Safe in His Arms--A Clean Romance

by Anna J. Stewart

  Phoebe nodded and smacked her lips.

  “She has a salad with every meal.” Hunter set the plate of sandwiches beside the salad bowl. “Except breakfast. We decided that wasn’t working so well.”

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  Kendall let out a sound that sounded like a laugh as she reached for one of the sandwiches. “Grilled cheese is my favorite.”

  “Ours, too.” Hunter shook a bit of dressing over Phoebe’s salad until she pushed his hand away.

  Kendall cast him a surprised look, then glanced away as if she suddenly remembered she wasn’t supposed to be watching him.

  “Do you still see your family?” Hunter sighed at the comforting feeling of the fire crackling behind his back.

  “No.” Kendall barely flinched. “No, my dad died in Iraq during his third tour of service. My grandparents passed away soon after, and then my mom, from cancer, a year before I joined the army.”

  “What about Sam?” Hunter had been wondering whether or not he should bring up the fiancé she’d only mentioned once. If he was already on thin ice with her, what did he have to lose by inquiring now?

  “Sam?” Kendall’s voice sounded a bit choked. “Oh, um. We went to high school together, then college. I tutored him inmath, actually.” Phoebe grinned at Hunter. “What?” Kendall asked.

  “We’ve just learned that Phoebe loves algebra,” Hunter explained with a laugh. “So you’re a math geek, too?”

  “Math is logic,” Kendall said as she plucked apart her sandwich. “There’s a formula. You follow it. You get the answer. It might frustrate you for a while, but it never lets you down. Plus it looks like a foreign language when you write it all out. Like a secret code.”

  “You and Sam enlisted together, you said?”

  She hesitated, and even Phoebe looked between them as if she didn’t like the question.

  “If you’d rather not talk about it.” Hunter’s expression held such compassion.

  “I don’t mind.” Kendall cleared her throat. “After all, I brought it up. The army offered what we both wanted, a solid future and a way to get it, and offer a contribution to others that Sam and I both felt was important. He was going to be a science teacher when we got back.”

  “And you?” Hunter asked.

  The smile that curved her lips scraped against his heart. “I was going to be a mom.”

  He was about to respond, even though he wasn’t sure what he would say. But she seemed lost in the memories and continued.

  “He asked me to marry him the night after we made it through basic training. I was deployed with Matt’s unit. Sam ended up being stationed a few villages away, protecting a school and other infrastructure being rebuilt. We emailed a lot. Video chats. He told the most awful jokes.” Her laugh caught Hunter by surprise. “Just horrible. Those chats were a good reason I didn’t completely lose it when he was killed. We never left anything unsaid. He knew I loved him. And I knew he loved me. And then he was gone, killed by a bomber who took exception to the new girls’ school he and his team had just overseen being finished.”

  “He sounds like a good guy.”

  “He was.” Now Kendall looked at him. Really looked at him, and he saw, for an instant, a flash of relief. “He would have been a good dad, too. The best.” She continued to pick apart her sandwich but hadn’t eaten a bite. Her arms might be all muscle, but she still looked too thin. “We always wanted a big family.”

  Phoebe shifted onto her knees and tapped the back of Kendall’s hand, then pointed to herself.

  “Phoebe, I think that’s enough talking for tonight.” Hunter should never have brought this up. Not now. Not without warning. And not having at least given Phoebe a hint of what and who Kendall had lost.

  “It’s okay.” Kendall shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind. “Um, there was a little girl, Phoebe. Her name was Samira and she lived in this village my unit was trying to protect. She loved to read and make up stories, but most of all she loved to play soccer.” Kendall squeezed her eyes. “She was the best player in the village, much to her brothers’ horror. She and her family were ki—um, died. Just after—” Her voice broke. Just after she’d lost Sam. “I put daisies on her grave. Daisies make everyone happy, she used to say.”

  “Kendall, that’s okay, it’s enough.” Hunter grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed, held on tight when it felt as if she might pull away. “You don’t owe us any further explanation.”

