Battle for the Soldier's Heart (10 page)

Was she desperately holding on to this, her perfect evening? A
matched set. Her perfect day yesterday, her perfect evening tonight.

The thing about having achieved perfection? Did you ever want
to go back to just normal again? Ordinary? Could you? Or did you crave it now? A
person who had slept in silk sheets did not want to go back to burlap sacking
after all!

He studied her, and she had the horrible feeling he knew what
it had cost her to ask him, that a frightened fourteen-year-old waited for
rejection, a sneering laugh.

“Sure, I’ll play with you. Don’t give up yet, in
Serenity’s world, fashionably late could mean midnight.”

Suddenly playing a silly game, intended for children, seemed
ridiculous. He’d told her about his company. He wasn’t playing for
entertainment. He was rubbing shoulders with race-car drivers and the jet set.
He probably couldn’t wait to get out of here, was being held here by some sense
of obligation.

“You don’t have to stay, you can go.”

“Nah. I’ll stay.”

“Because you don’t want me to deal with Serenity by myself if
she does turn up?”

“Well, if she turns up at this time of night, you might want
someone around who can wrestle her truck keys from her.”

“That poor kid. Poor Tucker.”

“That’s why I’ll stay. Because you seem sad. It’s no fun being
sad by yourself.”

“No, really.”

“No, really. Haul out the game.”

Don’t,
she told herself. But she
did.

“I think you can play with two,” she said, getting her game off
the sideboard, and putting it on the kitchen island. The box was faded with age,
and all the corners were held together with tape that had turned dark yellow.
“But it’s more fun with four.”

“We’ll be two people each then. I’ll be Nasty Ned and Roaring
Rory and you be Goodie Two Shoes Grace and Sideswipe Sally.”

“I am not going to be Goodie Two Shoes!”

“Okay. You pick who you’re going to be.” He had already
retrieved the instructions and, after a quick skim, began setting up pieces.

“I’ll be Racy Gracie!”

“Good one. No stealing kisses from me, though.”

“That wasn’t really a kiss,” she said, flustered.

“It wasn’t? You could have fooled me. And I would have thought
I kind of knew a kiss when one was planted on my lips, but if you say it
wasn’t…”

She could feel the heat move up her face. “It was just a thank
you, for such a nice day.”

“Uh-huh. You be careful about thanking all the boys that way,
or you really will be Racy Gracie.”

“Oh!”

“What are we playing for, by the way?”

“You don’t play a game like this
for
anything. You just play it for fun.”

And this was fun for her, damn him. The light teasing, the
familiarity, his willingness to do something dumb.

“For fun?” He snorted. “Soldiers don’t play anything for fun.
They’ll bet a week’s wages on which spider is going to cross the room first.
There has to be something at stake.”

“What would you like to play for?”

“How about that teddy bear on the couch?”

“I got that out for Tucker. I don’t still have a teddy
bear.”

“Gracie, that kid is not a teddy-bear kind of kid. Or a
board-game kind of kid, either.”

“Well, you didn’t strike me as either of those things, either,
but here we are, playing a board game for my teddy bear.”

“I knew it was yours,” he said triumphantly.

“Well, maybe you’re not quite the tough guy you seem, either,
since you want to take him home.”

“It’s not really about the teddy bear. He must mean something
to you. So it would be fun to take it away.”

“That’s awful!”

“I know,” he said happily.

“So, what’s at stake for you? What am I going to take from you
when I win?”

He eyed her lips for a moment. “You choose.”

She eyed his lips for a moment. No, too dangerous. Akin to
playing strip poker. Over a board game. That would be degenerate!

She snapped her fingers. “The CD we listened to going up the
lake.”

“Ouch.”

“Perfect,” she purred happily.

“This has become a high-stakes game, Miss Day.”

“My favorite kind,” she said, and then they were both laughing
at the absurdity of her ever having played high-stakes anything.

She won three games in a row. With great grumbling he went and
retrieved his CD. It was now closing in on nine.

Time to send him home. Because something was happening to her
heart. She was realizing she could fall for this man so fast and so hard it
would make anything she had ever experienced before seem as lackluster as
porridge congealing in a pot.

“Can I listen to it one more time before I surrender it?” he
asked.

He couldn’t possibly think Serenity was still going to show,
but part of her was so hungry for more time with him that she didn’t care, she
threw caution to the wind.

She knew, after all, she had to walk away from this. For her
own self-preservation. Only yesterday he had told her in no uncertain terms what
he thought of relationships.

And she had agreed with him. But she might have been lying.
Even to herself. So, after tonight, she would keep her distance. She would.

But she felt like someone who loved chocolate being told they
could never have it again. Except for one last taste.

Who could resist that?

And so Grace made them milkshakes and they sat on the sofa,
side by side, listening to the CD.

He was so relaxed, sprawled out on her sofa. She had not been
aware of some finely held tension that was intrinsic to him until now that it
was gone.

It seemed to her the whole evening had been so filled with
simple things, and yet it had felt suffused with light.

She wanted to kiss him again.

She was pretty sure he wanted to kiss her, too.

She leaned toward him, and the tension was back in him.

“Don’t, Gracie. There’s things you need to know. About me.”

But she didn’t want to know those things if they would stop her
from wanting to kiss him, and she had the sense that that was why he wanted to
tell her. She wanted the barriers ripped down, he wanted them up.

“I need to tell you about Graham. When I’m done you’ll know who
I really am.”

Unspoken, she heard,
And you won’t like
it.

Strangely, when Rory had first contacted her, Grace had heard
this very moment coming.

She had thought she was not ready to hear what he had to say.
She had thought she would never be ready. That was why she had said,
I can’t see why we need to talk.

But suddenly she could see exactly why they needed to talk.
Suddenly, she was ready.

