The Marine's Reluctant Return
Autorzy
Sabrina York
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19,1K
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Chapter One
Luke Stirling awoke in a terror—skin clammy, heart pounding, an old nightmare echoing in his brain. It took a moment, longer than it should have, for him to catch his breath, to realize where he was. To know that he was safe.
Safe.
Yet the shadows looming in the dark corners chilled his blood.
With a panicked motion, he turned on the bed lamp and strafed the room with a preternaturally sharp gaze, taking in every nook and cranny. He even looked under the bed, though he knew, logically, there was nothing there. Still, he had to make sure.
That was the ugly thing about fear. It didn’t operate on any commonly understood logic or reasoning. It was a terror that rose from the emptiness of the night, preying on his memories, creating monsters where there were none.
It had been three years since the horrible day when he’d lost his team to an IED in Afghanistan. He was back in good old Butterscotch Ridge. Had been for nearly a year. When were the nightmares going to stop?
Well, one thing was for sure. He was done sleeping for the night. He’d had this experience enough to know better than to try. He tossed back the covers and slowly levered his body into a seated position, grimacing as tight muscles and aching joints screamed. The pain was always worse in the morning.
He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to push through the stretches of his morning routine. As always, he had to remind himself, through the discomfort, that he was lucky. Lucky that his legs moved at all. Lucky they were still attached to his body. Lucky there was breath in his lungs.
So many of his fellow United States Marines had come home with much, much less. If they’d returned at all.
After warming up enough, he stood. The first effort failed and he plopped down on the bed again. By the third try, he was stable enough to walk the short distance to the bathroom. He didn’t look in the mirror as he washed his face and brushed his teeth; even though he kept a little scruff to cover most of the damage, he still hated seeing his reflection. And who could blame him?
The IED had not been kind.
The scars he’d sustained on his face were bad enough. But the ones on his left flank? Even he could barely stand to look at them. There were all kinds of puckers and pits where shrapnel had torn thorough his flesh. They ran over his arm, down his side and spattered his hip. Farther down his thigh, there was one long, ragged scar, where the doctors had set the multiple breaks in his legs with titanium posts.
He shook his head, as though to dislodge these thoughts. He hated thinking about his body anymore.
By the time he was dressed—and had eaten a microwaved breakfast sandwich and had a cup of joe—he felt better. He dropped into the chair by the window and checked his schedule for the day. He was glad to see it was a busy one. He liked being busy. He liked being useful.
While he worked at the family ranch when his injuries allowed—though his siblings hardly needed his help—he especially liked helping his fellow vets living in the church-run homeless shelter. Because there, he felt like he mattered.
Granted, he didn’t do anything life-changing as a now-and-again handyman for the church and its shelter, which was a converted motel that had failed sometime in the nineties because people rarely came to this small town in Washington State on purpose. But sometimes, when a person was hurting, just having someone else around who’d walked in their boots could be really powerful medicine.
And even if none of the other vets needed him, he needed them. For exactly the same reason.
He drew in a deep breath as he stepped outside the little house he rented in the older part of town. He loved early mornings like this. They reminded him of going fishing with his grandfather when he was a little boy, sitting on the edge of the lake in a cool cloak of misty silence next to the man he admired most.
But that had been long ago, back when the old man had adored him too. Before Luke had started school, and everything had changed.
There was a mist clinging to the trees, a delicate veil making the run-down neighborhood seem almost mystical. Even the spider webs were beautiful, speckled with glinting dewdrops reflecting the rising sun. A cool breeze drifted by. Crickets chirped, and frogs chirruped down by the nearby pond as he made his way across the baseball field to the church. The grass made his shoes damp and he smiled, reminded of a more innocent time.
A light was on in the rectory kitchen, so he knocked, softly.
Suzie Sweet opened the door with a warm smile. But then, Reverend Sweet’s wife always smiled. “Good morning, Luke,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Goodness, you’re up early. Couldn’t sleep again?”
He forced a grin. “Just can’t wait to get to work, I guess.”
She saw through him. She always did. “You work too hard.”
“I like to keep busy, ma’am.”
“Of course, you do. Have you had breakfast?” He nodded and she narrowed her eyes. “Real food, I mean.”
“I’m good. Thank you.”