  “I know.” Kendall blinked a few times and tipped her head back as if to stop the tears. “Maybe not talking about them is why it still hurts so much.”

  Phoebe tapped her fingers on the table one at a time. Hunter frowned, not understanding. But somehow Kendall did.

  “She was nine,” Kendall said. “And she had beautiful black curls, just like yours.” She looked as if she wanted to reach out and touch Phoebe’s.

  In that moment, so much about Kendall made sense. Beginning with why, when she’d first seen Phoebe, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Because she had.

  Phoebe’s bottom lip trembled. She looked at Hunter, then jumped down from her chair and raced into the kitchen.

  “I didn’t mean to upset her,” Kendall whispered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “You didn’t upset her.” Hunter looked down to where Kendall continued to hold his hand; she squeezed as if doing so brought her some comfort.

  Phoebe searched through one of the baskets they’d brought from Calliope’s. The basket Calliope had promised would hold all they’d need for the weekend.

  “What you got there, kiddo?” Hunter asked as Phoebe returned to the table, a small biodegradable pot cupped between her hands. She held it out to Kendall, tears pooling in her eyes. Kendall stared at the barely bloomed flowers, a collection of them: brilliant white daisies.

  Phoebe set the pot on the table.

  “Daisies make everyone happy.”

  Kendall’s expression was unreadable until the first tear fell. She pulled her hand free of Hunter’s and swiped her cheek. With one finger, she traced the petal of the largest stem, a soft smile curving her lips as she reached out and pulled Phoebe into a hug. “Thank you, Phoebe.”

  “Those are the flowers Calliope suggested would look best in the window boxes. The ones she said would be strong enough to plant after the storm.” Hunter could barely hear his own voice. “How did she—”

  Kendall laughed, rested her cheek on Phoebe’s head as she looked at him. “Because she’s Calliope.”

  Hunter’s heart twisted as he watched Phoebe cling to Kendall; she hugged her tight and copied the way she traced the flowers. His niece had managed to say all that was needed in just a few considered actions. Actions that, if he had to lay odds, might just have broken through the wall around Kendall Davidson’s heart. “You know.” Now he was the one who cleared his throat. “Someone brought us brownies for dessert.”

  “I love brownies,” Kendall whispered.

  “Yeah, well, we only get brownies when everyone finishes their dinner,” Hunter teased her. “Family rule.”

  Phoebe climbed back onto her chair, picked up the salad tongs and dumped an over full batch of salad onto Kendall’s plate, right on top of the remnants of the sandwich.

  “I have to eat all that?”

  Was it Hunter’s imagination or had she actually whined?

  “Every bit of it,” he confirmed as Phoebe nodded. She pushed the bottle of dressing toward her. Then she returned to her own dinner as if nothing heart shattering had taken place.

  “Well, since it’s for brownies.” Kendall sighed. She picked up her fork, and, after a quick look at Hunter, she dug in.

  CHAPTER NINE

  KENDALL PULLED HERSELF free of the fireplace-induced trance as Hunter quietly tiptoed out of Phoebe’s bedroom.

&nbs
p; “I think she’s out.”

  “Stressful day.” When was Kendall not the master of understatement. She’d taken refuge, physically and emotionally, in their temporary home. Curled up in the corner of the sofa, she sipped on tea she recognized as one of Calliope’s special relaxation blends, recalling the one-sided conversation of a father putting his child to bed.

  And somehow her heart hadn’t shattered.

  “Why Charlotte’s Web?”

  “Huh?” Hunter dropped onto the sofa beside her and rested his forehead against his hand. “Oh, that. It’s the book Juliana was reading to her when she died. Doesn’t matter how many other books we buy or which ones she thinks she wants to read, it always comes back to Charlotte’s Web.”

  “Smart girl. Appropriate story, don’t you think?”

  Hunter shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”

  Kendall frowned. “All these months and you haven’t read the book she’s clinging to like a talisman?”

