Harlequin Heartwarming April 2018 Box Set

by Amy Vastine

  “Don’t come any closer,” he warned.

  “I won’t. I’m going to sit right here and won’t budge.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. Is it okay if Justin’s here, too?”

  “Yeah,” Paul called a moment later, and she drew in a long, cold breath.

  “After attacks, sometimes marines wanted to talk to me. They were incensed, mourning, numb, confused, frightened, though they wouldn’t always admit it, exactly… Yet I’d never seen a marine like the man who stopped by one day after his company’s tenth KIA.”

  “That’s killed in action, right?” Justin whispered in her ear.”

  “Right.”

  “What was his name?” Paul asked.

  “I’ll just call him Bill, out of respect for his privacy. You understand, right?” Despite the relative shelter of the doorway, the late-October wind, colder at this height, seeped through her angel costume and raised goose bumps on her skin.

  Paul nodded, a small motion difficult to discern in the dark.

  “He came to me outside medical, where the surgeons had just called time of death for one of his platoon members. A buddy he’d grown up with back home. Blood smeared across Bill’s face and stained his hands and uniform. He was so angry he was snarling, his face contorting like an angry dog’s. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be alone with him, not when his anger had the better of him. I told him to meet me after supper, but he didn’t show up. I should have sought him out, but I had the memorial service to plan and figured I’d take him aside later, after he’d had time to calm down.”

  Paul moved closer, away from the flimsy rail. “Did you?”

  “At the service, I read from Second Timothy—‘I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.’ Do you know that one, Paul?” she asked, desperate to hold his attention, to keep his mind off his plan to jump.

  Two cruisers rumbled to a stop down below, and an ambulance siren wailed in the distance.

  “No police up here!” Paul shouted, angling over the banister.

  “No police, I promise. I told the sheriff no one else comes up here without my say-so.” She dragged in a shaky breath when he straightened. Justin’s hand now rubbed a slow, steady circle on her back, a soothing motion, a caring one, too.

  Did he care for her?

  If he did, those emotions would disappear after he learned the truth about her horrible, selfish choices.

  “The company commander spoke next,” she continued. “He vowed revenge, but I noticed Bill hardly seemed to listen. He stood apart, his expression closed off. Surly. After the commander spoke, Bill talked about how his friend was a good guy, the only decent one in the squad because he didn’t think the country would be better off if they razed it to the ground. Then he glared at his fellow soldiers and accused them of teasing his friend for being sympathetic. For caring.”

  “I had a friend like that.” Paul swiped at his face, and his wet cheeks gleamed in the starlight. “His squad leader said he left his position to help a little girl caught in the cross fire. Then she blew up and killed them both. Insurgents strapped an IED on a three-year-old. What kind of world is that?” Paul screamed, a primal, guttural sound of raw pain.

  “I’m sorry for your friend.”

  “We signed up for it,” Paul sobbed. “We were doing our duty. Just never knew our duty would mean watching kids die, dogs die, old people, everyone…die. What happened to Bill?”

  “He kept ranting at the squad. I was about to step in when he stopped talking. At the end of the service, the company approached the battle cross, knelt together, arms over one another’s shoulders, leaning close until they were one silent, weeping block—all except Bill.”

  “They cried?” Paul said.

  “Like children.” Marines were terrifying warriors on the battlefield, but they hurt, they bled, they cried like anyone else—maybe harder. To survive, they bottled up their feelings, becoming powder kegs of emotion. One spark, one loss and some exploded, the shrapnel of their pain striking everything in its path, including loved ones. Others imploded, the wound a black hole inside, draining their life away, their souls crushed in its vacuum…like her.

  For so long she’d thought herself the lucky one to have survived, but now she understood she was a casualty, too. But she shoved the realization deep into a dark corner where she could examine it another time, when Paul was safe and out of danger.