“Some coffee?”
“Actually, I’d like to get started with the heater.” Though it was only October, a cold wind was coming down from the north.
She nodded. “That would be nice. No one’s looking forward to sitting through this week’s sermon in an icebox. Oh... Luke?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Would you be willing to look at the kitchen sink when you’re done? I think something’s stuck in the drain.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
“You are a dear.” That smile again. “Oh. I made some cookies for you and the guys.” She waved to a Tupperware container on the counter.
He couldn’t hold back a grin. He loved her cookies, and so did the other vets. “That’s really thoughtful, ma’am. Thank you.”
Suzie handed him the keys to the church and sent him on his way, but she insisted he take a muffin with him before she’d let him leave.
Luke was glad for the muffin when the heater turned out to be a bear to fix. It was midmorning before he finally got it to work. He’d been trained as a mechanic in the military—as well as other things—and he enjoyed being able to use his skills to make life easier for the people he cared about. But not because he fancied himself a good person, whatever that was. He just saw each and every opportunity to help others as a way to cosmically thumb his nose at the old man. Guess I’m not so useless after all, am I?
He snorted to himself. Funny how quickly things could go bad, wasn’t it? One day, he and the old man had been closer than two peas in a pod. And the next...his grandfather was railing about how inadequate he was. And Luke had been reminded he was less than perfect more than once. More than once a day, actually, if memory served. Tough thing to take, for a six-year-old. Would it have made any difference, he wondered, if the old man had understood what dyslexia was? Or had taken the time to learn about it for himself? To realize that Luke wasn’t lazy or stupid?
Probably not. Some people, he’d discovered, just enjoyed finding fault.
Some people, he’d discovered, should be avoided like the plague.
After he finished the heater, Luke started on the rectory kitchen sink. As the day was going, that was a bear, too. Someone had, indeed, clogged the pipe. With a wash rag, of all things. This required him to crawl into the musty cabinet underneath the sink and dismantle the pipes.
It didn’t take long at all, but before he could finish, he was interrupted.
“Hey, Dummy. Zat you?”
Luke froze in the process of tightening a bolt at the sound of a too-familiar voice—a too-familiar slur he’d thought had been relegated to the past. Irritation raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Something acidic rose in his throat. No one had called him Dummy in years. Not since he’d left this godforsaken town. But here he was again. Trent Cooper, picking at old scabs.
Of all the people Luke had avoided since returning home, Trent was at the top of the list—well, pretty damn close to the top of the list—and for damn good reason. Oh, they’d seen each other. Usually from across a crowded bar. But neither of them had made any attempts to reach out. Certainly not to talk.
Which was totally fine.
What surprised Luke was how quickly that old bitterness arose in his soul. Just those few words and he was that angry kid again. Had he really thought he’d evolved? Had he really thought anything had changed around here? That it ever would?
He sucked in a deep breath and prepared to disentangle himself from beneath the sink. Lying flat on his back, helpless, was no way to face one’s old nemesis. But just as he was pulling himself up, the tip of Trent’s boot smacked Luke’s jean-clad thigh and his body seized in response. Heat prickled his skin, sweat beaded on his brow. Pain, sharp as a blade, sliced through him, setting his nerves on fire. He shot up and smacked his forehead on the drainpipe.
Son of a bitch. That hurt.
When the blinding agony abated, along with the rushing in his ears, Luke heard it. Trent’s laugh.
Was it irony that Trent had managed to zero in on the exact spot that hurt the most? Or just a lot of practice? Trent had always been an ass—the town bully, like his father before him. A prodigy. His barbs rarely missed their mark. He was one of the reasons Luke had left this Podunk town.
Back then, Luke had vowed to find a way to prove himself to everyone. To show them he wasn’t as worthless as everyone seemed to think. But, more importantly, he’d vowed to find his place in the world. And he had. He’d become his own man.
He hadn’t expected that hard-won peace would be so damn difficult to hang on to.
With another deep breath, he fought down his rising temper. It had taken a long time for him to address, confront and master his issues from the past. It had been a long, hard fight, but he’d won. And he wasn’t going to let his bitterness own him again.
“You comin’ out of there?” Trent asked. Thank God he didn’t nudge Luke again with that damn boot. The injury in his thigh was particularly sensitive today—which meant it was probably going to rain.
