The Marine's Embrace

“Hmm?” she asked, closing out her text messages to check her emails.

Mitchell, her three-and-a-half-year-old, crouched in front of her, peered up into her face. “Mama?” He shook her free arm. Repeatedly. And hard enough to have her head wobbling along. “Mama? Mama?”

With a half laugh, half sigh, she smiled at him. “What-a? What-a? What-a?”

“Mama, are you mad at me?”

“What? No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. Rubbed her arm, his hand warm and clammy and covered in potting soil—which now streaked her skin from elbow to wrist. “I asked if I could plant the daisies and you didn’t answer me.”

She flushed. Guilt, so easily induced, twisted in her stomach. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t hear you. I was checking my phone.” Standing, she put her phone in her pocket. Took hold of her son’s hand. “Of course you can plant the daisies. We’ll put some in here,” she continued, picking up a sunny yellow ceramic pot and carrying it out to the grass. “Why don’t you pick out the colors while I open another bag of soil?”

“Okay!” He raced over to the flat of colorful gerbera daisies and knelt down, studying them intently.

She dragged the potting soil into the sunshine, the grass thick and green under her sneakers, then used a pair of scissors to open the bag. Knowing how much Mitchell liked to “help,” she waited for him to bring the flowers over so he could fill the pot.

“Mama,” he said, running back to her to tug on her jeans. “How many?”

“Let’s start with three and go from there.”

He nodded, then hurried back to the flowers.

Her baby didn’t like to venture too far from her. Every few minutes he’d come back to her side, touch her leg or arm, make sure he had her attention, that she was still there, and then wander off again.

Elijah would have just yelled at her, as if he was a half a block away instead of across the brick sidewalk that bisected the yard. Then again, Elijah was more likely to take off down the street than stand still long enough to pick out daises, let alone plant them. That boy had energy to spare.

While she so often felt as if she had none.

But not today. Today she’d taken control. As much as she’d wanted to curl into a ball after her conversation with Damien, she hadn’t. She’d showered, dressed, put on fresh makeup and straightened her naturally curly hair.

Just as Shane liked it.

She’d gotten the boys up, cooked pancakes in their tiny kitchen while they got dressed, then sent Elijah off to school before greeting her guests downstairs. She’d put in a few hours in her office, letting Mitch watch TV before heading to WISC, an upscale clothing boutique downtown. It had taken her close to an hour, but she’d finally chosen a deep purple lace chemise and matching panties for tonight. Mitch had been so patient and well behaved, she’d taken him to Panoli’s for lunch. After pizza, they’d stopped at the garden center on the way home.

She eyed the flats of flowers—over a dozen perennials and annuals of all shapes, sizes and colors littered the space between the driveway and sidewalk, plus two azalea bushes, a rosebush and three different kinds of decorative grass.

She chewed on her pinkie nail. Perhaps she’d gotten a tad bit carried away, but there was nothing better than tending a garden, caring for it so it flourished. Bloomed. Cullen’s Greenhouse had just received a new shipment, and she’d had a hard time reining in her enthusiasm.

And, it seemed, her business credit card.

Not that Neil would complain. Or even question the purchase. He never did. Her brother trusted her to run Bradford House as she saw fit, and encouraged her to make every decision, from what sort of linens to use to whom to hire. Whatever she wanted, he made sure she got.

But sometimes she wondered if his being unable to refuse her anything had less to do with trust and more to do with him thinking if he denied her something she’d break into a million pieces. Pieces he’d be unable to put back together.

“I got three, Mama,” Mitch said, his little arms around three plastic containers as he headed toward her. “See?”

“I do see,” she said, crossing the short distance to take two of the flowers from him. “These will look very pretty together.”

“Yeah. I got yellow ’cuz it’s your favorite color and red ’cuz it’s mine and orange for ’Lijah. It’s for all of us. They’ll be a family like we are.”

She hated that he didn’t remember a time when they’d been a real family. That he’d never had his father in his life full time.

