Thunder Running (9 page)

When they finally made it to bed she drew him toward her, kissed him deeply and lingeringly, guided him into her body with a tenderness that made his heart ache. He stroked slowly, studied every minute change in her expression, watched her face crumple and tighten as she cried out, arching beneath him and squeezing his shoulders. As the tide of his own climax swept over him he worried it might wash out his whole being, his thoughts, his breath, that there may be nothing left when this passion receded.

The hole was bigger than ever when his vision came back into focus, but he realized that it was up to him to start pulling it closed. Tara was nestled in his embrace, her cheek on his shoulder, and he brought his lips to her forehead.

“I'm falling in love with you,” he whispered.

She shifted in his grip. He felt her draw breath to speak, then stop, then exhale in indecision.

“You know what? Forget what I just said. I love you, Tara. I'm there. It's done. And the weird thing is, I think I've loved you since I met you. Right from that moment you smiled at me in the bar. I knew even then, I'm gonna love this girl.”

“So why did you leave me?”

Her voice was choked with emotion, and he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by regret. He clutched her more tightly, pinning her against his side.

“Because I'm an idiot, okay? You were sleeping, looking so peaceful and pretty, and I panicked. You barely knew me, you couldn't know what army life was like, and I'd gone and tied you to it. I thought you deserved better than an unstable grunt like me and I took off. It was cowardly, and it was a mistake. I'm sorry.”

She propped herself up on his chest, big eyes boring into him. “You were wrong, you know. If one of us has lucked out in all this, it's me.”

“I don't know about that. But for some reason you seem intent on sticking with my crazy ass.”

She grinned, lifting a shoulder. “I like crazy.”

“And I love you.”

Her face darkened, and he put a finger on her lips. “I know it's hard. Say it when you're ready. I'll wait.”

Her smile was relieved. She dropped back into his arms, folding her hands under her cheek. “Thanks, Chance.”

“No problem, sugar.” He closed his eyes and settled back on the pillows, trying to still his whirring thoughts and enjoy the warm pressure of her body on his.

Instead his brain kept repeating,
Please say it before I leave. Don't let me go off to war without knowing you love me. Don't let me die without hearing it.

Chapter Eight

Tara's mouth dropped open as four Civil War re-enactors rode past on big, black horses.

“Those animals are huge! How do they control 'em? What if they decide to run off?”

Grady squinted at her over the blond head of his girlfriend, Laurel Hayes, whose back was pressed against his chest in an effort to mitigate the biting November chill. “Ain't you ever seen a horse before? I thought you were from the country.”

“I'm from a trailer park in the country,” she corrected. “Big difference.”

“Those are the draught horses Woody Matthews breeds out on his farm. They are bigger than most,” Laurel clarified, making Tara doubly glad Chance had organized for her to meet up with them to watch the Veterans' Day Parade along Meridian's Main Street. At first she was so intimidated by Laurel's fancy, rich-person way of speaking that she could barely get a word out, but it didn't take long for her to realize that this upper-class doctor was as kind and gracious as anyone she'd met.

“When's your husband making his big appearance?” Grady asked.

Tara shrugged. “They asked a handful of troops to march with the elementary schools. I don't know why they picked him. He insists it's because he's so good-looking, but I told 'em they probably want a medic on hand in case one of the kids falls and splits their chin open.”

“Maybe they're hoping his outstanding navigational skills will come in handy if they lose the route,” Laurel speculated playfully.

Grady shook his head. “Shouldn't let that man near children. Bad influence.”

“Don't worry, I took his flask off him before he left the house.” A ragtag group of schoolchildren appeared at the end of the street and Tara's heart leapt at the familiar figure towering over them. “There he is!”

She started waving long before he could possibly see her, the mere sight of him flooding her with brimming affection. These last ten days with him had been the happiest of her life. They laughed together, ate together, made love until they were exhausted every night. She'd never felt so cherished and accepted, and now that she'd traded her harebrained attempts to be some outdated version of a cookie-cutter army wife for lunchtime bartending shifts at a popular high-end restaurant, she finally felt like she was living her own new life instead of just hanging onto his. She loved seeing him off in the morning, loved spending the afternoons serving vodka martinis to Meridian's business elite, loved meeting him back at the house for a kiss on the doorstep.

She loved him.

She just couldn't seem to tell him.

She tried. She tried almost every day, in fact. She beamed at him over breakfast, the words swelling through her chest, into her throat and materializing on her tongue, but as soon as he raised a brow and asked what she wanted to say they were gone, retreating back down her gullet, burying themselves deep in her heart.