In response, Luke slid out from under the sink and stood.
Was it wrong to feel that little tingle of satisfaction as his old bully’s gaze flicked higher, and higher yet, to meet his? Was it wrong to feel a little smug when Trent took in his new physique—molded by his years in the service—and his jaw dropped? Yeah. Luke wasn’t a stupid, helpless boy anymore. He was a man.
And...had Trent always been that short?
Luke had known returning home might mean facing his old demons again—he just hadn’t expected it to be this challenging. He didn’t throw a punch, but only because Suzie Sweet wouldn’t approve. Also, he reminded himself, he wasn’t that easily insulted hothead anymore.
Aside from that, it wouldn’t be a fair fight—not that Trent had ever cared about what was fair. Since Luke left town—eight years ago—he’d been trained in multiple forms of lethal combat. He’d mastered strategy and tactics, psychology, mechanics, operations, logistics, aviation and more.
Not to mention the fact that he had a solid forty pounds of muscle on Trent, who had, apparently, grown some love handles.
Oh, yeah. Luke could take him. One good punch would probably do it.
But Luke wasn’t a raging hormone anymore, ready to flail wildly at anyone and everyone who slighted him in any way, shape or form. He was a man of honor.
Well, some honor. He had at least a little bit of it left.
“Wow.” Trent looked him up and down and then crossed his arms over his chest. A classic defensive move. “Look at your face.” Typical bully. Honing in on what he thought was Luke’s weakness.
Luke turned on the tap and bent to make sure the sink wasn’t leaking. Nope. It was good. He kept looking, though, longer than he needed to, because he didn’t want to engage with Trent.
Also, it annoyed Trent to be ignored.
As though in answer to a prayer he hadn’t uttered, Suzie Sweet interrupted their tête-à-tête. “How’s it going, Luke?” she said as she poked her head into the room with her trademark perky smile. It dimmed when she saw Trent. “Well, hey, Mr. Cooper,” she said, taking in his tracksuit. “You coaching today?” The Butterscotch Ridge baseball and soccer fields were nestled between the church and the elementary school, which explained how Trent had found himself this close to the sanctuary. Any closer and he might burst into flames.
Trent nodded. “Gotta keep those kids on the top of their game.” He turned to Luke. “I’m coaching soccer. My son’s the star player!”
“Is that so?”
“You used to play, didn’t you, Stirling?” Oh. Now he was Stirling? What happened to Dummy? “You used to be a pretty good runner.” His gaze flicked down to Luke’s leg. “Back then.”
Heat flooded Luke’s face. Was that a jab? Another barb to get a reaction from him? Because there was no running in Luke’s future, that was for damn sure. He shifted his weight as another bolt of pain shot through his left leg, and he let the silence between himself and Trent swelter for a minute.
Was it wrong to be gratified when Trent flushed and muttered a barely audible, “Sorry”?
“Oh, gracious me. What am I thinking?” Mrs. Sweet interjected when the lack of conversation became too much for her to bear. She really was a nice woman. All she wanted was for everyone to just get along. What a shame she lived in this town. “I promised you a soda, Luke. Did you get that sink all fixed up? And don’t forget the cookies.”
The soda was great—beer would’ve been better—and Luke took the cookies, too, because she’d made a special point of making them for the guys.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help,” she continued, folding and refolding that kitchen towel, which, if one was being brutally honest, didn’t seem to have many folds left in it. “I don’t know what we’d have done come Sunday if the heater was out.”
Luke smiled. “People’d still come to hear you sing in the choir, Mrs. Sweet,” he said, because he knew she prided herself on her dulcet alto.
Naturally, she flushed.
Luke collected all his tools and thanked Mrs. Sweet for the refreshments, figuring this was an appropriate juncture for his escape. It was a damn shame Trent followed him out after saying his own goodbyes.
Was it Luke’s imagination, or did the reverend’s wife close the door behind Trent a little more firmly than necessary?
Luke headed for home with Trent beside him. Thank God it was only a few blocks away, because his leg was really howling now. Truth be told, he’d probably overdone it this morning. Lately his muscles had been cramping up more and more. It was even starting to affect his work at the ranch. It was irritating as hell. Trent slowed to allow Luke to keep pace with him, but Luke knew better than to assume it was an act of charity. The SOB just wanted to keep needling him.