She brushed his hair back. The once almost-white strands were now darker, with a definite reddish tint, but it was still baby fine and stick straight. “You know,” she said, wanting to ease Mitchell into getting used to having Shane around, “Daddy’s favorite color is red, too. Just like you.”

Mitch seemed more curious by the idea than happy over it. Then again, he was shy around strangers, especially men. And that his father was a stranger broke Fay’s heart.

Thank God all of that was about to change.

“It is?” he asked.

She nodded. “So maybe these flowers could be for all of us. You and me and your brother and your daddy.”

“Do you want them to be?”

She knew what she should say. That she wanted him to make that decision. That he didn’t have to include Shane in anything he did, not after Mitch had spent only a handful of days with Shane since he was a baby.

But that wasn’t all Shane’s fault. She bore some responsibility for the problems in their marriage. For not being strong enough to weather the tough times. For wanting too much. For needing too much.

“I do want that,” she said, unable to hide what was in her heart. “Very, very much.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly.

“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”

He grinned, so eager to please. So thrilled to be praised. Even when it was obvious he was only doing it to make someone else happy.

Just like she did.

“Can I put the dirt in?” he asked.

She couldn’t speak, her throat was too tight, so she nodded. Worried now that she’d made a mistake in speaking the truth. That she’d somehow tainted him with her fears.

“But not too full, right?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot, either in excitement or because he had to pee. “’Cuz there has to be room for the flowers’ roots. Right?”

“Right.” But the word came out a whisper, so she cleared her throat. Tried again. “That’s right.”

He dived at the bag of potting soil, using his hands to scoop some out. Most of it drifted to the ground before it reached the pot, and even more clung to his pants and shirt, covered his arms.

She was surprised he didn’t climb into the bag and just dig it out like a dog.

He stopped jiggling, which meant his little dance had been excitement. Best of all, he was smiling, talking cheerfully, a running commentary about what he was doing. He was, in this moment, happy.

Maybe she wasn’t ruining him after all.

Still, she only had so many bags of potting soil, and at this rate, more than half of it was going to feed the yard.

“Wow, great job. If you want,” she said, as if just coming up with the idea, offering to do him a huge favor, “I could finish filling it. Then you can dig the holes for the flowers.”

She held out a small garden shovel. His eyebrows drew together into an adorable frown, as if he wasn’t sure whether this new development was to his advantage. She could almost see him weighing his options: play in the dirt or get to use the potentially lethal tool.

He grabbed the shovel. Lethal it was.

Using an empty flower container, she scooped the soil into the pot. “There you go.”

“Three holes, right?” he asked, his pudgy hand gripping the shovel tight. His tongue sticking out, he stabbed the pointed edge of the shovel into the pot then flung it up in an explosion of dirt that showered his hair and clothes.

“Yes. But maybe not quite so hard?”

He nodded. And showered himself with even more dirt.

Oh, well. No harm in getting dirty. Clothes—and little boys—were washable. Though she might have to hose him off before getting him into the tub.

“Look! I did it,” he said. “I made a hole.”

“Yes, you did. Good job. Two more to go.”

She thought she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Covered it with her hand, holding her breath. Yes, that was a vibration. Wasn’t it? She pulled it out and exhaled heavily at the blank screen. She quickly unlocked it just to double-check. But there were no texts, no emails, no missed calls.

Where was Shane? Why hadn’t he called her? Or better yet, stopped by?

She’d practiced her apology to him in the shower, had it memorized and perfected only to have her call—all five of them—go straight to voice mail. Which was understandable. She was sure he’d been busy preparing for his interview, showering and shaving and getting dressed. So she’d texted him, had poured her heart out to him, told him how sorry she was, let him know how much last night had meant to her. How excited she was for the future.

That had been hours ago. It was now past two and she hadn’t heard from him yet. She just didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. If he’d tell her, she could fix it. She could change.

“Mama, are you sad?”

She looked down to find Mitch frowning up at her. He was so like her—from his coloring to his blue eyes to the shape of his mouth. They both hated peas, burned easily in the sun and hummed constantly. He’d inherited her sensitivity, too. Was always wondering how others were feeling. Worried if they were sad or upset or angry with him. Needed to be told constantly that the people in his life would always be there. That they loved him—would always love him.

