Christmas at Twilight (12 page)

Her face drained of blood, going ice-cold in an instant, and reflexively her hand flew to cup her nose, protecting herself. Caitlyn had tried to warn her, but she'd been lulled into a sense of complacency by how easy things had become between her and Hutch.

Idiot.

She wasn't going back to that dark place, to the foolish young woman she'd been who'd believed love could conquer all. She'd warned Hutch she wouldn't put up with any displays of anger and she meant it.

“Out!” she cried, pointing a finger toward the front door. “Get out of here!”

The look in Hutch's eyes was bone-deep remorse. Anguish carved deep the hollows of his cheeks. This man was sorry, but it was too late. At least he couldn't speak, couldn't talk back and try to wheedle his way out of banishment.

“Out,” she said again, her voice a stark whisper, her entire body quivering. “I mean it. Don't make me call the police.” That was a bluff. She couldn't afford to call the police and this was his house, but she had to make him believe that she would do it.

He nodded, picked up the Magic Slate that had fallen to the floor between them, and straightened, his face now devoid of any emotion. He held the tablet to his chest, lumbered away from her.

The children were standing in the doorway, eyes wide. Kimmie was sucking her thumb. Ben was crying.

“Where you goin', Unca Hutch?” Ben's voice was shrill.

Hutch did not look at her son, just skirted the children, headed toward the front door.

“Unca Hutch,” Kimmie shrieked, attaching herself to his leg. “Don't leave! Don't leave.”

Meredith's stomach pitched. Why did this have to happen in front of the children? As much as it hurt her to put the kids through this, she could not back down. After that fit of pique with the Magic Slate, she had no idea what Hutch was capable of, and she wasn't going to wait around to find out.

“Kimmie,” she said sternly. “Let go of your uncle. He needs to leave. He's not going away forever. He will be back to see you, but for right now, he needs to leave.”

Hutch stopped, detached Kimmie from his leg. Tears streamed down the little girl's face. He squatted in front of her, gently wiped the tears from her face with his thumbs. Nodded, smiled, kissed her forehead.

“You need to talk to someone,” Meredith said. “You can't do this on your own. You need professional help.”

His eyes said he wanted to challenge her. To tell her, she imagined, that it was damn hypocritical of her to point mental health fingers when she obviously had issues of her own.

He straightened. Dark shadows shrank his eyes into his head as if he were wasting away right in front of her. Meredith's stomach spasmed and she thought she might throw up. He turned to go.

The children trailed after him. He stopped once more. Shook his head sternly. Both kids were sobbing.

Moving stiff and slow, as if he were stricken with severe arthritis, Hutch took his coat and cap from the coatrack and trudged out the door.

J
ane had been completely right to kick him out of the house. It hurt, of course, leaving the children behind, but what if one of them had been standing in the way when he'd thrown the Magic Slate? Never mind that he hadn't meant to turn the writing tablet into a projectile, he'd done it.

And Jane had the courage to stick to her guns, even when Kimmie and Ben had become so distraught. He respected and admired her strength.

Aimlessly, he drove around town, berating himself for what he'd done. People smiled and waved as he passed, forcing him to smile and wave back. Twilight was too damn friendly for its own good.

Why had he slung that tablet? The way Jane had looked at him, terrified as a bunny rabbit in a den of snakes, slaughtered his soul. Someone had hurt her. Hurt her badly. No, not someone. A man. A man had hurt her. Beaten her.

A blind red hatred burned through him. He wanted to find the son of a bitch who'd hurt her and beat
him
until he begged for death.

Violence.

It had been part of his daily life for years. Killing. Bloodshed. He'd done it to protect his country. To keep Americans safe. But he wasn't living that life anymore. He had a new life, and now he was the threat to the ones he loved.

The enemy.

His stomach roiled and he had to pull over the truck and empty his stomach. He bent double, an animal moan rolling from his throat. He leaned against the truck, wiped his mouth, wiped his eyes with a sleeve.

This anguish he felt was about much more than the tablet incident. It was about the men who'd lost their lives on that desert ridge amid sheets of gunfire and rocket propelled grenades. It was about the finger that had been blown from his hand. The shrapnel that had embedded in his throat. It was about his sister and her madness and his inability to change any of it.

Hutch stared down at his hands. They were the hands of a killer. This was in his nature. The way he'd been trained. The Unit believed there were very few world problems that couldn't be solved with a well-placed bullet or a high explosive, and he'd bought into that mindset. He had no choice. It was part and parcel of being a counter-terrorist operative.

No wonder Jane had been terrified of him. He was capable of terrible things. But he would never ever intentionally hurt her or the kids. He'd take himself off the face of the earth first.

