A Soldier's Secret

Caught off balance by seventy-five pounds of dog suddenly in her way, she stumbled a little and would have fallen into an ignominious heap if Lieutenant Maxwell hadn’t reached out with his uninjured arm to help steady her.

Instant heat leaped through her, wild and shocking. She was painfully cognizant of the hard male strength of him, of his mouth just inches away, of those hazel eyes watching her with a glittery expression.

She didn’t think she had ever, in her entire existence, been so physically aware of a man. Of his scent, fresh-washed and clean, of the muscles that held her so securely, of the strong curve of his jawline.

She might have stayed there half the morning, caught in the odd lassitude seeping through her, except she suddenly was quite certain she smelled freesia as she had earlier during breakfast.

The scent eddied around them, subtle and sweet, but it was enough to break the spell.

She jerked away from him before she could do something abysmally stupid like kiss the man.

“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

A muscle worked in his jaw, though that strange light lingered in his eyes. “I’m not breakable, Anna. Don’t worry about it.”

Despite his words, she was quite certain she saw lines of pain bracketing his mouth. With three older brothers, though, she had learned enough about the male psyche to sense he wouldn’t appreciate her concern.

She let out a long breath. This had to be the strangest morning of her life.

“Here’s the leash,” she said. “If you decide to take Conan with you, just call his name and rattle this outside my door and he should come running in an instant.”

He nodded. For a moment, she thought he might say something about the surge of heat between them just now, but then he seemed to change his mind.

“Thanks again for breakfast,” he said. “I would offer to return the favor but I’m afraid you’d end up with cold cereal.”

She managed a smile, though she was certain it wasn’t much of one. He gazed at her for a long moment, his features unreadable, then he headed for the door.

Conan danced around behind him, his attention glued to the leash, but she managed to close the door before the dog could escape to follow him up the stairs.

He whined and slumped against the door and she leaned against it, absently rubbing the dog’s ears as that freesia scent drifted through the apartment again.

“Cut it out, Abigail,” she spoke aloud. Lieutenant Maxwell would surely think she was crazy if he heard her talking to a woman who had been dead nearly a year.

Still, there had been that strange moment at breakfast when she had been almost positive he sensed something in the kitchen. His eyes had widened and he had seemed almost disconcerted.

Ridiculous. There had been nothing there for him to sense. Abigail was gone, as much as she might wish otherwise. She was just too prosaic to believe Sage and Julia’s theory that their friend still lingered here at Brambleberry House.

And even if she did buy the theory, why would Abigail possibly make herself known to Harry Maxwell? It made no sense.

Sage believed Abigail had played a hand in her relationship with Eben, that she had carefully orchestrated events so they would both finally be forced to admit they belonged together.

Though Julia didn’t take things quite that far, she also seemed to believe Abigail had helped her and Will find their happily-ever-after.

But Abigail had never even met Harry Maxwell. Why on earth would she want to hook him up with Anna?

She heard the ludicrous direction of her thoughts and shook her head. She had far too much to do today to spend any more time speculating on the motives of an imaginary matchmaking ghost.

She wasn’t about to let herself fall prey to any beyond-the-grave romantic maneuvering between her and a certain wounded soldier with tired, suspicious eyes.

Max returned to his third-floor aerie to be greeted by his cell phone belting out his mother’s ringtone.

He winced and made a mental note to change it before she caught wind of the song one of his bunkmates at Walter Reed had programmed as a joke after Meredith’s single visit to see him in the six months after the crash.

His mother wouldn’t be thrilled to know he heard Heart singing “Barracuda” every time she called.

When he was on painkillers, he had found it mildly amusing—mostly because it was right on the money. Now he just found it rather sad. For much the same reason.

He thought about ignoring her but he knew Meredith well enough to be sure she would simply keep calling him until he grew tired of putting her off, so he finally picked it up.

With a sigh, he opened his phone. “Hi, Mom,” he greeted, feeling slightly childish in the knowledge that he only used the word because he knew it annoyed her.

She had been insisting since several years before he hit adolescence that he must call her Meredith but he still stubbornly refused.

“Where were you, Maxwell? I’ve been calling you for an hour.” Her voice had that prim, tight tone he hated.

“I was at breakfast. I must have left my phone here.”

He decided to keep to himself the information that he was downstairs eating Abigail’s French toast with Anna Galvez.

“You said you would call me when you arrived.”

“You’re right. That’s what I said.”

He left his sentence hanging between them, yet another strategy he had learned early in his dealings with her mother. She wouldn’t listen to explanations anyway so he might as well save them both the time and energy of offering.

The silence dragged on but he held his ground. Finally she heaved a long-suffering sigh and surrendered.

“What have you found?” she asked. “Have those women gutted the house and sold everything in it?”

He gazed around at the apartment with its new coat of paint and kitchen cabinets and he thought of the downstairs apartment, with its spacious new floor plan.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“Brambleberry House was filled with priceless antiques. Some of them were family heirlooms that should have gone to you. I can’t believe Abigail didn’t do a better job of preserving them for you. You’re her only living relative and those family items should be yours.”

Since she had backed down first, he let her ramble on about the injustice of it all—as if Meredith cared about anyone’s history beyond her own.

“I was apparently mistaken to let you visit her all those summers. When I think of the expense and time involved in sending you there, I just get furious all over again.”

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