She didn’t know whether to hug him tight and reassure him that everything was fine or demand that he snap out of it. That he not be like her.

She wanted him to be stronger than she was. More confident, capable of facing challenges. Able to live without constantly worrying.

All good life skills. She wished someone would teach them to her someday.

Crouching, she smiled at him. “I’m very happy. It’s a beautiful day, I’m planting flowers with my best helper and after we pick up your brother from school, we’re going to stop at City Creamery.”

Eyes wide, he started doing his happy dance again. “We’re getting ice cream? Can I get two scoops?”

City Creamery was known not only for its homemade ice cream but also its huge portions. “You can have whatever you want, baby.”

So what if he’d be full before he finished one scoop? There was no harm in making sure he was happy.

He pumped his fist—a move he’d picked up from Elijah—then gave her a hug. “I love you, Mama.”

She squeezed him carefully, knowing she had a tendency to hold on too tight. “Love you, too, baby.”

When he let go to finish digging his holes, she straightened. Brushed at the dirt on her shirt. She hadn’t lied. Not really. She was happy. It was just that she’d be happier if Shane was there.

She was sure of it.

What if he stopped by while she and the boys were out? She hadn’t planned on going to City Creamery after getting Elijah, but she’d wanted to do something for Mitch, to prove to him that she was fine.

She’d better call Shane. So he wouldn’t come over and be disappointed they weren’t here.

It went directly to voice mail. Again. “Hi. It’s me. I hope the interview went well. I mean... I’m sure it did. I’m sure you were great.” She stopped. Inhaled deeply then blew it out as quietly as possible, strolling to the other side of the yard. “I wasn’t sure what time you planned on coming over, but the boys and I are going to City Creamery after school. Why don’t you meet us there? The boys would love to see you. You can call me back if you get time or just meet us. Whichever is easier. Okay? ’Bye.”

She clicked off before realizing he might not know what time Elijah got out of school. Ugh. She lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged, holding her head in both hands. Should she call him back? Send him a text?

No. She’d bothered him enough. He hated it when she was too persistent. When she didn’t give him enough space. He’d call her back or show up here. So she’d wait.

She’d waited for him for three years. She could wait a few more hours.

This time she and Shane were going to work. They’d both made mistakes, yes, but they’d also grown and learned from those mistakes.

After making sure Mitch was still occupied, she shifted around to kneel on the grass. The sun warmed her face and arms, and she shut her eyes. Focused on that warmth, that light. Imagined absorbing it into her skin, her body glowing as the rays shot out of her fingers and toes.

She smiled at the fanciful thought. Pressed her palms against her jeans, her body relaxing. Her mind quiet, if only for a moment.

A shadow briefly blocked the sun. Her scalp prickled with apprehension. She was being watched.

Guess that moment was up.

She turned her head to the side as she opened her eyes but Mitchell was still happily occupied, his back to her. She caught movement to her right and noticed a man walking up the sidewalk, the sun behind him, his features undistinguishable from her vantage point.

Scrambling to her feet, she ducked her head to hide her blush, pretending great interest in slapping at the soil on her clothes.

Though they weren’t expecting any guests today, they did, at times, get a walk-in, so she lifted her head and smiled as he approached, then felt that smile slipping.

Dark. That was her first impression. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt clung to broad shoulders, a wide chest. Dark hair that reached his collar, the ends lifting in the breeze. A dark, full beard, just beyond the point of trimmed and heading into scraggly. Dark eyes surrounded by thick, sooty lashes, the lids heavy.

Eyes she couldn’t look away from. Eyes that seemed to assess—and dismiss—her before he even blinked.

She shivered. Hugged herself.

Dangerous.

Not exactly the most reassuring—or kind—assessment, but there it was, born of some inner knowledge she hadn’t even realized she possessed.

Which was ridiculous. She could hardly claim to know whether he was dangerous or not based on being in his company for a few seconds. Just because he had a hard expression, hooded eyes and was in serious need of some professional grooming didn’t mean he wasn’t a perfectly nice man.

