. I owe you for fixing my dock.”
“Nope. That was part of my debt repayment to you.”
“What kind of debt?” Hazel looked from one to the other, interest sparking in her eyes.
“Long story.” Finn snagged the bill, gave it a cursory scan, and handed over his credit card. “And I’ve got to get Dana home. She’s on a strict deadline with one of her work projects.”
“You’re working? I thought you were here on an extended vacation.”
As the older woman addressed Dana, Finn flashed his breakfast partner a silent apology. It was possible she didn’t want to talk about her job.
But the question didn’t appear to bother her.
“I’m doing a lot of freelance editing while I’m here. Let me tell you, it beats the rush-hour commute in New York—and the view is much better.”
“That’s a fact. I’ll run this for you and you two can be on your way.”
When she returned a few minutes later, Dana motioned toward the empty counter. “It appears I missed the chief.”
“Yeah. I mentioned to him you wanted to say hello, but he had to leave and he didn’t want to interrupt your breakfast.”
“I’ll have to stop by the station and say hi on my next visit to town.”
“I bet your friend would be happy to bring you in again.” Hazel winked at him.
“I’ve already made the offer.”
“Good man.” She gave an approving nod, then transferred her attention back to Dana. “And you, young woman, take him up on it. No reason to be a stranger now that—”
“Hey, Hazel, where’s our coffee?”
“Hold your horses, Harvey.” She tossed the remark over her shoulder. “I’m brewing a new pot.”
“We’re ready to order too.”
She rolled her eyes. “Some of our patrons would try the patience of a saint.”
“I heard that,” the older man announced.
Her mouth twitched. “Good.”
Finn edged toward the end of the seat. “We’ll get out of your hair so you can take care of your new customers.”
“Don’t rush out on their account.”
“We really do need to leave. The UPS truck will be at my cabin bright and early tomorrow for a pickup.” Dana slid out too.
Hazel engulfed her in another hug after she stood. “You come back real soon.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She started toward the door, and Finn fell in behind her. If she was super busy, as she claimed, his plan might have to wait for another day.
But if she was willing to give him an extra twenty or thirty minutes, this could end up being the day he broke radio silence and spilled his guts.
Assuming, of course, that his wobbly courage held.
7
You shouldn’t have pressed, Dana.
As Finn swung onto the road that led to her cabin, she risked a peek at him. He’d been quiet during the ten-minute ride from town, responding to her comments but offering few of his own. Her fault. She, of all people, should understand turf boundaries. Why, oh why, had she mentioned combat scars? And pushed him to open up with that good-listener comment?
At this stage, she wouldn’t blame him if he dumped her at the door and took off in a spray of rock.
“How’s the burn?” Finn kept his eyes aimed at the rutted road as his SUV jounced over the bumpy surface.
She glanced down at the reddish splotch on her skin. “It’ll fade in a day or two.”
The cabin came into view as they emerged from the woods. He pulled up close to the back door and offered her a smile that seemed forced. “Home safe and sound.”
“Yes.” She picked up her purse from the floor. “Thanks for taking me to town—and for breakfast. It was a nice change of pace.” She fumbled for her door handle.
“Wait.”
As the single, strained word cut through the silence, she turned back. One of his hands had a death grip on the wheel, the other lay balled in his lap.
“If you have time, we could take a spin around the lake. I know you have work to do, but I . . . I wouldn’t mind taking advantage of those listening skills you mentioned.”
Dana’s pulse hitched. Finn hadn’t been subdued on their drive back to the cabin because he’d been offended by her comments; he’d been mulling over her offer.
Her spirits soared. Who cared if she had to work late tonight to have the book ready for the UPS driver tomorrow? No way was she passing up this opportunity to learn more about an ex–special forces soldier who rushed to the aid of women in distress in the middle of the night.
“I can spare thirty or forty minutes.” Or however many it took.
“Great.” Based on the uncertainty in his inflection, he was already having second thoughts . . . but all at once his jaw firmed and he shut off the engine. “Let me get your door.”
She waited while he circled the vehicle. Too bad she had to make a pit stop—but it would be a quick one. The longer she was gone, the greater the risk he’d get cold feet and back off.
“Let me run inside and put on some sunscreen.” She slid out of the SUV. “I’ll meet you on the dock in five minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
She hoped that was true.
He stayed by the SUV until she opened the cabin door, then disappeared around the side of the structure.
Dana did apply some sunscreen—and a touch of lipstick for good measure—but in less time than she’d allotted, she joined him on the dock.
“Our friendly heron is back.” Finn nodded toward the same spot the bird had claimed on his last visit.
She peered that direction, trying to distinguish his long neck in the tall grass growing in the shallow water near the bank, but finally gave up. “My vision isn’t there yet.”