  “Then one by one they stood up, touched the helmet, and walked back to their commander. All but Bill. He tried to get my attention, but the commander waved me over. He wanted to talk about low morale, about ideas he had for the upcoming Easter service. By the time I finished talking to him, Bill had disappeared.”

  Paul cupped his hands around his mouth when the wind picked up and raised his voice to ask, “Was he in his tent?”

  An officious-looking man in a blue windbreaker appeared below, bullhorn in hand. The crisis negotiator. Should she stop?

  Justin thundered downstairs, and his fierce scowl and animated gesture backed the officer off a couple of paces, leaving her room to continue this life-and-death task. Paul knew her. Trusted her. What’s more, Justin had faith she could do the job, and so did she.

  She had to talk Paul down; they stood on the precipice together, their fates irrevocably entwined.

  “Is Justin coming back?” Paul paced in the narrow, slanted space.

  “Right here, bud,” Justin affirmed, rejoining them.

  “Did you find Bill?” Paul asked again.

  “I didn’t look for him. I wanted to write down the commander’s ideas while I still had them fresh in my mind. I made myself the priority, thinking I still had time with Bill. Then another squad went out on patrol, one I’d gotten to know well. They were only days away from going home, but they got hit. Bad. Twelve casualties. When I gave the Easter service the next day, I lost my words. My thoughts. My faith. I broke down.”

  Justin’s arm slid tight around her waist, clamping her against his side. Down below, the impatient crowd’s chattering rose in volume, static-filled judgment she forced herself to tune out.

  “I walked out of the service and found Bill waiting for me by my tent. He begged to talk to me, but I refused. I didn’t have anything to say to anyone. No comfort to give. He came back later that night, but I told him to leave. When he returned in the morning, I called the MPs, had him ordered away. I couldn’t handle any more grief. A few days later, I was put on leave then given an honorable discharge, though there was nothing honorable about it. I was weak. I forsook my flock.”

  Paul slid down the bell tower wall and drew his knees to his chest. “What happened to Bill?”

  Her stomach filled with ice. “When I got home, an envelope waited for me. Inside it was a note from Bill and his dog tags.”

  “Only next of kin get those…” Justin murmured beneath his breath.

  “He didn’t have any family, he told me in the letter, and his friend who’d died had been like a brother. He said when I left he had no one to talk to, no other choice but to kill himself, because he couldn’t take the pain of being alone anymore. If I hadn’t broken down, if I’d done my duty, Bill would still be alive. So, you see.” She lifted her arms and pressed her palms to the sky, her heart splintering. Her eyes stung so hard she could barely see.

  “These aren’t clean. I can never remove Bill’s blood from them. It’s why I’m at Fresh Start, why I’m here now, asking you to come down from the ledge. Don’t add your blood to these hands. They can’t hold any more. If you fall, I fall. Please, Paul. Come down and take another day to think about it,” she pleaded, ignoring the storm of conversation flowing through the crowd behind her like an electric current. What they must think of her…what Justin must think of her… But none of that mattered, not right now, when Paul’s life was on the line.

 
Paul rose and stepped to the rail again. “All of my buddies died when our launcher backfired. I was the last one to sign off, to check it, before we set it off… I thought it was a go, gave the signal, then it blew up in our faces.”

  Understanding fired through her, compassion swift on its heels. “You made a mistake, too. I understand. I do.”

  Paul nodded, his shirt dappled with the tears streaming down his face. “They’d be alive if it wasn’t for me. If you kill somebody, that means you’re going to hell.”

  “God always offers forgiveness,” she said, keeping her tone soft. “To those who are truly sorry. But sorry isn’t a feeling. It’s an action. A determination to make things right. You have that chance now.”

  “I can’t make anything right.” He beat his fists on the banister, and the rubberneckers erupted in screams and shouts.

  “Yes, you can. Come down the stairs with me, come back to Fresh Start, and I’ll listen to you. I’ll listen to you talk about the friends whose names are inked on your arm. Tell me about your dreams to ride in the rodeo, your favorite pizza toppings—what were they? Pineapple and ham?”

