Operation Soldier Next Door

He was a little surprised he’d said so much. Normally he would have said, “Just a dog I knew,” or some such. But nothing seemed to be normal just now, him least of all.

“Dogs are amazing, aren’t they? They give so much and ask so little.” Her voice was soft, her tone utterly genuine and more than a little awed. Exactly how he felt when he thought of Sunny and what she had done. “She wasn’t hurt, was she?”

He liked the urgency in her question, the concern for an animal she didn’t know and never would.

“No. She got clear.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s still there.”

He didn’t add that because of that, anything could happen; he could see that Lacy got it.

“You miss her,” she said, still in that soft tone.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It must be a bond like no other.”

Yes, she got it all right. “Yes,” he repeated, unable to think of anything to add. Then abruptly he remembered what he hadn’t said. “And thank you. For the food. When I cook, it usually requires a meat identifier.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome. But...a what?”

“You know. Potatoes mean beef. Applesauce says pork chops. Cranberry says it’s turkey. Otherwise you can never tell.”

She laughed, seemingly delighted by the old, corny military joke. But at that point he was out of things to say and was grateful when his cell phone rang, ending this silence that he thought should feel awkward, but oddly didn’t.

To his surprise, it was the county arson investigator.

“Foxworth has even more pull than I realized,” the woman said when he asked. “We got the report back from the federal lab just now. I didn’t expect it for days yet.”

Somehow he wasn’t surprised. Quinn Foxworth had that air about him, not just of confidence and authority, but genuine power, the power to get things done.

“And?” he asked.

“You want the whole thing or the bottom line?”

“Bottom line, please. I probably wouldn’t understand the rest.”

“No leak. The valve on the bottom tank was open.”

Tate opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. He had no proof, but he knew. Gramps would never, ever do that. He was meticulous, always had been, and age hadn’t changed him. Besides, Tate would have smelled it. He’d had the window open, and it was right beside the shed. And there was no mistaking the purposefully distinctive odor of propane.

“So what does that mean?” he asked.

“It’s early yet, but if I had to guess...”

“Please guess. I won’t hold you to it.”

“The tank that blew is pretty scorched on the bottom.”

Tate got there quickly. “So you think the lower tank valve got opened somehow, the leak got ignited somehow and the extreme heat from that fire blew the tank stacked on top of it?”

“That’s the theory, yes. There’s some additional recovered material we have yet to identify, but right now...”

That was a lot of somehows, Tate thought. But he said only, “So...a freak accident?”

“Sorry, I can’t say. That determination hasn’t been made yet. I’m only calling now because Brett Dunbar asked me to let you know something ASAP.”

It took him a moment to place the name. And after the call had ended he shook his head at the oddity of having a man he’d never met intercede for him at the request of a neighbor he’d met less than a day and half ago.

Yes, there was a lot to be said for this small-town stuff. And people—and dogs—named Foxworth.

Maybe even girls next door.

Chapter 7

It was the dog again.

Tate scowled. Counting the first night, this was the fifth time in the last two days the dog had shown up. It was as if the dog made rounds, and he’d added Tate to the list. And each time he was followed by his people, one or the other or sometimes both. They seemed remarkably unperturbed at having to retrieve their pet so often.

But this time he’d made it into the house, through the patio sliding door that Tate had left open while he carried out debris he’d found thrown into other areas of the house. Even more irritating, he was in the kitchen. Sitting in that same alert way Tate had seen before.

At first he thought the dog was expecting a dog biscuit or some kind of treat. But then he realized the dog wasn’t just sitting, he was staring. As Sunny had, when something was wrong with the familiar landscape around her. Intent, undistractable, until something was done about the offending intrusion. Once it had been a visiting general, who landed high on the “don’t like this” scale. Once it had been a new video game with lots of loud car noises that somebody had brought into the mess tent. The last time he’d seen it had been a celebrity visitor she had pointedly turned her back on.

Tate shook off the memories, telling himself to focus on how he was going to get this dog out of here. It didn’t seem wise to grab a sizable dog he barely knew and try to drag him out. Something had him fascinated, and—

The pot.