The scars on the backs of his knuckles were healing, but they were reminders of the anger he did not fully have under control. He'd been trying to stem his emotions on his own, but it wasn't working. Teamwork had been instilled into him from his first days at boot camp, all through Ranger training, to his schooling in The Unit. Instilled? Hardly. The concept that he was part of a team, and no longer an “I,” had been drilled home with the impact of a pile driver. Teamwork. Every other word he heard. Teamwork. Teamwork. Teamwork. Never go it alone.

He'd been trying to tackle this alone. That's where he'd been stumbling. That's why he'd failed. Teamwork. He'd lost his team, and with that loss, he'd forgotten the most basic military tenet. Teamwork.

He needed help.

Suddenly, he looked over and saw the Twilight Fire Department across the street from where he'd parked. His gaze traveled to the men loading toys into an enclosed trailer. Men he recognized. Hondo. Nate. Gideon.

The men who'd reached out to him.

Had his subconscious mind, desperately in need, driven him here?

They were loading the truck with toys that people had brought to the fire station for the annual Angel Tree distribution for needy families in Hood County.

Hondo stopped, met his eye. Nate stopped beside him. Then Gideon. They all raised a hand in greeting.

Gathering up his Magic Slate, his truck keys, and his shattered pride, Hutch crossed over to his salvation.

T
he children were inconsolable over Hutch's absence. For the entire weekend, they moped around the house, not even tempted by the game console when she told them they could play video games for thirty minutes.

Honestly, Meredith missed him too. She'd grown accustomed to having him there, not just for helping her take care of the children, but for the comfortable camaraderie they shared over household chores. She missed knowing there was a man in the house who could protect them. She missed the masculine smell of him and the way he looked at her as if she were something truly special.

Hutch was only human. He'd made a mistake, but she was leery. She'd been through too much to take chances. She'd set boundaries. Made it clear from the beginning what her rules were. He'd broken them, and she was well within her rights to throw him out.

He broke a rule when he touched you, danced with you, and that didn't bother you.

Okay, call her two-faced for enforcing the rules with negative consequences while letting rule violations with pleasant results slide.

How much of an anger issue did Hutch have? Could she in good conscience let him back into the house?

Was she painting him with a dark brush because of her experiences with Sloane? Was she being unfair or smart? Her mind, the useless thing, waffled.

“First Mommy goes away and now Unca Hutch.” Kimmie sighed mournfully as Meredith tucked her into bed beside her on Sunday night. “You won't go away too, will you, Auntie Jane?”

“Her name's Mommy,” Ben said from the other side of the bed.

“Can I call you Mommy too?” Kimmie asked. “At least till my mommy comes back.”

“Yes.” Meredith kissed the top of Kimmie's head.
Oh, Ashley, where in the hell are you?

After the children fell asleep, Meredith couldn't sleep. She got out of bed and tried to call Ashley, as she had several times a day since Ashley had taken off to Mexico. And as it had every time, the call went to voice mail.

“Hi, if you're someone good, leave a message,” said Ashley's gleeful recorded voice. “If not, you can go to hell.”

Meredith had heard that message a hundred times over the course of the last two weeks, and while she'd found it off-putting, it hadn't really dawned on her that this message showcased Ashley's personality disorder and the way that sufferers of the malady divided the world into good or bad, black or white, angel or devil. She couldn't help wondering if she had somehow crossed over Ashley's internal delineation from good to evil.

When the woman finally did decide to come home, she was going to talk to Hutch about staging an intervention. Clearly, his sister needed professional help, and Kimmie deserved to grow up with a mentally stable mother. Since Hutch had told her about Ashley's diagnosis, she'd done some research, and while therapy was expensive and intensive, if someone with the disorder was fully devoted to recovery, there
was
a chance she could beat it.

“Ashley,” she said. “This is Meredith. If you get this message, please, please, please call me.”

She hung up, feeling worse than she did before she called. Pacing the house, she wondered where Hutch was spending the night. She had overreacted. Making him pay for her troubled past.

Gnawing her thumbnail, she picked up her phone again and called Caitlyn Garza. Caitlyn answered on the third ring, just about the time Meredith had decided she was intruding and almost hung up.

“This is Mer—Jane Brown,” she finished quickly. “Did I wake you?”

“We have a toddler in the house.” Caitlyn laughed. “I'm rarely asleep. I was just putting a clean diaper on the baby and Gideon is at a veterans' support group meeting.”

“He still goes after all this time?”

“Oh, he's a group leader now. Helping other GIs in the same shape as he once was. Like your Hutch.”

He's not my Hutch
, Meredith started to protest, but let it go. “I wish Hutch would go to Gideon's support group.”

“He's there right now.” The other woman sounded surprised. “You didn't know?”

“No.”

“Oops. I hope I didn't give away something Hutch wanted to keep quiet. I just assumed he'd told you.”

Meredith said nothing for a long moment. How frank should she be?

“Are you still there?”

“I threw him out of the house,” Meredith confessed.

