The Marine's Road Home
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Brenda Harlen
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Chapter One
Everyone had a story to tell.
Skylar Gilmore knew it was true, even if a lot of those stories weren’t exactly page turners. Still, she was always willing to listen and fascinated by the characters telling the tales at Diggers’ Bar & Grill.
From her position behind the polished walnut bar, she heard the accounts of regulars, less frequent customers and even the occasional tourist. To each, she offered a sympathetic ear without censure or judgment. After all, it wasn’t her job to counsel—at least not here.
And so it was that she knew Chase Hampton intended to propose to Megan Carmichael before he’d even bought the ring, and that Erica Rainville had decided to leave her husband of twelve years—not because he was having an affair with his secretary but because she was, and also that Bobby Tanner and Holly Kowalski had postponed their wedding plans because they were unable to agree on when—or even if—they’d have kids.
Bobby had been in the bar again tonight, lamenting the apparent impasse with his fiancée. Six years older than his bride-to-be, Bobby was eager to start a family. But Holly, the junior deputy in the sheriff’s department, wanted to establish herself in her career before she took time off to have a baby. Of course, that led to another argument, as Bobby expected that she would give up her job in order to be a full-time mother to their children.
Sky had to bite her tongue when he told her that. It was the only way to not break her concrete rule about listening without judgment. She didn’t disagree that a job in law enforcement could be dangerous. How could she when her sister was an attorney married to the local sheriff? Sky knew only too well that Kate suffered through nights when her husband was called away from home.
But Kate would be the first to say that marriage was a partnership, and though partners might not always agree, they should always support one another. Since Kate and Reid would be celebrating their third wedding anniversary in only a few months, Sky had to trust that her sister was more of an authority on the subject of marriage than she was.
So instead of telling Bobby that he had no right to be making career decisions for the woman he claimed to love, Sky only encouraged him to keep the lines of communication open. He promised to do that, then finished his beer, tipped her generously and headed home to his fiancée.
“Does everyone who sits at the bar spill their guts to you?” Kate had asked one night, after listening to Roger Greenway bemoan the emptiness of his life as he sipped his rum and coke.
Sky couldn’t help but empathize with the divorced father who only saw his kids twice a month now that his ex had remarried and moved out of town with them.
“Everyone,” she’d confirmed in response to her sister’s question.
Because it had seemed true at the time.
Before she’d met the handsome—and mysterious—stranger she referred to as John. In the six years that she’d been pouring drinks at Diggers’, he was the lone holdout.
She’d been chatting with Jerry Tate when the newcomer walked into the bar around 9:50 p.m. on a Wednesday night five weeks earlier. But she’d caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, as he’d paused inside the door and surveyed the room—as if he was looking for someone.
Just over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders that tested the seams of his long-sleeved Henley-style shirt, and muscular legs encased in jeans faded almost white at the stress points. The simple attire did nothing to disguise his strength, and she was helpless to prevent the quiver that reverberated through her system.
And then his eyes had caught and held hers.
She’d started to smile, because she was a friendly person and because it had been a long time since she’d felt such an instantaneous awareness and intense attraction. But he clearly hadn’t registered a similar reaction on his end, because he quickly shifted his gaze.
After scanning the room, he squared those wide shoulders and moved resolutely toward the bar. His pace was deliberate, unhurried, and as he drew nearer, Sky noted that his square jaw was unshaven and his eyes were the color of premium whiskey.
Despite the sting of his visual dismissal, Sky curved her lips again as the stranger edged a hip onto a stool at the bar. “Hi there.”
His only response was a stiff nod of acknowledgment.
“New to town or just passing through?” she wondered aloud, as he perused the labels on the taps in front of him.
“I’ll have a pint of Sam Adams.”
A New Englander, she guessed, as she selected a glass mug and tipped it under the spout. There’d been no hint of an accent in his voice, but his chosen beverage might be a clue.
She set the beer on a paper coaster in front of him.
No “please” or “thank you,” either, she noted, as he wrapped his hand around the mug.
“Are you from Massachusetts?” she asked.
“Or maybe New York?” she suggested as an alternative when he failed to reply, because New Yorkers had a reputation—deserved or not—for being standoffish and unfriendly.
Still no response.
“Rhode Island?” She grabbed that one out of thin air, hoping the random guess would get some kind of a reaction from him.
He lifted his gaze, and she felt another tug, low in her belly, when those whiskey-colored eyes locked on hers.
“I came in for a beer,” he finally said. “Not company or conversation.”
She was admittedly shocked by his blunt response.
And maybe a little hurt.
Because while he was certainly under no obligation to want company or conversation, she’d been a bartender long enough to know that people usually came into Diggers’ seeking one or the other—or both. Those who only wanted a beer could just as easily crack one open under their own roof. Unless there was a reason they wanted to get away from home for a while, such as a nagging spouse or screaming kids.
The Sam Adams–drinking stranger had no ring on his finger and no tan line indicating that one might have recently been removed. Of course, Sky knew from experience that the lack of a wedding band wasn’t necessarily indicative of anything.