Sure enough, after a moment of silence, Trent said, “It’s nice of the reverend to give you odd jobs. You know, seeing as you’re unemployed.”
Luke glanced at him and didn’t mention that all his work for the church was voluntary. With his military disability pay and savings, along with his stake in the family ranch, he was hardly hurting for money. And he had simple tastes, so he didn’t have a lot of expenses. Then again, he didn’t need much. Just his little house and a lot of peace and privacy.
Oh, his family griped about his modest living arrangements. “We’re the Stirlings,” his older brother DJ occasionally reminded him. “We have a reputation to uphold.” It was as though he’d never noticed that Luke wasn’t perfect like the rest of them. That he felt like the cuckoo in the Stirling nest.
“We can’t have the whole town thinking you’re not welcome at the ranch,” his sister, Samantha, would add in her usual direct way. As if she’d never noticed Luke felt like a lesser soul, even though the old man had made his opinion on this more than clear, bellowing it all through the house whenever grades came in.
For his part, Mark just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Whatever makes you happy, bro,” because that’s the way he was.
And the old man...
Well, there was no reason to think about him anymore, was there?
His grandfather was dead. The only conversations Luke could have with him now were the ones in his head. Somehow, they still fought.
Funny how one person can have such conflicting feelings about another. Hate someone and love them at the same time. Mostly, what he felt about Daniel Stirling Sr. was regret. Regret that he’d never gotten the chance to show the old bastard the man he’d become.
Oh, he’d flown home the minute he got word that the old man was dying. He’d just arrived too late for that confrontation—the one he’d been dreading for eight years.
“So what do you think?”
Caught by surprise, Luke realized they’d reached his place.
Also, apparently, Trent had been talking.
“Think?” Repeating the last word of a question like this usually worked when he hadn’t been paying attention.
“You wanna come play poker with me and the guys tonight?” Trent sent him a grin. Naturally, it made Luke suspicious.
His chest contracted. A myriad of bitter childhood memories of Trent and his minions flooded him.
Not only no, but hell no. “Sorry. I’m busy.”
“Oh. Right.” Trent’s eyes widened. “I get it.” Did he? “I can spot you the ante if you want.”
Luke blinked. Trent thought he couldn’t afford to play poker with him and his buddies. Well, as excuses went, that one worked. “Yeah. I couldn’t do that. But thanks.” And with that, he let himself into his house, nodded farewell and shut the door in Trent’s face, though he clearly wanted to be invited in.
No thanks. His place was his refuge. A person did not invite an ogre into their refuge.
One thing Luke had learned on his journey was that when he had the ability to avoid unpleasant things, and things that caused him pain, he did. He avoided them like the plague. If that meant shutting the door in Trent Cooper’s face, so much the better.
“You got that okay?” Chase McGruder asked Crystal Stoker as she hefted a tray piled with outgoing orders.
She grinned up at him. “Yep.” After years of working at the local bar and grill, the Butterscotch Ridge B&G, Crystal was used to balancing things. Lots of things. Still, Chase held open the swinging doors from the kitchen to the restaurant for her.
But then, Chase was like that. He was a great guy and an awesome boss, and he’d embraced Crystal and her son, Jack, in their darkest hour. Three years ago, when her husband, Brandon—Chase’s cousin—had died, leaving their little family with no income whatsoever, Chase had given her a job. And then, when she lost Grandma’s house because she couldn’t pay the taxes, he’d let them live in the apartment above the restaurant. Because of him, she was still able to take care of her son. Since both Brandon’s and Crystal’s parents had died long ago, the McGruders were the only family she and Jack had anymore.
On her way to the back booth, she passed a table of the morning regulars, Al, Johnny P. and Rufus, three of the local vets. “Hey there, sweetheart,” Rufus said with a wink. He always flirted with her, even though he was old enough to be her grandfather. Maybe her great-grandfather.
“You need anything, hon?” she asked, scanning their coffee mugs.
“Just your hand in marriage, darling.”
“You know I can’t cook worth a hill of beans, Rufus.”
“But you’d sure look pretty burning the toast,” he responded.
She chuckled. “More coffee?”