He realized suddenly that the dog was staring at Lacy Steele’s cooking pot. Or whatever it was. That kind of big, tall pot had a name; his grandmother’d had one, but he couldn’t remember what she’d called it. He’d finished the stew last night—and it had been as good as it had smelled—and had thoroughly washed the pot when he’d finished. And there on the counter it had been ever since, because he couldn’t quite work himself up to taking it back to her.

“It’s empty, dog,” he said sourly.

Cutter glanced at him then, and Tate had the strangest feeling that had he been human, it would have been the equivalent of “Well, duh.” Maybe it was because obviously the dog’s nose would have told him that.

But he went back to staring at the pot, anyway. Only now he started glancing at Tate every few seconds, expectantly.

“What is it you want?” he asked after the third time through the cycle. “You know it’s empty. And you can’t possibly know it doesn’t belong here.”

Or maybe he did know, Tate thought suddenly. And almost on the thought, the person to ask knocked on his front door.

“Morning, Tate. I’m assuming my errant dog is here again?” Hayley Foxworth asked cheerfully as he opened the door. She was in running clothes, with her hair tucked up into a Seahawks cap. Her green eyes were bright, as if reflecting her mood. Or maybe the green on the cap.

“Leash?” he suggested wryly, then regretted it; he wanted to ask her something, not make her mad. At least her husband wasn’t with her to give him that warning look again if he didn’t like the way Tate spoke to his wife. And the man was impressive enough that Tate knew a fight would be a real one. Quinn Foxworth wasn’t someone to trifle with. He was the kind of man you wanted on your side, and the kind you dreaded to come up against.

“Wouldn’t do any good,” Hayley said, her cheerful tone unchanged. “He’s on a mission, and he’ll find a way.”

“A mission?” Tate repeated, diverted for the moment. “What mission?”

“You,” the woman answered simply.

Tate blinked. “Me?”

“Whatever your problem is.”

“My problem,” he said, speaking carefully, “is a dog who keeps showing up and interrupting what I’m trying to get done.”

“Maybe you should put him to work.”

“What?”

She smiled, and it matched her tone. Quinn Foxworth, Tate thought, was a lucky guy.

“He knows a hammer from a screwdriver from a wrench, and he’s happy to fetch and carry.”

He blinked. Again. “You’re saying if I tell him to bring me a hammer out of a pile of tools—”

“He will. Helpful if you need to nail something you can’t let go of.” As if she hadn’t just boggled him she went on in that same jovial tone. “So where is the lad?”

“In the kitchen. Staring at a pot. An empty pot,” he added, to explain how odd it was.

“Hmm” was all she said.

“He must hear you out here,” Tate said, truly puzzled now. “Why hasn’t he come out?”

“Told you. Dog on a mission.”

“So you said. But I don’t have a problem. At least, not one he can fix.”

She laughed. “You might be surprised. But I’ll go get him, if it’s all right?”

Smothering a sigh, he nodded. When she hesitated and he realized she didn’t know, he pointed toward the kitchen and remembered what he’d wanted to ask in the first place.

“Has he been here before?” he asked as he followed her into the room where the dog’s tail wagged happily, but he didn’t move from his selected spot. “Before the explosion, I mean.”

“Not that I know of.”

“So he didn’t...know my grandfather?”

“I don’t think so,” Hayley said, an understanding look dawning on her face. “Nope, it’s all you.”

Tate wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Or the knowledge that his theory that the dog kept showing up here because he was looking for Gramps had just been shot down.

“So, that’s the pot?” she asked, looking at it where it sat innocently on the counter.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t fit with the rest,” she said with a glance at the overhead rack his grandmother had so loved, but that he was seriously considering taking out now that he’d banged his head on the low-flying skillet once too often.

“No.” She just looked at him, waiting. You and your dog, he thought, his mouth quirking. Finally he gave in. “It belongs next door.”

“Ah. Your charming neighbor.”