  A bit of white flashed—possibly a smile?

  “Pineapple and jalapeño peppers,” he called, his tone lightening.

  Justin whispered, “Good work,” in her ear.

  “Right,” she forged on, her voice gaining in conviction. “You can’t make Maya try a pineapple-jalapeño pizza from up there. Please, come down and I’ll help you find a path to forgiveness, one which already runs through you. Will you take it, Paul?”

  “How do I know you won’t ship me to a hospital in a straitjacket?”

  “You’ll go to the hospital for a little bit.”

  Lying might increase her chances of talking Paul down, but she wouldn’t betray his trust. Justin had told her to connect with her patients and the community. She’d done both today and would never go back to her days of hiding, of isolation. Despite opening the Pandora’s box of her past, here she stood, straighter than ever. “Just for a few days, and not in a straitjacket. And then you’ll come back to Fresh Start.”

  If the facility was still here, she qualified silently. This dramatic display fed into the locals’ fears about disruptions to their idyllic small-town life. The vote to revoke the charter loomed darker and more ominous than ever.

  “Promise?”

  “I give you my word. Now give me yours to come down these stairs with us.”

  Paul leaned over the railing, his body far out into the air. When he nodded, the crowd erupted in a gasp. As soon as he backed away from the railing, Justin wrapped an arm around Paul’s shoulders and hustled him down the stairs and outside. A moment later, EMTs helped Paul inside an ambulance and drove away.

  The crowd erupted in cheers, while others sobbed. As they dispersed, many stared at Brielle as she stood on the church steps, their faces full of accusation, confusion and shock. She sagged against Justin and finally managed to suck in a decent breath. It burned as it went into her lungs, but her muscles unclenched as they got oxygen again. She reveled in relief. She twisted to watch the ambulance lights disappear around a corner.

  “Private William Pelton,” Justin said quietly, leading her back inside the dark church. They held hands as they sat in a pew.

  “Yes,” she admitted after a long moment, staring at a shadowed cross. The haunting silence threatened to suffocate her.

  He tipped her head down to rest on the strong curve of his shoulder and cradled her close. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t be.” Her heart was racing so hard she thought she’d have to swallow it to keep it from galloping out of her mouth.

  “Admitting your past took guts.”

  So, he didn’t despise her…a lightness seized her limbs, making her buoyant until reality crashed her down to earth again.

  “Carbondale will never let Fresh Start stay now, or if they do, they won’t allow it to be run by a director with a history of breakdowns.”

  “First off, they have no say in that,” Justin vowed, firm. “Second, breakdowns are like bone breaks—you heal stronger than before.” His fingers combed through her curls slowly, making her scalp tingle and her shoulders lower.

  “Not the heart,” she said, thinking of Justin.

  “Especially the heart.” His fingers now grazed along the length of her neck.

  “Not me. It took me a long time to get out of bed after my discharge, a long time to stop seeing the casualties. So many good men died. It’s like mortality is a game, and God maneuvers us like chess pieces.” The words, whispered in His house, sounded like blasphemy but tasted like truth. Her truth.

  Justin traced her jaw with the callused pad of his index finger. “Do you still believe in God?”

  The moon disappeared behind clouds, and the light coming through the stained-glass windows dimmed.

  “I do, but I don’t hear Him anymore. He stopped answering me after my breakdown, stopped talking through me—like He blames me, too. Bill wasn’t the only suicide. Another member of his squad killed himself on leave, with his personal handgun. A couple months later, a third member of his company overdosed. A year later, Stan Dobbins, one of the only survivors of the group ambushed before Easter, redeployed for the third time and shot himself in the head.” She leveraged herself up to face Justin. “That’s why I’m not stronger.”

  “You haven’t healed yet. Didn’t you tell me therapy’s hard work?”

  “Maybe I’ll never get better. When you drove into my truck, when you showed how little you cared about life, I couldn’t handle it. Still can’t.”