She tried to toss them out casually, in the middle of two other sentences about the odd noise the refrigerator was making, hoping but failing to catch herself by surprise. She tried to say them so quietly her fearful mouth wouldn't notice, then so loudly it couldn't stop them, but it didn't work.

She tried hardest to say them at night, when Chance was buried deep inside her, their passion stripping away everything that lay between them. Those were the times he looked at her with such trembling vulnerability, such earnest hopefulness that she knew he wanted nothing more than to hear her say she loved him.

She couldn't do it.

But I will
, she resolved, waving harder as Chance approached.
I'll tell him tonight. I have to
—
it's my last chance.

Flanked by children holding either end of a banner announcing that Oliver Brown Elementary School thanked veterans for their service, Chance looked like a wholesome, all-American hero in his ACUs and beret. The soldiers marching with the other two elementary schools were black and female, respectively, and she understood why they'd asked Chance to join the parade. With that big smile and those perfect features, he was every publicist's dream.

Her smile broadened as she thought about the hot, nasty things he whispered in her ear when they made love. If they only knew.

“Change step, march, McKinley!” Grady hollered, drawing Chance's attention. He glanced their way with a grin and a wave, and winked at Tara as he filed past with thirty-odd schoolchildren trailing behind him.

Grady turned to her once he was out of earshot. “When does he leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

The convivial atmosphere popped like a balloon. All three of them stood in silence for several minutes, watching the parade but not seeing it.

“Laurel's heading off on a medical aid mission to Sierra Leone for six weeks after Christmas,” Grady said finally. “We can have ourselves a little lonely hearts' club, you and I. Sit on the tailgate, drink beer and miss our other halves.”

“I might just take you up on that.” Representatives from Meridian's VFW marched past them wearing an array of medals earned over seventy years of American war. The oldest veteran was pushed in a wheelchair. The youngest wasn't quite her age.

“Do you miss it?” she asked Grady.

“I don't know. I never heard the call of duty quite as loudly as McKinley does.” His eyes were glassy and distant, and she wondered what he was reliving. “Yeah, I do miss it sometimes. I miss the energy, the excitement. Mostly I miss my friends. Our brotherhood, born in battle. Anyway.” He smiled bashfully, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That story's ended for me. Time to write a new one.”

“Trey tuned up the Challenger so you shouldn't have any trouble with it. The battery's relatively new, there's plenty of tread on the tires, and I've got an automatic payment schedule set up for the insurance. If anything goes wrong, call Trey. He knows that car almost as well as I do.”

Chance paused in his pacing across the living room floor to consult his handwritten checklist. “Next, documents. Everything's in the big red binder on the shelf. Lease for the house, bank accounts, car title, marriage license, and I wrote my social security number on a Post-it in the inside cover in case you need it at a moment's notice.”

He drew a line through that item on the paper, then hesitated before moving. Tara drew her knees up to her chest on the couch, dread filling her chest. She couldn't imagine what else was coming.

“There's something else in the binder that I haven't shown you yet. It's a power of attorney form, naming you as my agent. I got it notarized yesterday, so it's all official.”

“What does being your agent mean?”

“You can access my bank accounts, write checks with my name, do pretty much anything on my behalf.” He shifted his weight. “And if anything happens to me, it gives you the power to make decisions about my care. So if I were to—”

“Stop. I get it.” She waved him on, reeling from words so powerful they didn't need to be said. Like traumatic brain injury. Or coma. Or do-not-resuscitate.

For a second he looked stung, but he continued so quickly she didn't have a chance to analyze why. “We've been over all the household stuff. We changed a fuse, we talked about the septic tank, we replaced that light bulb in the bathroom. I know Fort Preston has some kind of handyman service for deployed soldiers' spouses, I think it's three free hours, so you can save up the tasks you need doing—gutters, painting, whatever—and get them to come around and do it. And if anything goes seriously wrong, call Grady. He's the most useful son of a bitch I've ever met.”

He crossed off two more lines on the paper and looked up. “That's the end of my list. Did I forget anything?”

“I have no idea,” she replied honestly. “But if you're done being serious, I did get you a little something.”

“This
is
serious, Tara. Especially the financial stuff. All it takes is one missed payment and—”

“I know. And I've been taking it seriously for two hours now. I need a break.” She leapt up from the couch and moved to where he stood, running her hands over his shoulders, digging into the tense muscles with her thumbs just the way he liked. He closed his eyes as he leaned into her touch, letting the list drop to the floor.