He dropped into the center of the rowboat and held out a hand. “Shouldn’t you be getting your eyes examined on a regular basis?”
Instead of responding at once, she put her fingers in his and stepped down. The boat rocked, and his grasp tightened, steadying her as she caught her balance.
Except she lost it again when she lifted her head. At five-seven, she was tall, but he topped her by at least five or six inches. And he filled the small boat, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the cabin behind him, his solid chest inches away. As for those jade green irises—whoa!
“Dana?”
“What?”
“I asked about your eyes.”
“Oh. Right.” She fumbled behind her, feeling for the seat, and lowered herself to the bench. Real smooth, Dana. “Yes. My, uh, doctor in New York suggested that . . . but he also told me what to expect as I healed, and up to this point everything is textbook. I have the name of someone in St. Louis I can see if that changes.”
“Mmm.” He leaned toward the dock and slipped the mooring rope off the post.
She had no idea what that enigmatic comment meant—but as he settled into place, she had a feeling her answer hadn’t satisfied him.
“Do you think this is seaworthy?” Dumb question
. The boat had sat at her dock since he’d pulled it out of mothballs two days ago, and there wasn’t a drop of water in the hull. But it moved the conversation to a more neutral topic.
“We’re about to find out. Can you swim?” He pulled a pair of shades out of his pocket and slid them over his nose, flashing her a quick grin.
“Yes. Pops taught me—here in this lake, as a matter of fact.”
“Then we’re set. Prepare to cast off.”
With that, he put the oars to work . . . giving her an excellent view of bulging biceps below the sleeves of his snug black T-shirt.
Whew.
She slipped on her sunglasses too, and forced herself to watch the rippling water, sneaking an occasional peek at her companion as she explained how Pops had enlarged and stocked the original pond through the years.
Finn did a complete circuit, his pace steady and unhurried, listening to her guided tour. Then he aimed for the center of the lake, finally pausing there.
She sent him an admiring look. “Despite all that exertion, you aren’t even breathing hard.”
His lips flexed. “I try to stay in shape.”
“A successful quest, based on today’s performance. Rowing the perimeter of the lake is taxing. I used to do it, and by the end I was always gasping. You make it seem easy.”
The corners of his mouth flattened. “It is now. It wouldn’t have been a few months ago.”
“After your injury?” She asked the question cautiously. It wasn’t too late for him to change his mind about sharing his history—and if he decided to back off, she needed to let him.
“Yeah.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the call of a cardinal and a distant rumble of thunder suggesting a storm was brewing somewhere beyond the horizon.
Dana waited, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts . . . or reconsider.
Just when she began to think he’d chosen the latter option, he released the oars. “If you still want to hear my story, I’ll tell you—but I need to warn you . . . it isn’t like those novels you edit.”
“You might be surprised what’s in a lot of romances. Overcoming serious obstacles is often a major theme. And I edit a lot of other stuff too. Some of it can get very dark.”
“Dark about sums up what I’m going to tell you.”
“I’d still like to hear it.”
“Okay.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Fifteen months ago, during an insertion into hostile territory, our helo was hit by an RPG. It went down while I was fast-roping to the ground. I had a lot of damage—shrapnel, second-degree burns, internal injuries. The fall also did a number on my right leg. Several bones were broken, and the lower tibia was shattered. I’ve been in surgery and rehab ever since. But I was one of the lucky ones. Only two guys from that mission survived.” His voice hoarsened, and the skin over his cheekbones grew taut.
Dana was tempted to reach over, lay her hand on his knee, make a physical connection that would communicate more clearly than words how much she cared . . . and that she understood his pain as well as anyone could who hadn’t lived through combat trauma.
But his rigid posture said “keep your distance.”
So instead, she laced her fingers on her lap. “I’m so sorry, Finn.” The hushed words were inadequate . . . but what else was there to say in the face of such heartbreak?
“Yeah. I was too. About a lot of stuff.”
Like what?
A number of possibilities raced through her mind. He could be dealing with survivor’s guilt. Or regretting the sudden and unexpected end to his career as a Ranger. Or trying to cope with any number of other traumas she couldn’t begin to imagine.
He spoke again before she could think of a discreet follow-up question. “For the record, the helo crash wasn’t what ended my career. I’d already decided I wasn’t going to re-up.”
Not what she’d expected.
“May I ask why?” Please, don’t let me be overstepping!
He wrapped his hands around the edge of the seat. “I had PTSD. Or a variation of it.”
Post-traumatic stress disorder.
The air whooshed out of her lungs. Stories about that devastating affliction were all over the media these days.
Again, she reined in the impulse to touch the white-knuckled fingers clenching the seat, homing in instead on the second part of his explanation. “What do you mean, a variation?”
