Jillian Hart - The Soldier's Holiday Vow

“That’s right,” Chessie answered curtly from across the room.

“I’m fine.” Sure, her arm hurt, but she wasn’t about to be waited on. She could take care of herself.

“You had best stay off your feet, September. You need to heal.” His warm, caring baritone wrapped around her like a wool blanket, soothing and tender. Caring was in the layers of his voice, in the lines crinkling pleasantly at the corners of his eyes, in the space between them.

He really is a nice man, she thought. She simply had to be careful so the memories couldn’t hurt her. So he couldn’t hurt her. She slipped away from the counter and from him. “Nobody needs to worry about me. It was a hard fall, true, but I wasn’t hurt like Crystal. Did you hear? She’s doing better. I heard from her mom that she was already asking when she could go riding again.”

“That’s a good sign. She’s a trooper. I hope she’s back in the saddle before long.”

“Me, too. You were great with her. I know all about your training, of course, but to see it in action, it was impressive.”

“Just your tax dollars at work.” He opened the box tops for Chessie, so she didn’t have to put down her plate to dish up, but his gaze remained firmly on September. “You kept the girl alive until help came. You made a real difference.”

“I didn’t do much, and you already said that earlier.”

“That doesn’t make it less true.” He took the next plate, watching her carefully. “Ham and pineapple or the works?”

“A slice of both, please.” She was ashen, all the color drained from her cheeks, her wide brown eyes too big for her face. Had his presence done that to her? Or her ordeal? She looked fragile with her casted arm in a sling.

“I’ll dish you up. Go ahead and sit down,” he told her. “Join your sister.”

She nodded once in acknowledgment, watching him closely with appreciation or caution, he couldn’t tell which. Maybe a little bit of both. He chose the largest slices and slid them onto her plate, aware of every step she took through the kitchen of granite counters and white cabinets to the seating arrangement in a sunny bay window nook. Her sister spoke to her in low tones, and the murmur of women’s voices was a strange, musical sound he wasn’t accustomed to. But he liked it. He was more used to the sound of plane engines, gunfire in the shooting range and barked orders rising above it all in a no-nonsense cadence.

He reached for the last plate and served himself two slices of the works. Why was he here? He couldn’t quite say. He wanted to believe he’d come because Tim would have wanted him to make sure September was well.

That wasn’t the whole of it. He had to be honest. He closed the tops to the pizza boxes and crossed over to the women. His boots knelled as loud as a jackhammer on her wood floor, or at least it felt that way because when the women looked up, their conversation silenced. One studied him with suspicion, the other with a hint of care. That surprised him. Her caring couldn’t be personal. He’d never had the chance to know September much, it was hard to get to know any civilian with his job, but he knew she was gentle and kind to all she met—even to a guy like him. Emotion tugged within him, distant and unfamiliar, and he dismissed it. He was simply glad for the luxury of her company, that’s all.

“The motorcycle is new,” she began after her sister said the blessing. “I didn’t know you rode.”

“Since high school, but I sold my Honda after I enlisted.” He tried not to look at her. Maybe it would make the unaccustomed feelings within him fade instead of live. “Last year I realized I missed riding, so I got another bike. I figured why not?”

Small talk. That’s what this was. It was uncomfortable. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed, he thought, as he took his first bite of pizza. The taste of spicy sauce, cheese, dough and pepperoni ought to overpower everything he was feeling, but it didn’t come close. He cared about her. He hadn’t planned on it, but his feelings were there just the same. The threads knotted up inside him tightened; he didn’t dare look at those hidden feelings.

“I had forgotten.” She set her pizza on her plate. The tiniest bite had been taken from the end of the slice. “You, Tim and his brother, Pierce, had dirt bikes when you were kids.”

“My mom didn’t like the idea of me speeding around on the back of a motorized bike, as I was prone to getting hurt on the regular two-wheeled variety, but I didn’t relent and she finally gave in. Tim, Pierce and me, we rode far and wide. I think at one point we knew every trail and old forgotten logging road in two national forests.”

“It sounds similar to how we grew up, right, Chessie?” September glanced across the table at her sister, and her look said, Play nice.

He appreciated that. The table was a small round one, and that meant there wasn’t much room between him and either lady. He could feel icy dislike radiating off September’s sister like vapor off dry ice. The only thing worse was the awareness of September, how she was close, how he wanted her to be closer. He wanted to comfort her. Even he could see that she’d hit a rough patch.

“Instead of dirt bikes, we had horses.” When she spoke of times past, the shadows in her eyes softened. The corners of her mouth upturned with a hint of a smile.

“Those had to be good times,” he found himself saying, as if to urge her on. As if he wanted to hear more.

“They were. We had the sweetest little mare to learn on. Clyde was twenty-two years old. Our dad was worried about us getting hurt—we were in grade school—so he would only let us get a very old and even-tempered horse.”

“Sounds like he was a good dad.”

“The best.” Dad was the reason she’d grown up living her childhood dream. He and Mom had sacrificed a lot so she could have Comanche. “He wanted us to live our dreams and he did all he could to help us work for them. Right, Chessie?”

She looked to her sister, maybe to include her in the conversation and also for an unspoken need for sisterly support. He had the distinct feeling she was uncomfortable with him. She kept avoiding direct eye contact. Maybe dropping by hadn’t been his smartest idea ever.

“Dad is stellar. They don’t make men like him anymore.” The older, sterner sister’s tone implied that Hawk fell short. Very short.

“There are plenty of good men,” September said gently. “Chessie and I were fortunate enough to take riding lessons. When we were older, we both worked in the barn to earn board for our show horses. We were suburb girls, but Mom drove us the twenty-three-mile trip each way twice a day. Sometimes more.”

“Sounds like a good mom.” His mom had suffered from depression after his dad’s passing, which was why he’d practically grown up with the neighboring Granger boys. He would have explained it all to September, but that would mean bringing up a past she shouldn’t have to deal with. Instead, he kept it simple and in the moment. “She obviously loved you both.”

“And we love her. After the divorce, she remarried and moved to San Francisco. We don’t see her like we used to, but she’s happy.” Longing weighed down her voice. Clearly she was close to her mother.

“My dad died when I was in third grade.” The words were out before he could draw them back. Once said, they couldn’t be unspoken. So much for his decision not to mention the past. He shrugged a shoulder, as if that past couldn’t hurt him anymore. “She never got over it.”

“Sometimes a woman doesn’t.” The shadows in her beautiful eyes deepened, like twilight falling.

The human heart was a fragile thing, capable of great, indestructible love and yet able to infinitely break. He bit into his second slice of pizza, crunching on a few green peppers, thinking. He didn’t believe in coincidence; he’d seen it too many times in the heat of battle and had felt God’s swift hand. He had to consider that reuniting with September was God at work. Maybe she needed a little help. Maybe he was being given a mission to be that help.