And no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that, some primitive, maternal instinct had her glancing at her son to make sure he was safe. Had her edging to the side, putting her body between Mitchell and the stranger coming toward her.

The man turned, too, his hard gaze flicking behind her to see who she was protecting. Beneath the beard his face was lean, almost gaunt, his complexion sallow, as if he’d recently been sick. It was then she noticed the scars, pink and angry looking, along his temple and high on his cheek.

It was then that she noticed the empty sleeve on his right side.

She jerked her gaze back up to his face as he reached her. Cursed the fairness of her skin, knowing her blush was not only visible but probably neon bright.

“Hello,” she said, trying that smile again. He nodded. She waited a moment, but that gesture seemed to be his response, so she forged ahead. “May I help you?”

“Is this Bradford House?” he asked.

“It is.”

“I’m looking for a room.” He paused, his expression tightening. “One that’s accessible.”

She stared at him blankly, trying to figure out why his deep voice tugged at her subconscious, the cadence and the way he said Brad-ferd instead of Brad-ford strangely familiar. “They’re all accessible.”

How else would people get in and out of them?

He looked at her sharply, as if she was a few petals short of a full bloom. But it wasn’t until he set a large duffel bag on the sidewalk, the movement causing him to wince and fight to remain balanced, that realization dawned.

She really was as dim as everyone thought.

He hadn’t just lost an arm and suffered injuries to his face, he’d hurt his leg, as well.

“You mean handicap accessible?” she blurted out.

Another nod, this one short and sharp. “Do you have one available?”

His words were clipped. A challenge. As if she’d refuse him.

She wanted to. She wanted to tell him they were fully booked, recommend King’s Crossing or the Holiday Inn.

The thought shook her. Shamed her. Refusing to rent him a room was illegal. Not to mention immoral and hateful.

But her wanting to turn him away had nothing to do with his physical disabilities and everything to do with her instincts. They were shouting at her, begging her to please, for once, listen to them. To trust them. To believe them when they said that while the man before her might not be a con artist, thief or murderer, she still had to protect herself from him.

Dangerous.

Thank goodness she always followed her heart and not her gut. Or her head.

The breeze picked up, blew her hair into her face. A strand stuck to the gloss on her lips and she hooked it with her pinkie, pulled it aside. “We have a room on the first floor that should work for you.”

It had been her idea, she thought with no little amount of pride, to add a handicapped-accessible room off the library. And just in time, it seemed, as the addition had been completed only a few weeks ago.

“Mama!” Mitchell called, racing over to her, his hands black with dirt, his clothes covered in it. He grabbed her hand, started tugging. “Mama, come look. I’m done!”

She stumbled, caught herself. How someone so small could be so strong was beyond her. “Just a minute, honey. Mama’s talking to someone right now.”

Mitch sidled closer and wrapped his arm around her leg above her knee. Then he lifted his head to take in the stranger.

And burst into tears.

* * *

HE’D FLOWN HALFWAY across the country, almost fell on his ass in front of a bar full of people, humiliated himself by begging for a job and made a kid cry.

Yeah. He’d say his day was now complete.

Zach scratched the underside of his jaw. The beard itched like hell, but at least it hid the scars scattered across the side of his neck and jaw. Not that he’d grown it for vanity. He just hadn’t mastered using a razor with his left hand, and as much as his life might suck, he wasn’t so bad off that the idea of slicing his own neck held any appeal.

The kid sent up a high-pitched wail that probably had every dog in the neighborhood cowering. He pressed his face against the woman’s leg, his little body shaking.

Christ.

The woman knelt, said something to the kid—her son, if the resemblance was anything to go by—who quieted for a moment. Until he glanced at Zach again and cried louder than before. Kid had some pipes, Zach would give him that.

“Maybe I should go,” Zach said.

Color washed up the woman’s neck into her face, the red contrasting with her strawberry blond hair. “No, no. Please. I’m really sorry for this. Just...give me a moment.” She picked up the boy. Zach was surprised she could lift him when it looked like a stiff breeze would knock her over.