When she wasn’t sniping at him for his bad manners, Tate thought. Rightfully so, his conscience nudged.

“He probably wants you to take it back to her, then.”

For a third time Tate blinked, this time long and slow, and with a shake of his head.

“Dog,” he said—unnecessarily, he thought.

“Yes,” Hayley agreed. “And I would have thought you, of all people, would realize some dogs are different than your run-of-the-mill house pet.”

She had him there. And, judging by her expression, she knew it.

He was saved from trying to answer by yet another knock on the door. He stifled a grimace.

“Grand Central Station here this morning, huh?” Hayley said with a grin.

“Seems like,” he muttered, and wasn’t really surprised when he opened the door and found his charming neighbor on the porch.

“Sorry to bother you,” she began.

“That ship already sailed this morning,” he said, gesturing at the dog, who had suddenly abandoned his obsession and had come trotting happily out to greet the clearly very welcome Lacy Steele. As if the dog lived here, and not him, Tate thought wryly.

“Well, hello there, furry one,” Lacy said, reaching to pet the dog then scratch behind his ears. Cutter sighed happily and leaned in as Lacy looked up and smiled at Tate. He was still taken aback at the jolt that had given him when she looked past him and said, “And you, too,” telling him Hayley had followed her dog out of the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Hayley said. “I’m here to retrieve my dog. Again. Before Tate’s patience runs out.”

“Might be a bit late on that,” Lacy said, without looking at him.

“I got that feeling,” Hayley agreed.

“He’ll get over it. Nobody could stay mad at this sweetie.”

“Unless they’re really mad at something else.”

“Standing right here,” Tate pointed out, feeling a bit aggrieved.

“So you are,” Lacy said. She sounded as cheerful as Hayley had. None of them—including the dog—had any qualms about intruding or interrupting, obviously. “And speaking of retrieving, I need to retrieve my stockpot, if you’re done with it.”

“Stockpot,” he repeated, the memory coming back now.

“The pot the stew was in?” she explained.

“I know, I just couldn’t remember what it was called. I don’t cook much.”

“Well, I do, and I need it for spaghetti sauce tonight. My tomatoes aren’t ready yet so I had to buy some, but I’ve got some other veggies I need to use up.”

“That garden looks like you’d have enough to feed my entire squad.”

“Invite ’em over,” she said.

She was kidding, of course, but as he looked at her serene expression he had the oddest feeling that if he did just that, she would welcome them. And deal with the influx graciously and feed them well.

“I’ll leave you two to it, then.” Hayley glanced at her dog, who had inexplicably given up his fascination with the stockpot and was at the front door, clearly ready to leave, and added, “Since it appears his work here is done for the moment.”

Tate’s brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean? But before he could ask, both woman and dog were out the door and headed home at a steady run.

“Seems you’re making friends in the neighborhood whether you like it or not,” Lacy said when they’d gone out of sight.

That stung, although not as much as her manners comment. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

“Just saying you don’t go out of your way to be welcoming.”

“Doesn’t seem like I have to, with everybody showing up, anyway.” What was it about this woman that had him snapping like this? Maybe he wasn’t an easy charmer like Cav, but he’d never turned into a grouch at the sight of a beautiful woman. And Lacy Steele was certainly that, as his body kept reminding him. He sucked in a breath, willing himself to speak evenly. “Look, I only meant I thought it would be...slower here. Small-town slow. And I thought I’d left stuff like middle-of-the-night explosions behind for good.”

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “Of course, you’re right. And you have every right.”

Her instant contriteness, so obviously sincere, made him feel even worse. As if he’d somehow traded on his service to get out of a situation his own rusty social skills had gotten him into.

“I’ll get the pot,” he said, turning to go to the kitchen before he could make things any worse. When he brought it back, feeling he had to say something, he handed it over with what he thought should be safe enough—a sincere, “The stew was great. Really. Thank you.”

The smile she gave him then made him forget the awkwardness, and all the irritation he’d been feeling over his disrupted morning. It did nothing, however, to remove that uncomfortable awareness that had him so edgy.