“You bet.”
“I’ll be right back with it, as soon as I drop these off.”
He lifted his mug in a salute. “I s’pose I’ll have to settle for the coffee then,” he said with a smile. It was infectious. It always was.
She was still smiling as she handed out the food to the customers in the back booth, even though the patrons—cheerleader Pam, her BFF, Karen, and Sophia Cage, who was Butterscotch Ridge’s answer to Khloe Kardashian—were all girls she’d gone to high school with, way back when. Oh, they hadn’t been friends, and they still weren’t, but that didn’t matter. This was only a job. A way to put food on the table for her son. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked when the tray was empty.
Pam sent her something of a smirk. “This fork is dirty.”
“Sure. I’ll get you another. Right away.” The fork was spotless. Pam always asked for random things. Probably because she liked being waited on, and this was the only place in town to offer that luxury. “Anyone else need anything?” she asked, but the others were too glued to their phones to answer.
After she brought Pam another table setting, and topped up Rufus and his buddies, she headed for the kitchen to get a drink of water. Though the restaurant was air-conditioned, Crystal was very aware of the dabs of sweat on her uniform. It was probably all the running around. But she couldn’t complain about that, because being this busy helped her keep fit. It was why she always wore track shoes to work.
“Hey, Crystal?” Chase poked his head into the kitchen as she tipped back her chilled water bottle. She liked to measure it out in the morning, to make sure she kept herself hydrated. Once the day started, it was “go, go, go.” So different than life had been when Brandon had been alive. “You’ve got a phone call.” His tone made clear it wasn’t good news.
Crystal’s stomach twanged. She sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. “Who is it?” she asked. As if she didn’t know.
“Stella Anders.”
Yup. Crap. “Okay.”
“Take it at the bar.”
Double crap. The last thing she needed was witnesses. But still, she kept a smile on her face as she made her way to the bar phone. “Hello, Mrs. Anders. What’s up?” Even though they’d known each other forever—Stella was the local school principal—Crystal always called her “Mrs. Anders,” so Jack would understand what it meant to respect his elders. Sometimes she wondered if she’d failed to make that point.
“Crystal.” Stella’s voice was tight and clipped. “I’m sorry to bother you at work, but we have a problem.”
We? Crystal knew the problem was all hers. It always was. Her gut clenched and more sweat prickled on her brow. She turned her back on the bar patrons, who were blatantly listening in. “Mmm-hmm?”
“Crystal, Jack got into another fight. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to send him home again.”
She keeps saying she’s sorry. Why is she doing that?
“I see.” With a soft sigh, Crystal closed her eyes and leaned against the cool wall. She didn’t know what was going on with her son, and every time she tried to ask him why he kept getting into so many fights, he refused to talk to her about it. “I’ll come and pick him up. Thanks.”
Damn. Crystal raked back her hair, which had somehow wormed its way out of her ponytail. Tears of frustration pricked at her lids, so she hurried back to the kitchen, where there was at least some privacy. Not that anything was a secret in this town. By supper, everyone would know that Jack Stoker had been kicked out of school again.
Still, it wasn’t the disruption to her day, or the humiliation of having a devil child in a small town, that frustrated her. It was the fact that Jack, her sweet, adorable baby boy, was drifting away from her. Something was wrong with him, and she had no idea what it was.
Some said, “Well, this happens when boys turn eight.” And others insisted, “He needs a man around the house.” Some even suggested military school.
The hard truth was that three years ago, Jack’s dad had died. One day they were chatting on Skype from halfway around the world, and the next day, silence. Deafening silence. Was it any surprise the boy was in pain?
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.
“You okay?” Chase asked.
Crystal nodded, blew her nose and cleared her throat. “I need to go.”
“I figured.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I know. We can flip shifts if you need to.” He gave her a sideways hug, and she turned it into a full one. To thank him for being so understanding, and also because she really needed a hug. Then she took off her apron, grabbed her keys and headed out the back door to her 2001 Saturn. Brandon had bought the used vehicle for her as a wedding present, and it still worked like a champ. Thank God. The last thing she needed right now was a car payment on top of everything else.