Since his remark didn’t invite any kind of response, she merely nodded and made her way to the other end of the bar to refill Ellis Hagen’s empty glass.
As Sky poured another shot of Jack Daniels over ice, Ellis was happy to chat—even engaging in a little harmless flirting that soothed her inexplicably bruised feelings. And because she refused to let the rudeness of a stranger bring down her mood, Sky allowed herself to flirt back.
Of course, it was easy with Ellis, because they’d dated for a while way back in high school. In fact, she’d lost her virginity in the back seat of his Cavalier after the homecoming dance in her junior year. It had been a mostly forgettable experience for both of them, but he was the first boy she’d ever imagined herself in love with, and she was always happy to see him at the bar and catch up.
Tonight she was grateful, too, as her conversation with Ellis succeeded in taking her mind off the mysterious stranger so that she barely even noticed when he finished his beer and tucked a ten-dollar bill beneath the edge of his glass before walking out again without even a backward glance.
“Who’s the new guy?” Courtney Morgan, one of the bar’s waitresses, asked Sky.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, cashing out his tab and dropping his change into the tip jar.
Courtney seemed taken aback by her response. “A quiet one, is he?”
Sky nodded, though she suspected he was more than quiet.
He was a man with secrets—and she wanted to know all of them.
But she pushed him out of her mind, mostly, until the following Wednesday.
The bar was busier than usual that night, because Duke’s Diggers—the coed softball team sponsored by the bar’s owner—had played a rescheduled game, after which they came into the bar for the free wings that were a perk of playing for Duke.
“We missed you out there tonight,” Caleb said to Sky.
He was the team’s left fielder—and also the younger of her two brothers, married to his high school sweetheart and now father to an adorable two-week-old baby boy.
“You should have thought about that before you scheduled the game for a Wednesday night,” she said, tipping a second pitcher beneath the tap. “How badly did we lose?”
“It wasn’t bad at all,” he said. “Only two runs. And they never would have got those two runs if you’d been on third.”
“I appreciate your confidence, but it’s a team sport,” she reminded him.
“And the whole team—even Doug, who filled in at third—wished you could have been there.”
She turned the pitchers of beer so that the handles were facing him. “Go drown your sorrows.”
He shook his head even as he picked up the pitchers. “I promised Brie I’d head straight home after one beer.”
“Look at you—a responsible husband and father,” she remarked teasingly.
“I’m trying,” he said. “It would be a lot easier if Colton would sleep more than three hours at a time.”
“No one ever said parenthood was easy.” But she could see the fatigue in the shadows under his eyes and felt a stirring of sympathy. “You want me to put in a separate order of wings to go for you?”
He nodded. “Honey hot.”
Though not a flavor listed on the menu, Caleb liked his wings hot and Brielle liked honey garlic, so they compromised by getting them tossed in both sauces.
“You gonna share those pitchers of beer, Gilmore?” Chase Hampton called out from the round table in the corner.
“That’s my cue,” he said and headed off to join his teammates.
Sky had just sent the wing request through to the kitchen when the mysterious drinker of Sam Adams walked into the bar.
And damn, if he wasn’t even better looking than she’d remembered.
She glanced at the clock—9:48 p.m.—and wondered if the timing of his appearance was a coincidence or if it was going to become a habit. And while she told herself she wasn’t the least bit interested, she couldn’t deny that she was curious.
He took the same seat at the bar, gave the row of taps a similar perusal. “I’ll have a pint of Sam Adams,” he said.
She poured the beer and set it in front of him.
Raucous laughter broke out at the table in the corner and his hand tightened around the mug, gripping it so hard his knuckles went white.
“That’s our softball team,” she told him, not sure why she was bothering to explain. “Tuesdays and Saturdays are the usual game days, but the rain last week forced the reschedule tonight.”
He didn’t respond.
Of course not, because he only wanted a beer, not company or conversation.
So she made her way down the bar, clearing away empty glasses and wiping the counter. The stranger finished his beer, put ten dollars beneath his empty glass and walked out again.
For three weeks after that, his routine was the same.
Every Wednesday night, just before ten o’clock, he came into the bar. Sometimes he was a few minutes earlier, sometimes a few minutes later, but it was always and only on Wednesdays.
He ordered one beer, drank the beer, left a ten-dollar bill on the bar and walked out again.
His routine was always the same.
He never came in with anyone.
He never left with anyone.
He never talked to anyone.
And after five weeks, Sky still didn’t even know his name.
Sure, there were other ways she might have uncovered some information about him. Haven was a small enough town that she felt confident somebody knew something about the handsome stranger. But she wasn’t interested in gossip and she didn’t want secondhand information. She wanted him to tell her the secrets she sensed he’d buried deep inside—more important, she wanted him to want to open up to her.
But she’d settle for his name to start.
A few years earlier, after yet another failed relationship, Sky had decided that she was done with dating. Since then, she hadn’t met a single man who tempted her to change her mind—until he walked into Diggers’ on that Wednesday night.
She glanced at the vintage beer clock on the wall as she poured a couple of pints for Carter Ford and Kevin Dawson.
9:52 p.m.
And here come the butterflies.
