Kathy Altman - The Other Soldier

She opened her eyes to find Eugenia watching her anxiously. Meanwhile Harris’s gruff voice was advising her that unless they wanted to pay to have the truck towed all the way to the store, they’d better find another way to get the plants delivered. And soon. Because the supermarket only accepted deliveries until eight.

And if Castle Creek Growers didn’t meet that deadline, they’d be in breach of contract. Which meant they wouldn’t be paid. Which meant Parker wouldn’t be able to afford the groceries she’d already plunked into her cart.

“I’ll bring Pete,” she said into the phone. “Where exactly are you?”

Once she disconnected Eugenia shook her head. “Parker, you can’t take Pete. Today’s Friday. The garage closes early.”

Parker choked out a laugh. “Of course it does. Guess I’ll just have to go by his house.” Which would take her fifteen minutes longer. Each way.

“Why don’t you check Snoozy’s first? His pickup’s usually there when I drive by in the evenings.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Parker jammed her phone back into her purse. How the heck would she manage if Pete couldn’t fix her truck?

* * *

WHEN PARKER PUSHED INTO the bar’s dim interior, Snoozy had Glenn Miller playing. Normally that would have delighted her, but the current situation demanded the most plaintive of country songs. Stress goaded her heart rate into a faster pace as she narrowed her eyes and scanned the room. A lot of familiar faces, but no—oh, Lord. What was he doing here?

Corporal Reid Macfarland shared a table with Joe Gallahan and Noble Johnson. Noble was saying something in his I-snack-on-thumbtacks voice and Joe laughed out loud, while Macfarland showed his approval by tipping his beer. Parker felt that now-familiar surge of resentment, the one that set off sparks behind her breastbone. How dare he party—and with her neighbors—after taking away her husband’s ability to drink, to smile, to laugh?

After taking away his life.

Her breath hitched and she turned away before the trio could spot her. Not fair, Parker Anne. She’d been struggling to move on for thirteen months. Of course he would be, too. Which was why he’d come looking for her in Castle Creek.

Not fair, no. But no one had ever accused grief of being rational. And right now she cared about rational as much as she cared about facials and high heels.

“Parker.”

She cringed. She hadn’t turned away quickly enough.

She swung around. Joe was crossing the room toward her. Behind him Noble remained seated, while the corporal stood beside the table, his expression wary.

“Everything all right?” Joe asked.

“I’m looking for Pete Lowry. Have you seen him?”

“He left about an hour ago. Said something about visiting his folks in Harrisburg. Why?”

Parker clamped her teeth together. “Nothing, I—I just need a mechanic.”

“Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Joe asked, as Macfarland came up behind him.

“Mrs. Dean.” He looked so different out of uniform. In his jeans and long-sleeved thermal shirt he looked like one of the guys. Like someone who might have hung out with Tim.

Annoyed at the direction of her thoughts, she focused her attention on Joe, who looked amused.

“What’s with the formality? I thought you two were friends.”

Parker stiffened. Yeah. And Elvis was alive and selling cheesecakes in the Bronx.

Macfarland’s gaze flickered, then he raised an eyebrow. “Anything I can help with?”

“She has car problems,” Joe said.

“Truck problems, actually.”

“Briggs is out on a delivery?” She nodded, surprised, and Macfarland turned to Joe. “Anyone around here have a panel truck we could borrow?”

So now he was trying to be a hero? Parker shook her head. “Don’t bother. I’ll figure something out.”

“You may not have to.” Macfarland gave Joe an elbow. “Anyone?”

“Pete.”

“The same Pete who’s out of town? There’s got to be someone else.”

With a yawn, Snoozy leaned on the bar. “Beanie Watson drives a chip truck. But he’s still out making deliveries.”

Macfarland looked at Parker. “You on a timeline?”

She spoke through lips that felt like hardening concrete. “Store closes at eight.”

“Then we’d better get a move on. We’ll start with my Jeep.” He turned to face the room and raised his voice. “Anyone here with an SUV or a closed-bed truck willing to help us transport some greenery? Parker Dean here’s got a truck out of commission and a delivery due to—” he looked at her and she mumbled a response “—Cherry Point by eight o’clock. We can meet back here afterward and the next two rounds are on me. Any takers?”

A swell of chatter. Joe held up a hand. “Let’s rephrase that. Any takers who are reasonably sober?”

A few customers stood and the despair holding Parker hostage gave way to hope. At the same time she wished the person responsible for that hope had been anybody, anybody other than Corporal Reid Macfarland.

Noble Johnson pushed to his feet and hitched up his pants. “I know where we can get hold of a minivan,” he said. Everyone turned to stare and he flushed bright red. “What? Not like it’s mine.”

* * *

REID COULD SEE IT WAS killing her, having to accept his help. Which didn’t bode well for what he had in mind over the next several weeks. He got the impression, though, that it wasn’t just him. Parker didn’t want to be indebted to anyone, just as Briggs had said. And she sure has hell wished she’d never set foot inside the bar. But if they could save her delivery she’d see that getting help didn’t always have to suck.

Two hours and one sprawling, mismatched caravan later, Parker, Briggs, Gallahan, Noble, a gray-haired man in a black polo shirt who smelled like French fries, a skinny kid who looked barely twenty-one and favored light beer, and Reid all stood in the parking lot of the supermarket that, despite its ultimatum, had allowed Castle Creek Growers to make a late delivery. Parker stood in the middle of the cart-strewn parking lot, arms crossed against the night chill, and thanked her hastily assembled league of laborers.

“I don’t know what to say. You all have been so generous with your time. And your gas.”

“That was Noble,” someone called out. “He had the chili.”

Laughter, and a few choice words from Noble himself. Parker thanked everyone again, and only the tension in her jaw betrayed what her indebtedness cost her.

“Don’t forget the beer,” the same voice pleaded.

Reid assured them he’d honor his promise, then hunted down Briggs. “What about the truck?”

“I already arranged a tow. But I’m not sure why we’re botherin’.”

“I can take a look at it tomorrow.”

“You know engines?”

Reid shrugged. “I know moving parts. I’m a machinist.”

Briggs grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you’d come in handy.” Parker walked up and Briggs stopped grinning. “I know, I know. You want me to go home and tuck myself in. Maybe I’ll heat myself some milk before I change my diaper and go night-night.” He stomped off. Reid expected Parker to take off after him but she hesitated. In the dim glow cast by the light post he could see the conflicting expressions on her face. She wanted to thank him, and at the same time she wanted to tell him to go to hell.

What else did he expect? Yeah, the Army had decided not to court-martial him, or charge him with homicide, since he’d believed he was firing at enemy soldiers. He still felt like a criminal.

So he couldn’t blame her for thinking he was one.

Which meant he really didn’t want to hear her stumble through a thank-you.