It was a really pretty day, she thought as she drove to the elementary school, but the deep blue skies and fluffy white clouds did nothing to ease her dread. If Jack got suspended again, she would need to pay for childcare while she worked. Worse than that, word had gotten around about Jack. No one wanted to babysit him. Not even Barbara Sue, the most avaricious teenager in town. And Chase’s wife, Bella? After Jack “accidently” set her garden shed on fire? Not even a consideration.
Even though they lived in the apartment above Crystal’s workplace, the thought of leaving her son there alone all day gave her the heebie-jeebies. Especially after the toaster fire he’d started last week. It was hard enough being a single mother without any of this.
The tears pricked at her lids again and she brushed them away. It was wrong to point that anger at her dead husband. She knew it was. But sometimes, that’s just where it went. If he hadn’t followed his best friend into the marines... If he hadn’t gone to Afghanistan... If he hadn’t died in an explosion on the other side of the world... Everything would be different now.
But those thoughts were pointless. So was self-pity. She sucked in a breath and straightened her spine as she pulled into the parking lot. Jack was there, waiting for her, with Mrs. Anders, who, frankly, looked tired.
“Thank you,” Crystal said, as she took her son’s hand. Then she added, “I’m so sorry,” because she figured both sentiments were germane to this situation. Both were equally mortifying.
Mrs. Anders nodded. “We’ll need to talk.” Her gaze flicked to Jack. “Later.”
Crystal’s throat locked. “Um, sure.” Not a conversation she was looking forward to. She was pretty sure how it would go. “You ready to go home, sweetie?” she asked her son.
He sent her a sullen look, then stomped to the car.
She sighed and followed, but once she was in the car, she didn’t start it. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
He turned to the window. His profile, so precious to her, reminded her of Brandon, when he’d been eight.
“Jack? What happened?”
He tightened his jaw. “Nothing.”
“You got in a fight over nothing?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
She knew that truculent expression. She knew peppering him with questions wouldn’t help. She just hoped that something could. And she prayed she could discover what it might be. Soon. Because she didn’t know what was happening to her son and she had no idea how to help him.
She’d never felt more helpless, or so alone, in her life.
The second Luke was sure Trent had gone, he headed for the record player he kept on a side table in his small living room, as he usually did when he needed some peace. It was a really old thing in a scarred wooden box. He’d picked it up in a thrift store, but as long as he had a good needle, it worked. It even had a jack for his headphones, which he preferred, rather than announcing his musical choices to all and sundry. He flipped through his albums, searching for something that could help him muddle through the ordeal of confronting Trent again. It was one thing seeing him at a safe distance and quite another being close enough to see the gap between his front teeth.
After the IED that had changed his world forever, the one that had taken out the rest of his unit—including his best friend—Luke had gone through all kinds of therapy. Physical, emotional, art therapy. All the tools they used to try and heal the soul of a guy who’d just learned he might never walk again.
The one that had really touched his soul had been music therapy. He had especially gravitated to classical music—the kind he’d never heard before he’d left this town. Somehow, classical music helped him enter that magical place where everything made sense from a structural point of view. No thoughts were required. No words were necessary. It was simply bliss.
It only took a second to find what he was looking for; he unsheathed the vinyl disc from its cover and set it gently on the turntable. His chest warmed at the pop as he set the needle on the record. Warmed even more as the first few magnificent notes flooded the room. He quickly plugged in his headphones, collapsed into his chair, closed his eyes and soaked it in.
Nothing about the cello-and-oboe duet took away the guilt, pain and regret he still carried, still felt in every step. But it helped. It soothed him,
The piece had no percussion, so Luke’s brow furrowed when an incessant banging intruded his sanctuary. He turned off the music, heaved himself out of his perfectly comfortable chair and stomped to the door.
Swear to God, if it’s Trent again—
Ah. But it wasn’t Trent. It was Samantha.
Luke turned away from his sister and made a face. She rarely deigned to visit his place since he’d returned home, and he couldn’t remember a time she’d actually come inside. Given her opinion about him living here—rather than at the ranch—he knew this encounter would be challenging. Dealing with Sam often was.
Indeed, she peeped inside his compact living room and made a face, though she tried to hide it.
“Come on in,” he said dryly. “Hardly any bedbugs.”
Her nostrils flared. She reared back. “Bedbugs? Seriously?”