Jake Kelly slid behind the wheel of his truck, turned the key in the ignition and shifted into gear. Even as he turned onto Main Street, he wondered, what the hell am I doing?
For the past two years, he’d focused his efforts on putting the past behind him and moving on with his life. He wasn’t trying to forget—he didn’t ever want to forget—but he knew that if he couldn’t slay his demons, he had to find a way to coexist with them.
“You can’t live like a hermit forever,” Luke had said, when he visited Haven a few weeks back.
“No one lives forever,” Jake had pointed out.
He’d thought the response might make his brother crack a smile. Instead, the furrow between Luke’s brows had only deepened, and he’d spent the next hour trying to get Jake to open up about his emotions, as if talking—especially to a man who couldn’t possibly understand feelings of inadequacy and failure—was going to make anything better.
But Jake did promise that he’d make an effort to get out of the house more, to engage in social interaction and meet people. Which was how he’d ended up at Diggers’ Bar & Grill that first Wednesday night in early May.
It had been a test, and though he wasn’t entirely sure when he left the bar again whether he’d passed or failed, he’d at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he’d completed it. The next week, it was a little bit easier. And the week after that, easier still.
By the fifth week, he was thinking that he might be ready for a bigger challenge—and when he left the community center, he’d intended to head straight home. Yet for some inexplicable reason, he found himself driving toward Diggers’ instead.
Or maybe the reason wasn’t so inexplicable.
Maybe the reason was as simple—and complicated—as the incredibly appealing woman who worked behind the bar.
Her name was Skylar Gilmore, but most of the regulars referred to her simply as Sky. She had long dark hair that she usually wore tied back in a loose ponytail and eyes that were a unique mix of gray and blue, not unlike a stormy sky, outlined by a sweep of ridiculously long lashes. Her brows were delicately arched, her cheekbones high and sharp and her mouth looked as if it was meant to be kissed.
The unwelcome observation made him scowl.
She was about average height, but there was absolutely nothing average about her curves, shown to advantage by the scoop-necked white T-shirt that hugged the swell of her breasts and the slim-fitting black jeans that molded to her sweetly rounded bottom and long, shapely legs.
The first time he saw her, he’d felt a stir of something low in his belly. It wasn’t a familiar or comfortable feeling. But maybe that was because, for the better part of two years, he’d focused on tamping down his emotions so that he wouldn’t have to feel pain or loss or longing.
So yes, it had taken Jake a moment to recognize the feeling as attraction, and less than that to dismiss it. Not only because it was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, but because he wasn’t foolish enough to let the attraction lead to anything else. He had no intention of making a move on the pretty bartender, because he knew no woman would want to deal with the issues that he was only beginning to deal with himself. And anyway, he had no wish to open himself up to rejection again.
But Sky greeted him tonight, as she always did, with an easy smile.
He didn’t smile back.
He had no reason or desire to encourage her.
“Pint of Sam Adams?” she prompted, when he remained silent, scowling at the taps.
He only had to nod, and the beer would be poured and set in front of him. Instead, he heard himself say, “Actually, I think I’ll try a pint of Wild Horse tonight.”
She moved the mug to the appropriate tap and tilted it under the spout. “Eleven whole words,” she remarked. “I think that’s a new record, John.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, saw the teasing light in her eyes, and felt that uncomfortable tug again. “My name’s not John.”
“But as you haven’t told me what it is, I can only guess,” she said.
“So you decided on John...as in John Doe?” he surmised.
She nodded. “And because it rolls off the tongue more easily than the-sullen-stranger-who-drinks-Sam-Adams, or, after tonight, the-sullen-stranger-who-usually-drinks-Sam-Adams-but-one-time-ordered-a-Wild-Horse.” She set the mug on a paper coaster in front of him. “And I think that’s a smile tugging at the lips of the sullen stranger.”
“I was just thinking that next time I’ll order a Ruby Mountain Angel Creek Amber Ale,” Jake said.
“Careful,” she cautioned, with a playful wink. “This exchange of words is starting to resemble an actual conversation.”
He lifted the mug to his mouth and Sky moved down the bar to serve a couple of newcomers, leaving him alone with his beer.
Which was what he wanted...and yet, when she came back again, he heard himself say, “My name’s Jake.”
The sweet curve of her lips warmed something deep inside him. “You got a last name, Jake?”
“Let’s not rush into anything,” he said. “We only just met.”
She chuckled at that. “Maybe you’ll tell me next week?”
“How do you know I’ll be here next week?”
“Wild guess,” she said.
“You really don’t know my last name?”
“I didn’t know your first name until a few seconds ago,” she pointed out to him.
“And I thought there weren’t any secrets in small towns.”
“They are few and far between,” she said. “But, in the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you that I know you’re staying at Ross and Anna Ferguson’s house.”
“How do you know that?”
“The G in Circle G is for Gilmore,” she said, naming the ranch property that was situated behind his uncle’s land. “Which makes us neighbors.”
He considered that as he tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed the last mouthful of beer.
“Well, maybe I will see you next week, neighbor,” he decided aloud, as he took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and tucked it under the mug. “But right now, I need to get home. Molly’s waiting for me.”