“Hutch? What did he do?”

“It's nothing like what happened with Gideon. In fact, I worried that I made a mountain out of a molehill.” Slowly, she told Caitlyn what had happened.

“You've had a bad experience with an abusive man before, haven't you?” Caitlyn ventured.

“How did you know?”

“I just got that vibe from you.”

She was giving off vibes? Meredith pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth. “So, was I out of line?”

“Did you feel threatened?”

Had she? “I didn't think Hutch was going to physically harm me. It was more like I had flashbacks to before, you know?”

“You could have some PTSD yourself.”

Yes. Dr. Lily had treated her for PTSD and she thought she'd gotten past it, but when Hutch had lost his temper, she'd been jettisoned right back to that day when Sloane hit her the first time.

“I didn't stay with him long,” Meredith said. “I want you to know I'm not a doormat.”

“I'm not judging.” Caitlyn's voice was gentle.

“I was naïve. I thought I could change him. I thought—”

“You don't have to justify yourself to me. Does Hutch know about this other man who hurt you?” Caitlyn asked.

“No,” Meredith admitted. “I can't believe I'm telling you all this.”

“It's okay,” Caitlyn assured her. “What you tell me goes no farther. I won't even bring it up with Gideon. Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“I had to talk to someone.”

It was true. She'd had no one to confide in since Sloane had murdered Dr. Lily. She'd been terrified to drag anyone else into her torment for fear they would suffer the same fate. But Caitlyn had been so sympathetic and she understood what was happening with Hutch.

“I'm flattered you chose me.”

They made a date to meet for coffee the following week and hung up.

So Hutch was attending a support group. That was good news. A step in the right direction. Meredith smiled, and hope filled her heart. He was getting help. She was happy for him. And Kimmie.

Her cell phone dinged as a new text message came through. Could it be from Ashley?

No, the text came from Hutch's phone.

It was a long text, meant to be a letter, but the server had broken it down into four text bubbles.

Dear Jane,

I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am for flinging the slate at the wall. I never intended to throw it that hard. I'm still adjusting to life without an index finger and having trouble gauging distance and how much force to use. But I won't make excuses. I was angry when I tossed that slate. Not at you. But at Ashley and at myself and I took it out on you. It was wrong, stupid, and immature, and you didn't deserve any of that grief. My anger hurt you, and for that I am deeply sorry.

It kills me to see you and the children unhappy because of my actions. When our arrangement began I promised I would not display anger in front of you and the children, and I failed to live up to that promise. I failed both of us.

I know an apology is not enough. Anyone can say they are sorry, but I want to make amends. I've taken the first steps to getting my anger under control. I've joined a support group of local veterans and even though I can't verbally share with them what I'm going through, I'm getting a lot out of the meetings.

I understand the gravity of the situation and I hope, for the sake of the children, that you can find it in your heart to forgive me and allow me to come back home. If you can't bring yourself to do that, I understand completely. You deserve to live in a peaceful, harmonious house. Please text me if you're willing to see me.

Hutch

She read the letter through twice. Sank down on the couch. Should she say no and keep him at arm's length? Or should she give him another chance? It was his house, after all. Legally, he could have her thrown out if he wanted.

For a long time, she just sat there, practicing a variety of controlled yoga breathing and getting in touch with her inner voice.

Finally, she picked up her cell phone and texted Hutch.

I'm taking the kids to see Santa on the square tomorrow at three. You can come along if you want.

N
ervous to the core, Hutch paced the town square, waiting for Jane to show up with the kids. To keep himself occupied, he got change for a ten-dollar bill at Ye Olde Book Nook and, pockets jingling, prowled the surrounding parking lots, feeding meters to benefit holiday shoppers, hoping to bring a smile to a few faces for the holidays.

By now, most everyone in town had heard that he'd lost his voice, so whenever someone stopped to say hello, the women would invariably touch him on the arm, while the men favored a light punch to his shoulder. The first thing out of their mouths was some version of “We heard what happened to your voice, we're so sorry for what happened to you over there. Thank you for your service. You're a true American hero.”

That last comment got him every time. He was no hero. In fact, he was the opposite of that. He was a killer. When he joined the military, he believed in shiny ideals of bravery, honor, and protecting his country from foreign invaders. It was only when his boots were on the ground in someone else's country he realized that
he
was the foreign invader. In the heat of battle, philosophical arguments vanished, and it was all about survival. Heroism didn't enter into it. Neither did honor or bravery. It was simply kill or be killed. Fact of life for anyone living in a war zone, no matter what side he was fighting for.

It was only later, when a fighter tried to integrate back into society, that the implications of his actions came back to haunt him. In Gideon's support group, he'd learned everyone felt the same way he did. That they weren't heroes, because they'd done bad things in order to survive. It was the psychological disconnect between how others saw them and how warriors saw themselves.