He tipped his head to the side. “You know I’m just messing with you, Sam.”
“Don’t ever joke about bedbugs. I...” She stepped in and glanced around the living room. “It’s not...bad.” He nearly snorted. It was like the Hilton, compared to field conditions. As she wandered around, looking at his space and setup, he hoped she could see, now, that he was at home here. Belonged here.
“You’ve got a microwave,” she said from the kitchen, which was also part of the living room/dining room. She sounded surprised.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Nice. And a coffee maker.” One of Suzie Sweet’s castoffs, because she’d decided she didn’t like the pods. “And...” Sam’s gaze fell on his record collection and she grinned at him, then started flipping through the albums. Her fingers slowed, then froze. “What is this?” She held up one of his favorites.
“Beethoven.”
She arched an eyebrow, then went up on her toes and waggled her fingers. “This is music for fancy folk.”
Luke winced. He knew this would be her reaction. He just didn’t want to deal with it right now. “It’s really not.”
“Where’s the Slim Whitman?”
Luke snatched the album from her, lest she break it. “It’s part of my PT.”
“Really?”
Well, kind of. It was certainly therapeutic. It kept him calm. Kept the nightmares at bay. Mostly. “Yep.” He diddled a finger around his head. “Classical music rewires the neurons.”
“I did not know that. Wow.” She nibbled on a fingernail before adding, in a softer voice, “I didn’t realize you were still doing therapy.”
It was hard to hold back a snort. Some days it felt as though that was all he did. “Healing takes time.” He smiled at his sister but didn’t mention that it amused to see her off-kilter. She so rarely was. “So what precipitated this visit to the wrong side of the tracks?” he asked.
“You wish there were train tracks in town,” she said tartly. Yeah. That was more like her. “I’ve been meaning to come by and see your place.”
“And?” He knew her better than that.
“And I thought I’d take you to the B&G for lunch.”
The little hairs on his nape prickled. The B&G? What day was it? Would she be there? He checked his phone, then swallowed heavily. It was Friday. Crap. “It’s a little late for lunch, isn’t it?”
“Is it? It’s only one thirty.”
Luke made a face. He wasn’t exactly hungry, but he knew Sam well enough to know that the easiest thing was just to do what she wanted. “But, why the B&G?” He didn’t want to go there. Not today.
Sam snorted through her nose. “I suppose we could go to the other restaurant in town.” This, of course, was sarcasm. The B&G was the only restaurant in town, if you didn’t count Gram’s Book & Bakery, the bookstore/café owned by his brother’s girlfriend, Veronica. Who also happened to bake Luke’s favorite brownies, hands down.
“Fine.” It had been a helluva day already. He could steel his spine and just deal with it. He could ignore her if she were there. Couldn’t he? “You ready to go?” he asked brusquely, grabbing his Stetson and jamming it on his head.
“Sure.” The fact that her response was all sweet and nice riled his temper. Sam wasn’t “sweet” or “nice.” She was a call-’em-like-she-saw-’em realist. Her being nice meant she had an agenda. But then, she usually did. She glanced at his leg. “You okay to walk?”
The thought of her pity turned his stomach. He glared at her, mostly because she was still being sweet. “Yeah.” For months, that had been his mantra. I can walk. I can walk. I can walk.
“We can always take the truck.”
“I can walk, damn it. Come on. I want a beer.” But that was a lie. He didn’t want a beer. He didn’t want to go to the B&G by foot, by truck or be carried there kicking and screaming. And he had a damn good reason.
She worked on Friday afternoons. And honestly, the last thing he needed right now was to see her again. He had successfully avoided her for months, just by knowing her schedule—the same way he’d avoided Trent. He’d begun to believe he could avoid her forever.
He should just refuse to go. That’s what he should do. But if he did, there would be questions. With his family, there always were. Damn it all, anyway.
He sucked in a breath and stiffened his spine. He was his own man now. He lived his life on his own terms. He didn’t owe his family anything. He didn’t owe anybody anything—
Wrong.
His heart lurched as his gaze landed on a photograph on the mantel, the one of himself in his high-school football uniform, next to his best friend, Brandon Stoker. He did owe somebody. It was a damn shame he didn’t have a clue how to pay back a dead man.
Especially when it was Luke’s fault he had died.