“It’s okay,” the blonde murmured, and he could have sworn she was talking to him as well as the kid. “Everything will be all right.”

The thought irritated him. He didn’t need her reassurance, didn’t need anyone spouting off about how he should look on the bright side and be hopeful for the future. He needed a damn room.

And she wasn’t doing her kid any favors, either, lying to him. How did she know everything would be all right?

She pressed a kiss against the side of the boy’s head and jiggled him the same way he’d seen his aunts, cousins, mom and grandmother do with the countless babies and kids in his family. As if bouncing the hell out of them would impart some comfort or maybe shake some sense into someone who couldn’t even tie their own shoes.

Then again, he was having some difficulty with that task himself. Maybe his mother was right about not casting stones.

The kid clung to the woman, his pudgy arms around her neck, all but squeezing the life from her. At least the jiggling and murmuring were working. His cries quieted. Though they didn’t stop.

She sent Zach a tight, embarrassed smile over the kid’s head as she rubbed the child’s back. “I’m so sorry. Really. Let me just get him settled down,” she continued, walking backward. “It’ll only take a minute. You can wait in the entryway if you’d like.” She turned, took a step then paused long enough to look at Zach over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

And she took off, speed walking down the sidewalk then jogging up the porch steps before disappearing into the house—hotel...bed-and-breakfast...whatever—leaving the door open behind her.

Leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

He started to rock back on his heels only to remember that wasn’t such a good idea given the pain in his leg, the unsteadiness of his muscles. The walk from O’Riley’s to here hadn’t helped, nor had carrying his duffel, which all went back to not having a choice.

His current life motto.

There used to be a time when he could run for miles at top speed in full combat gear with fifty pounds of supplies, weapons and ammunition on his back.

Now he could barely make it a mile carrying what little clothes he owned, his toothbrush and a few personal items.

New normal.

Leaning to the left, he picked up his duffel. His head swam. Ached. Nausea rose, but he swallowed it down. Headaches were just one of the lingering effects of the severe concussion he’d suffered during the blast that had taken his arm and leg.

He needed to sit down, preferably someplace dark and quiet. He stared at the doorway. No sign of the blonde. She expected him to follow her, to wait while she tried to convince her kid Zach wasn’t some monster. Good luck with that.

He turned slowly, started back toward the street. Tidy houses with lush, thick lawns lined the road. Birds chirped. A dog barked.

He never should have come up the walk, never should have spoken to the blonde. As soon as he’d seen Bradford House, he’d known it wasn’t for him. The Victorian was too cute, with its tall windows, huge wraparound front porch and neatly trimmed lawn.

A place where couples came for romantic weekend getaways. Where groups of women stayed when they ditched the men in their lives. Somewhere for people who wanted to be charmed by the manager, who wanted to sit with other travelers, chat, learn about their lives.

It was not a place for someone who spent most nights wide awake, watching TV or limping around his room, avoiding sleep and the nightmares that came with it. Someone who only wanted to be left alone.

Bradford House wasn’t for him.

The kid had known that right off.

He’d noticed the boy first—hard to miss that beacon of bright hair. The kid had been digging in a pot of dirt, flowers at his feet, his hands filthy, his clothes stained as he talked a mile a minute to no one, his joy obvious.

Then Zach had caught sight of the woman and he’d just...stopped. Froze right there on the sidewalk, his heart slamming in his chest, his mind hazy. She’d sat back on her heels, her hands tucked primly on her bent knees, her head turned up to the sun, a small smile playing on her mouth.

That dreamy smile had captured him. She’d seemed so peaceful, the bright sun catching the fiery strands of gold in her hair, her expression soft. She seemed to glow, to have been lit from inside, her pale skin almost translucent. He’d started moving toward her before he’d even fully realized his intent, drawn to that warmth, that sense of serenity. Longing for a way to somehow bask with her in that peace.

Except when he moved, he’d blocked her light, casting her in shadow. Touching her with darkness. She’d frowned, but that had been nothing compared to the unease in her eyes when she’d first seen him. The vulnerability.