“You’re more than welcome. And if you like, I’ll save some spaghetti sauce for you. I always make a ton so I can freeze some for later.”

“I...”

“Just say ‘yes, thank you.’ It’s easier.”

He lowered his gaze and let out a rueful chuckle before echoing her suggestion. “Yes, thank you.”

Her smile widened. “All right then.” She looked around, her nose wrinkling. “That smoke smell is still pretty strong.” He nodded as she pointed out the obvious odor of burned materials. “It would give me a headache.”

It had, in fact, given him a headache the one time he’d tried to sleep in the house. Not to mention nightmares. “That’s why I’ve been sleeping out in the shop.”

She nodded in understanding. “Fresh paint’ll fix that when you get there.” She grinned at him, as if he were the friendliest guy in town. “Whole different kind of headache.”

He smiled back. He couldn’t seem to help it. It even lasted a second or two. It seemed enough for her, because she turned to go, stockpot in hand. Then she turned back.

“Anything more on your explosion?”

She’d been here when the lab had called, he remembered. As if he could forget. “No. I think they still suspect Gramps left the valve open.”

“Bull.”

She said it so bluntly he drew back slightly. She kept going, rather fiercely.

“One, Martin was sharp as a tack and would never forget something like that. Two, he was always aware and careful about propane in the first place, double-checking everything when he was done with the grill. Three, I’ve been around the back often, checking on the place, and I never once smelled even a trace of it. And the back corner of my garden is close enough, and I’m there often enough, I would have smelled it, anyway. It wasn’t leaking all this time.”

Halfway through her surprisingly impassioned declaration he was nodding. By the time she finished, he was nodding and smiling again as she echoed his own thoughts and reinforced his position.

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it from somewhere deep inside him, where his unfailing love for his grandfather resided.

“And I thought of something else last night,” she went on, clearly not done yet. “I never saw two tanks. In fact, a few times I took the one tank he had to get it refilled, to save him the trouble since we used his grill so often.”

Now, that he hadn’t known, Tate thought, feeling both gratified that she was echoing his confidence in Gramps, and sad that he hadn’t known. He should have spent more time with him. But he’d spent as much as he had. When he got enough leave to come home, it had been here he’d come, not the fancy, over-decorated house in So Cal where his parents lived.

“You don’t believe it, do you? That he was careless or forgot?”

She seemed as concerned as if he’d been her own grandfather. And Tate felt an odd kernel of a different kind of warmth finally blossom inside him.

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t.”

She smiled, seeming to be relieved. “Good. Because he wasn’t. And didn’t.” But then a frown creased her brow. She shifted the big, heavy pot in her arms. “But that leaves us with a big question.”

Us.

Funny how she assumed that kind of involvement.

Not at all funny how that simple, ordinary, two-letter word made his stomach knot up.

“A couple,” he said, trying to ignore the odd sensation. “Like where’d the second tank come from? And what really did bring on the explosion?”

“I was thinking more like—was it an accident at all?” she said, her tone grim.

Chapter 8

Lacy stirred the sauce, her nose telling her she had the blend close to right. She wondered if it needed a bit more basil, so she lifted out a tiny bit in the spoon. She blew on it to cool the hot sauce, then took a careful taste.

“Nope,” she said aloud, happy she’d hit the balance right off the bat. Everything had come together as planned, flavor and timing, and the afternoon-long project was done.

And this time she would put the portion for her neighbor in a storage container, one he could just throw away when he was done, since the pot had apparently caused too much trouble.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. He had his reasons for being less than sociable. He’d come here for peace and quiet and had gotten little of either so far. She would drop this off and then leave him alone. This would fulfill her ingrained instinct to help a neighbor—strengthened immeasurably by the fact that he was a wounded veteran—going through a rough patch.

Once the sauce was cooled, she portioned it out into containers, including one for next door, leaving some in the pot for her own dinner tonight. She limited her intake of her favorite pasta dish because it spiked the number on her scale if she went overboard. And although it would taste even better after it sat and the flavors mingled, the making of it had whetted her appetite and she couldn’t resist.