  He dropped his hand and looked at her. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “Sorry. Don’t mean to judge.” She sipped her tea. As she knew a bit about grief, she pressed harder. “Does she read it all the way through or just bits and pieces?”

  “Uh.” He leaned his head back. “Now that you ask, I think she gets to a certain spot and starts over.”

  Kendall looked back into the fire. “Maybe she stops where your sister did. Because finishing the book means having to finally say goodbye to her mother. Just a thought.”

  The silence stretched. “I hadn’t thought about that,” he said finally. “You think maybe I should push her to finish it?”

  “No.” Kendall shook her head. “I think you might try reading the rest of it to her, the way Juliana would have. Start from the beginning and go all the way through.”

  “She isn’t too old for story time?”

  “No child is ever too old for story time,” Kendall said. “At least I never was. This might be a barrier she has to get over, but there’s nothing saying you can’t help her get there. What about school?”

  “Is this some kind of therapy session?”

  “Maybe.” Kendall found herself grinning. There was something appealing about keeping him off-kilter—served him right since the second he kissed her, that was exactly how she felt. All these years, all the time she’d spent making sure no one got through, that no one wedged into her heart and expose her to another devastating loss, had been tossed aside by a single kiss from Hunter MacBride. “I’ve had enough of them myself to probably have earned a degree.”

  “Well, you seem to have taken it all to heart. And I bet you’ve been using it to help Phoebe, too.”

  “You look exhausted. You should get some sleep.”

  “Is that your way of saying you want me to leave you alone now?”

  “No. And yes.” How could this man read her so well? Maybe because the time they’d spent together had been quality... Oh, good heavens. Somewhere her former therapists were popping champagne corks. “The dishes are done. The place is cleaned up. You don’t have any excuse not to go and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “You did the dishes?” He leaned forward and looked toward the sparkling kitchen. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do, as you’ve let me crash on your couch tonight.”

  “You can take my room.”

  “Absolutely not.” She’d been waiting for this offer and answered him with her own rational argument. “I don’t sleep for very long. And the second that storm clears, I’m going out to check the damage. You don’t want me traipsing through here while you’re trying to sleep. Or work.” She motioned to his computer. “Speaking of which, how’s the book coming along?”

  “Butterfly Harbor’s story is really coming together. I found a bunch of old books at the library, including one on the lighthouse itself. I had an interview with BethAnn Bromley a few days ago. Now, she’s a character.”

  “That’s true. I’d lay odds she has more information than most about this town.”

  “I’ve got a Mrs. Hastings and several others on my list for this week, and then I get to start snapping pictures.”

  “That’s your favorite part, isn’t it? What you can convey with a picture, no writer has ever evoked in me. Laughter, sorrow, grief or joy. You seem to have a knack for capturing it on film. Just raw, untouched, unfiltered emotion.”

  “If you’ve caught the true moment, you don’t need to manipulate the image. Words can get in the way sometimes.”

  “Which is what you state on your website.” She’d found her way online and lost track of the hours she’d spent looking at his photographs.

  “Words are nice,” he added. “Don’t get me wrong. But I like the pictures to speak for themselves.”

  “That all sounds lovely. But that wasn’t the book project I was talking about.”

  “Oh, yeah. That one.” He looked over at his computer and sighed. “I’m thinking maybe the fiction idea isn’t such a great idea.”

  “Because you can’t come up with an idea or because you’re scared you will?”

  Hunter rolled his head against the back of the sofa and looked at her. “Boy, you’re tough, aren’t you? We’ve gone days with barely a word to one another and then bam! All of a sudden you’re calling me out on all sorts of things.”

  “Hey, you started it by kissing me.”

  That caught his interest, and he shifted to face her, linking their hands and bringing them up to his lips. Those amazing amber-accented eyes of his dancing as he watched her. “What did I start, exactly?”

  “You know what you started.” She would not give in. Not again. She would not surrender to that gravitational force that was Hunter MacBride and the smile that could heal any wound. “And it’s not going to work. I’m damaged goods, Hunter.”

  “Damaged. Not destroyed.”

