Justine Davis - Operation Soldier Next Door

Really nice, neighborly young woman, sweet, thoughtful and helpful.

The memory jabbed at him, the words from the email Gramps had sent him after she’d first moved in next door.

Leave it to Gramps to omit the salient detail that she was a looker. And, of course, he’d had advice to offer at the end of that email.

You admire the pretty ones, but you marry the real ones. If you’re smart.

Not likely. Not him. Sometimes he thought about his grandparents and their sixty-year-long marriage, in love up until the day his grandmother had died five years ago. This had been their dream, this simple home surrounded by trees and life, and Gramps had never even thought about leaving. He still loved her, and Tate knew he had until his last breath. It was sometimes the only thing that gave him comfort about his death, knowing that the old man wouldn’t have minded going because he missed her so much. He even understood; his grandmother had been a heck of a woman—smart, tough, and yes, pretty—up until the disease that took her had robbed her of everything but that indomitable will.

And if you’re as lucky as I was, you get both in the same package.

Even now he smiled at the pure love in those words. They made him think of their wedding portrait, the black-and-white image stiff, formal, but yet still unable to erase the twinkle in her eyes or the amazement in his. Gram had been a looker, too, no question.

Which brought him careening back to an image of a woman with big eyes that seemed to go from blue to gray, a mane of long, dark hair and legs that went on forever. Legs that had been bare to his view. Legs that made a man think about sliding between them, of feeling them wrapped around his—

“Get your mind out of the gutter, McLaughlin,” he ordered himself sharply.

The moment he derailed that dangerous thought he became aware of a tickle at the back of his neck. Once, it would have meant he was being watched, and given where he’d been at the time, that was never a good thing. But he wasn’t there anymore, and he was relieved to see that the time it took to remember that was getting shorter and shorter.

He wanted it to be zero. He wanted his reaction to such things to be curiosity, not the instant urge to go into protect mode, or worse, attack mode. He was getting there, but he wanted to be there. Gramps had always said he was impatient. Tate supposed he’d been right. Because he was very impatient for his mind and gut to match the peace around him.

It’s normally a very peaceful neighborhood.

That’s what I wanted.

Yes, above all else, that’s what he wanted.

He turned around and found himself face-to-face with a dog. This was the dog from last night who belonged to the Foxworths.

The animal was sitting politely a few feet away, watching him. Very politely. As if at attention. And yet right at the edge of his comfort zone, as if he knew where the boundary was, somehow.

“Cutter,” he said. The dog’s tail wagged, but he didn’t move. Just watched, alertly, intensely. That steady gaze was unsettling, as was the intelligence behind those amber-flecked dark eyes.

He’d seen that kind of intensity before, in another set of canine eyes. Eyes that had belonged to the dog who was one reason he was alive today.

His stomach knotted. Cutter made him realize how much he missed that dog. Sunny had saved a lot of lives that day, alerting him and the squad in time to get nearly clear of the IED that had been set beside the road, awaiting their passage. Spahn had been killed instantly. He and Cav and Owen had only been injured, and the rest of the guys had escaped unscathed, thanks to Sunny’s warning.

This dog looked nothing like the yellow-furred Sunny, yet he still reminded Tate of her in that fierce intensity and intelligence. He had the feeling that when intent on something, Cutter would be as unswayable as Sunny had been while working, with nothing in her mind but the task of sniffing out danger in the form of explosives.

And he didn’t like the memories that the dog’s presence was stirring up. Didn’t like thinking of Sunny still over there, doing her job. Saving others as she’d saved him, intent on her work. Loyal, steadfast and unwavering until it was time to play. He’d give anything to have her race up to him again, crunchy water bottle in her mouth, banging it against him in an invitation to play.

It hurt too much.

“Go home, dog,” he said gruffly.

The dog didn’t move.

“Get,” he said, louder, fiercer.

For a moment longer the dog just sat, staring at him. And then, finally, he got to his feet and, with a last look, trotted off.

Relieved, Tate turned to go pick up his tools.

And saw his neighbor standing next to the tree where she’d left the panel. Watching.

He had no idea how long she’d been there. Maybe she was the reason for the tickle at the back of his neck, not the dog. She was frowning, clearly not happy about something. She shifted her gaze to the departing Cutter and back to him. Then she gave a shake of her head, turned on her heel and headed back toward her house.

She couldn’t have said more clearly that she didn’t like the way he’d reacted to the dog. He wasn’t proud of it himself, but it had come from someplace deep inside. He didn’t want the dog around. He brought on too many memories Tate couldn’t do anything about.

And it was just as well Lacy Steele was peeved at him. Maybe she’d stay away.

Chapter 5

It really wasn’t fair, Lacy thought as she paused in the garden to check the status of her recently transplanted tomatoes.

Grumpy people should look it, wear permanent scowls or have eyebrows forever lowered over irritated expressions.

They should not be tall, built and sexy, with gorgeous hazel eyes that seemed to change color as you looked.

So quit looking, she ordered herself.

Besides, no amount of sexy attractiveness made up for coldness toward an innocent animal. A helpful innocent animal, in fact. Hadn’t the dog discovered the source of the explosion, led the investigator right to it?

She herself found the dog charming, with his alert look and apparently instinctive knowledge of what was needed. He’d gotten her prickly neighbor to sit down when he needed to, when he’d been clearly determined to stay on his unsteady feet, hadn’t he? The dog was clever and—

Here.

She thought he’d gone, but Cutter had merely decamped to her yard and was now approaching her, slowly. She straightened from her inspection of a branch filled with tiny yellow blossoms that would hopefully become tasty, sweet, homegrown tomatoes, and some that had already begun growing tiny green rounds the size of a pea. She smiled at him.

“Well, hello, my fine lad. Looking for a better welcome? You’ll certainly find that here.”

At her first words, or maybe her tone, the dog’s tail began to wag and he trotted up to her. She was scratching his ears, smiling at the way he leaned into it. When she glanced back next door, she almost hoped her new neighbor was there, noticing the welcome the dog was getting here. A proper welcome for a sweet dog. The kind of welcome Martin would have given him. Funny, she still thought of the house as Martin’s, even though—

He was there, all right. Movement caught her gaze, and she looked in time to see him bend to pick up the tools he’d been using to affix the panel she’d provided over the damage. But he suddenly stopped, grabbing at his left shoulder in an oddly jerky motion. As he rubbed at the back of it, she remembered the scar. And the new damage done in the blast. Remorse flooded her. He had reason to be cranky. She chastised herself for judging—again—and vowed not to do it anymore, no matter how grouchy Tate McLaughlin got.