“I had—and continue to have, to a minor degree—typical PTSD symptoms. Insomnia, anxiety, withdrawal . . . plus the exaggerated response to everyday events that you saw in the café today. The same thing happened in the mess hall a month before the crash—except that time I dived for the floor and yelled for everyone to take cover. So I’ve made progress. But I also have symptoms of what the shrinks call moral injury or traumatic loss, which was intensified by the helo crash. All of that started before I was injured, though.”
“When?”
“When I realized how hard it was to distinguish between the people we were supposed to kill and the people we were supposed to protect.” A bitter thread wove through his words. “Conflicts in the Middle East are . . . complicated, to put it in language suitable for polite company.”
“But there was a particular incident that pushed you over the line, wasn’t there?” Although Dana had no idea where that insight had come from, she knew it was true.
“Yeah. It happened on a recon mission, two years ago this month. Someone got wind of our presence and alerted the local villagers. They were waiting for us with all the firepower they could muster. One of them came rushing straight at me, his rifle aimed at my chest. I took him out. After the fight was over, we checked on the casualties. Turns out the guy gunning for me wasn’t a guy after all. I’d shot a little boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve.” His voice cracked.
Squelching any lingering qualms, Dana followed her instincts and laid her hand over his knotted fist.
He dropped his gaze to her fingers. Drew a ragged breath. “Something in me snapped that night. I couldn’t make sense of a war that asked me to kill children.”
Pressure built in Dana’s throat. Her own story might be traumatic, but it paled in comparison to the soul-wrenching choices this man had faced day in and day out.
A tear trailed down her cheek and dropped onto her jeans, leaving a dark splotch.
Finn lifted his chin and slowly removed his glasses, his eyes awash with pain—and remorse. “I’m sorry, Dana. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“No.” She shook her head as she choked out the response. “Don’t apologize. There aren’t any words to express how much my heart aches for you. Maybe tears can communicate it better.”
His own irises began to shimmer. “No one except my mother has ever cried for me.”
Oh, mercy!
Another tear welled up and spilled out.
He reached over with an unsteady hand to brush it away, his fingertips lingering a moment longer than necessary against her skin.
Keep breathing, Dana.
The advice was sound—but hard to follow as they sat knee-to-knee in the gently rocking boat, under the spring sun on the diamond-sprinkled lake. The temptation to lean close . . . stroke his face . . . press her lips to his was fierce.
But that would be crazy. Despite the fact that emotions were running high, nerves were raw, and trauma was too close to the surface, they were just getting to know each other. Moving too fast would be a mistake. She needed to get a grip. Ramp things down. Restore some rationality to the situation.
Fast.
“So . . . are you doing okay now?” Her question came out shaky. “Aside from the incident at the Walleye, I mean?”
He grasped her hand and twined his fingers with hers when she tried to break the connection between them. “Better. The insomnia isn’t as bad, the anxiety has diminished, I’m more social, and I rarely have an incident like today. I’m also off most of my meds and no longer have regular appointments with a shr
ink. Having a great family support system sped up the recovery process.”
“And your leg?”
“Also improving. Not quite like new . . . but close enough. The only unresolved issue on my plate is what to do with the rest of my life. That’s why I came down to the cabin. I needed some space, away from everything and everyone, to think.”
“Has it helped?”
One side of his mouth lifted. “I haven’t had as much solitude as I expected.”
“Should I apologize for that?”
“No. Having you next door has been a plus—and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to think. My dad’s been pushing for me to join his personal security firm, and I’m leaning that direction. He had a heart attack a couple of years ago and wants to cut back. Since my brothers went into law enforcement after they left the service—FBI agent and police detective—I’m his heir apparent.”
“I expect your skills would be an asset in that kind of work.”
“They would. And I like Atlanta. It wouldn’t be a bad fit. I told him I’d let him know at the end of the month.” He cocked his head. “Didn’t you tell me you’re in decision-making mode too?”
As he swung the spotlight to her, she tugged her fingers free and trailed them through the water. “Yes. But the longer I’m here, the more certain I am that I don’t want to go back to the life I led in New York, where career was always front and center, the hours were long, and the pace was frenetic. I took a leave of absence after the . . .”
Uh-oh. It was way too easy to talk to this man. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up spilling her sad tale too.
She cleared her throat. “Anyway, my leave is winding down, and much as my bank account liked the steady paycheck and my ego liked the prestige, I don’t think I’m going back. I can generate a decent income doing freelance editing.”
“I hear you about getting tired of the rat race—but it sounds like there was also a precipitating incident.”
Of course he’d picked up her slip. This man was trained to notice every detail. Lives had depended on his astute observation skills.