Somewhere, somehow, she had become less interested in
protecting herself. Somehow, more was being required of her. She needed to hear
what he had to say. To save them both.

* * *

Rory was silent for a long time. Finally, working past
the lump in his throat, he managed to say, “I was with him when he died.”

When he had contacted her when he got home, this is precisely
the conversation he had been determined to have. He wanted her to know he’d been
with her brother when he died. That he had not been alone. That he had not been
afraid. That Graham’s last thought had been of her.

Why was it so hard to do it, then?

Because he wasn’t expecting that moment—fear and chaos and
ultimately death—to be superimposed over this one—laughter, safety, feeling
relaxed.

Happy again.

And because all that—that Graham had not been alone or
afraid—was only part of the truth. The real truth was his failure, and she
needed to know that before they traded kisses.

She needed to know it all before she offered him her lips.

“I’m ready,” she said, and he saw the bravery in her and saw
that she was ready.

He closed his eyes. He could feel the heat and smell the dust.
And other smells. Garbage. Sewage. Death.

“It was a pretty ordinary day for over there. Too hot. We were
on patrol. It was average. You’re always alert, scanning, but none of the signs
were there.

“Then I saw these two teenage boys. I felt like something was
wrong, but I didn’t react right away. I’m not sure why. Maybe because it was so
hot. Maybe because they just seemed so young. Maybe because they hadn’t done
anything. It’s not as if they were reaching under their robes to pull out
submachine guns.

“But I knew something was off, and I didn’t react fast enough.
One of them glanced up, touched his nose. I guess it was a signal. And the next
thing I knew there were bullets flying everywhere.

“I ducked behind a wall. And I looked for Graham and was
shocked that he wasn’t right with me. He was always right with me. We always had
each other’s backs. Always. He was out there in the street. He’d already been
hit.

“I went and got him, dragged him back to cover. He was alive,
but it was already too late.”

He frowned. Just like in the dream, he knew there was a part of
this missing, a part his mind refused to remember. Important words.

But what could be more important to Grace than
the fact
she had been one of the last things on her
brother’s mind?

“I just wanted you to know that he wasn’t alone. That I was
there. And I wanted you to know that he wasn’t afraid. I wanted you to know his
last thoughts were of you. He wanted you to be okay.”

He glanced at her. She was crying.

“I’m so sorry, Grace.”

“No. I’m so glad you told me. I needed to know, even though I
was scared to find out. I needed to know that he wasn’t alone. I needed to know
he wasn’t afraid. And I know it will bring me great comfort that his last
thoughts were of me.”

She wasn’t getting it. He obviously had not been plain enough.
She seemed to be looking at him with a graver sense of connection instead of
less of one.

“Grace, I didn’t have his back. I failed him.”

It couldn’t be more plain than that.

The tears came harder. “Oh, Rory,” she whispered. “Don’t do
that to yourself. Please.”

Now, she was right over beside him, her arms were around him,
her warm tears were spilling down his chest.

“No,” she said. “I will not allow you to carry that burden one
step further. It was not your fault.”

“I saw the boys.”

“And what should you have done when you saw them? What should
you have done differently?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and it was a terrible admission, that
he did not know how he could have changed things. Even now, looking back, even
visiting it every night in his dreams, he did not know. He suspected he could
have done something.

And that he had failed to do it.

And that was the part that was missing from his dream and from
his memory.

And he hated that feeling more than any other.

And himself, for not knowing.

“I should have pushed Graham out of the way. I should have been
the one who took it. Jesus, Gracie, why not me, instead of him? Your whole
family torn apart. I don’t have a family to be torn apart.”

This was going all wrong. All wrong.

He had planned for this to be his secret weapon. His way to
stop the growing attraction between them.

He was the man responsible for her brother’s death. That should
make her pull away and fast.

But the effect seemed to be the exact opposite.

She was doing what he had never been able to do. She was
forgiving him. She was accepting that he was just a man who had not been able to
stop the unfolding of destiny.

She was scanning his face.

“You’re not really doing okay, are you?”

Why was it that she could see that? Everyone else, even his
brother, thought he was the successful businessman. They didn’t know he was
running.

And he didn’t want her to know, either. He didn’t want to
burden her.

And yet, he could not stop himself, he could not hold the words
back.

“I have dreams. In every single dream I am responsible.”

“How often do you have those dreams?” Her voice was so soft,
and the tenderness in her eyes was making him
want
to tell her. Why? What earthly good could come from sharing this terrible burden
with her?

“I have them every night,” he said. “Sometimes half a dozen
times a night.”

“So, what are they telling you that you won’t admit during the
day?” she asked.

He closed his eyes. He recognized the million-dollar question
when he heard it. He made one last desperate effort to make her understand.

“I know it’s my fault,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We looked
out for each other. I let him down. I let him die.”

He waited for her to say something patronizing that he could
hate her for, that would allow him to rebuild this wall that had tumbled down.
He waited for her to say something about survivor’s guilt and it wasn’t his
fault at all.

She didn’t say anything. He dared to look at her, and saw the
tears still sliding down her face.

Only now, they were not for her brother.

They were for him.

It felt as if she was reaching inside him and taking the pain.
Sharing it. Understanding it. It wasn’t pity.

It was compassion so pure that it stole his breath and what was
left of his strength.

He reached for her, took her wrists, marveled at their delicacy
and pulled her into his chest. She came to him easily, and he rested his chin on
the top of her head, and felt her surrender, melting into him like warm
putty.

He breathed in her scent and held her.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” she asked after a
long, long time.

“Right now I am,” he said, and was surprised how much he meant
it. “Right now I am.”

She thought about it, changed her position so she could tilt
her head up and look at him. “Me, too,” she decided.