  “But I don’t feel that way. Not like I did. Not as much.”

  Justin’s face was so close to hers their breath mingled. She had a strong compulsion to try to pull them both out of this melancholy mood, to distract them. She placed her hand on his bearded cheek. It was soft and warm. When he didn’t move, she lifted her face and tentatively touched her lips to his.

  At first, she got no response, and she considered backing off. Then his kiss turned hungry. It was not the gentle kiss of a couple on their first date, nor was it the kiss of a man driven by simple lust. He kissed her with the desperation of a dying man who believed the magic of eternal life was in this kiss.

  The ferocity of his grip around her waist and shoulders, the grinding pressure of his lips, had her off balance so her thoughts whirled out of control. It was a knee-melting, gut-twisting, vein-tingling, nuclear meltdown kiss. And then the pressure eased, and the kiss turned achingly tender. A tingling warmth shot from the silken touch of his lips and tongue straight to her core. Her body melted into his, and she was hyperaware of the hard muscles of his chest, the possessive feel of his fingers denting her waist, the wet slide of his mouth on hers. Then he pulled back, taking a gulp of air as if surfacing from choppy waters.

  She took a deep, deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.

  His lids lifted, and his eyes were deep pools of swirling emotion. “You should know,” he murmured, low and husky, “you make me want to live. You lost Bill, but honey, you’re saving me.”

  “But you should save yourself,” she murmured just before his lips found hers again, melting into the delicious, stolen moment.

  Later, she stared at the cross. Thank you, she thought, and a warm, joyous answer expanded in her heart. She’d been listening so hard she’d forgotten to simply feel, or had been too afraid to feel until now, until Justin encouraged her to face her emotions instead of locking them away.

  Did she dare give her heart to the reckless daredevil?

  Could she convince him love was all the reason anyone needed to live?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JUSTIN DROPPED THE last rib eye on the grill and inhaled the juicy sizzle hissing from the grates. With a flick of his wrist, he dabbed liquid smoke on each thick steak, followed by Worcestershi
re sauce. An extra dash of salt, pepper and garlic powder followed. After a quick glance to determine no one watched him, he shook smoked paprika, his secret ingredient, over the marbled meat, then slipped the bottle back in his pocket.

  “Smoked paprika, huh?”

  Justin’s back snapped straight at the instantly recognizable voice. Cole Loveland. How did he miss the goliath? He must have crawled out from under a rock.

  He was a Loveland…

  “What are you doing here?”

  Cole hoisted a tray of foil-wrapped baked potatoes. “Helping. Now move over.”

  “There’s no room for those.” Justin pointed his spatula at the steak-filled grate.

  “We’ll make room.” And then, like every other arrogant, stubborn, condescending Loveland, Cole muscled in, smooshed Justin’s pristine steaks to one side, and dropped the potatoes next to them. “See? Plenty of room.”

  “They won’t cook evenly packed that tight,” grumbled Justin, tamping down his irritation the way Dr. Sheldon taught him in anger management. He nudged the potatoes with the spatula to give his steaks room and to keep himself from decking Cole smack in his smug Loveland face.

  “Potatoes are mostly cooked already.” Cole inched the potatoes closer to the steak, rolling them with a mitt.

  Justin slammed down the grill cover, trapping the heat inside against the cool November air. “Then why grill them?”

  “To enhance the flavor. My secret ingredient needs to soak in.”

  “What is it?” Using a grill fork, Justin poked at the ears of corn steaming in a tall kettle on a side burner.

  Cole smirked. “Wouldn’t be a secret if I told you.”

  Justin brandished the fork at his longtime enemy. “You saw my smoked paprika…”

  “Herbes de Provence,” Cole admitted beneath his breath, eyes flitting to the oblivious residents enjoying the good weather before winter took hold. Some milled around cloth-covered picnic tables while others competed in a game of horseshoes.