  “Obliterated,” she corrected and, just to be clear, she set her cup down and mirrored his posture, eye to eye. Hand to hand. Knee to knee. There was no denying the attraction she felt for him—the first attraction she’d felt for any man since Sam had died, which made her even more leery of trusting herself. “I’m the last person you want to be involved with. And certainly the last woman who belongs around Phoebe. Don’t go making a kiss into more than there ought to be.”

  “You mean I shouldn’t be thinking how a white picket fence would look around this house?”

  “That’s not even remotely funny.” But he’d made her heart stutter. “Let go of my hand.” She tugged free, because the tingling of her skin was giving her goose bumps. “I appreciate that you were worried for me, but I’m not made for anything beyond friendship. With anyone. And even friendship is a stretch in most cases.”

  “You make it sound as if I’m planning on getting you down to city hall to have Gil Hamilton marry us.”

  Now she did shudder. “Heaven forbid.”

  Hunter’s grin reemerged. “Was that a slight against Gil or marriage in general?”

  “Hunter—”

  “Tell me about these.” He lifted his now free hand and stroked the side of her scarred face.

  Now she caught his hand, which, as he retwined their fingers, she realized was likely his goal from the start. “That’s an ugly story you don’t want to hear.”

  “Have you forgotten what I do, what I did, for a living? Where I’ve been? What I’ve seen?”

  Again, she looked for something beyond understanding and compassion in his eyes, wanting to pounce on sympathy and pity. But he didn’t give her that out. Near as she could tell, he wasn’t giving her any out.

  “Nothing you could tell me would shock me, Kendall. I’ve seen what war does to the human spirit, let alone the human body. Your scars represent a moment in your life, not a map of where you’re going.”

  “Now who
’s getting therapeutic.”

  “Please, tell me.”

  Of all the events in her life, oddly enough perhaps, her scars didn’t hold the most pain. Physically, the burn treatments and skin grafts had been hard to endure. But, honestly, they were no comparison to the pain she felt when she’d heard Sam had been killed on active duty, protecting the school when it came under attack. She’d known the instant he was gone. She’d...felt it. So by comparison, talking about her scars didn’t bother her at all.

  “There’s nothing unique about what happened,” she said finally. “A roadside bomb blew up and flipped the jeep I was riding in. The explosion killed most of our unit instantly. Matt and I were the only ones to survive. I’d been sitting closest to the gas tank and caught the brunt of the aftermath.” She motioned to her face. “I think I was still on fire when Matt dragged me out, then subsequent gunfire hit his leg when he used his body to put out the flames. It’s funny.”

  “What is?” Hunter trailed that finger down her arm, as if he could trace the scars beneath the sweatshirt she wore. Scars that reminded her each and every day that she was alive.

  “Not funny ha-ha, but funny how our minds protect us from some things.” And not from others. “I barely remember those first days. I was in and out of it so often, it’s like I was never awake long enough to process the pain or the extent of what had happened. It was weeks after I’d been shipped home for treatment until I could finally begin to accept it. I don’t know that I fully did until Matt wheeled himself into my room and asked me to take him dancing.” The man who had lost the lower part of his leg was the one to push her toward healing.

  She laughed now just as she’d laughed then. A laugh that had finally broken the pent-up emotions and had her and Matt crying and grieving over their fellow soldiers, their friends, their loved ones.

  “I knew I liked that guy,” Hunter said.

  “These scars, I don’t think of them much.” She shrugged. “I used to worry that kids would be scared of me, but in an odd way, serving in Afghanistan, unlike other wars we’ve fought in—there’s such an awareness of what happens or can happen to soldiers. It’s an explanation that comes a lot easier these days, not even like when my father served. That said, I suppose it’s a bit of a blessing to think that my parents never saw me this way. That’s what worried me the most sometimes about going home, that my mom and dad would be hurt for me if I’d been injured. So.” She shrugged, tried to push aside that thought. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Matt.” She brushed away the tears that escaped her control. “I miss them so much. And Sam, too.”