She’d just leave the sauce on his doorstep with a note, except she wasn’t sure how long it would take him to find it. So she would take it over, hand it off and leave quickly without bothering him too much.

She hoped.

And then she would spend what was left of this lovely, warm, late spring day in her garden, catching up on tasks she’d put off when the quiet had been so severely ruptured Monday morning. And tonight she would finish up her study plan for the book she had chosen for her newest student. After chatting online with the boy for nearly an hour last week, she’d picked a newly released story about a boy whose fascination with a world-building video game led him into a fantastical place where his game expertise had turned him into a hero. She had a good list of questions she hoped would result in her student reading more carefully, which would spark thoughts of his own.

When she stepped outside, the still-warm container in hand, she heard the whine of a power tool coming from the back of Martin’s house. His grandson was clearly determined to get the damage repaired quickly.

And just as determined, it seemed, to do most of it himself.

As she picked her way across the yard, she wondered if that was because he wanted to or couldn’t afford to do it otherwise. But he was surely going to have to have roofers and such come in, so perhaps that was where money was going. Martin had said he was leaving his grandson everything, including what money he had saved, but he couldn’t have foreseen anything like this. Either way, Tate clearly had no hesitation about diving in. It was clear he was used to tackling things himself, which she would have expected since he was—

Her breath jammed up in her throat as she rounded the corner of the house. He was there, all right, leaning into the damaged wall with some sort of long, narrow power saw, lit up by the afternoon sun shafting through the trees. And wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans, lace-up boots and a serious-looking black watch.

He hadn’t heard her over the sound of the saw so she had a chance to just look as she tried to regain her equilibrium. It made no sense, really; she’d certainly seen this much and more of him the night of the explosion when he’d been propelled outside in just boxers. But somehow it was different, seeing him like this, working, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin from the work and the warmth, the muscles of his arms and back and ridged abdomen all involved in the effort.

A sizable wood chip flew out from the cut he was making, and only then did she notice he also had on sunglasses, a wise bit of protection given that piece bounced off the side of his face. He barely flinched, she noticed. She probably would have dropped the saw on her foot and done untold damage, she thought wryly.

Stop gawking at him, she ordered silently. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, then started to walk forward again.

The sound of the saw stopped. His head snapped around at her first step. She noted the instant the tension faded as he saw her, recognized her. He put down the saw, reached down and picked something up from the ground. A T-shirt, she realized as he shook it free of chips and sawdust and pulled it over his head. A sight she regretted, even as her gaze lingered on his flat belly as he did so.

Stop it! she repeated to herself, embarrassed to think she had been staring at him so blatantly he felt the need to cover up. She hurried over, set the container down on the board set across two sawhorses, making a temporary workbench.

“Spaghetti sauce,” she reminded him. He looked at the large container, then back at her. “This way you can focus on repairs, not cooking.”

He hesitated, then said only, “Thank you.”

“How’s it coming?” Well, that was inane, she thought instantly, seeing all the detritus around after he’d taken down what was left of the lean-to shed.

“Slow. He built well.”

“Yes.” She tried again. “But if he hadn’t, the whole thing might have collapsed.”

He glanced at the huge hole. “Maybe,” he said. “It was quite a blast.”

“Better you than Martin.” His head snapped back, and realizing how that sounded she hastened to explain, “I only meant he would probably have been in the bedroom, and might not have been able to get out. He wasn’t moving quite as well the last few months.”

“Better me than him, in any case,” Tate said. And she could both see and hear that he meant it. He would take a lot worse than some cuts and a singeing if it would have protected his grandfather. Yes, Tate McLaughlin might be gruff and a bit surly, but there was much to admire about him.

An echo of the heat that had hit her when she’d come around that corner shot through her again at her own thought. She needed to change the subject, and fast. Or just turn tail and run. The latter appealed, but she’d never been much of a runner.

“I still don’t believe Martin left a valve open. He was never, ever careless. Especially with dangerous things.”