“All right, you win. What did you get me? Remember I don't have much space in my bag for—”

“Lots of personal extras, you told me. That's why I got you this.” She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced a silver business card holder. The front panel had a plastic inset of the ace of spades.

He took it reverently, holding it between two careful fingers. She elbowed him gently. “Open it.”

He did. Tucked inside was the closest thing she had to a wedding portrait, a slightly blurry snap of the two of them grinning beside the fountain in the casino atrium. She'd cropped it tightly to cut out all the people crossing through the background, but a stray leg had still found its way into the edge. Chance had his arm around her and they were dressed in their matrimonial finery—jeans and a flannel shirt for him, a short, tight black dress for her, from which one bra strap was protruding onto her shoulder.

“Oh my word,” he murmured, lips stretching into a slow smile. “Where'd you get this?”

“Our so-called preacher took it on my phone. Don't you remember?”

He shook his head. “Look at me. I'm so drunk I'm practically drooling.”

“I think you look happy.”

“I was happy. Still am.” He drew her against his side and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you. This is a great present.”

“We can get someone to take a photo of us when you come back with Alpha Company in May. Y'know, one of those tearful reunion snaps. Then you can put that in the other side, next to this one.”

“Sure thing.” But he didn't sound too sure. He guided her over to the couch and tugged her down beside him, shutting the photo case and putting it on a side table. What little mirth had returned to his expression was gone, and Tara braced herself for some kind of grisly, solemn conversation.

“If you think you get any say in how I bury you, you've got another think coming. I'm cremating your ass and taking myself to Vegas with the rest of the funeral budget.” She gave him her most infectious grin, but her joke fell flat. His eyes were dark and somber.

“Will you be here when I get back?”

Her jaw dropped. “Chance McKinley, what a thing to ask!”

“Will you?”

“No, I'm going to steal your money and your car and you'll never hear from me again. Tara Lambert isn't even my real name.” She rolled her eyes.

“I had to ask.”

“No, you didn't. I've told you I'm in this for the long haul, and I mean it.”

“I did,” he insisted. “You're so nonchalant about me leaving, I was starting to wonder if you cared at all.”

“Excuse me for trying to enjoy our last night together instead of moping,” she retorted hotly. “If you wanted me to act a certain way you should've given me a script.”

“It's not that I don't want to enjoy it, it's—”

“You know what? Screw you, Chance.” Her temper was roaring at full tilt now, and it was almost a relief. Anger was so much easier than sadness. “You think I'm looking forward to six months coming home to this empty house? You think I give a shit about your measly soldier's salary and your stupid car? I'm sorry it's so hard for you to believe that I care about you, but that's the hard truth. I'm here for you. Nothing else.”

She half-stood from the couch, gearing up for a full-on rant when he grabbed her wrists and pulled her back down, scooping her into his lap.

“I love you, Tara,” he murmured, raising his hands to her cheeks. “Why can't you tell me the same thing?”

All the fight drained out of her like water in a leaky bucket. She sagged in his grip, her heart sinking. “I want to. I just can't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. I'm scared.” The painfully honest response leapt from her mouth with the ease she wished she could find for those other three words.

“Scared of what, sugar?”

“Losing you. I think it might kill me.”

“You're not going to lose me,” he soothed, tightening his arms around her.

You don't know that,
she wanted to say.
You'll be dead in an Afghan ditch and I'll never love anyone else again.
Instead she kissed him, pleadingly, hoping he understood.

Soon their tongues were colliding, their hands roaming, their knees bumping in their haste to be closer. Chance shucked off his T-shirt and jeans with such speed that she stilled him with a palm on his chest, needing him to wait and watch.

She undressed slowly, deliberately, baring herself one inch at a time. He sat frozen on the other end of the couch, his eyes never leaving her body. She paused after she removed her bra, and again when she lowered her panties. Then she lay flat on her back and parted her thighs, letting him look his fill.

It was an offering of devotion, of commitment, of a love still unspoken. When he slid inside her she hoped he knew what she meant—when she clenched her legs against his sides she hoped her message was clear. He was inextricable from her, now. She would never be whole without him.

I love you,
she told him with the rock of her pelvis.
I love you
, said the nails dug into his back. And when the end came and she arched and shook and nearly wept with the power of her climax, the ragged, plaintive moan that tore from her lips begged,
Come home safe to me. I love you and I'll never stop.