Kathy Altman - The Other Soldier

“I mean, I’m tired. I can’t keep up anymore. For Pete’s sake, I’m old.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, at his sunbaked skin and disappointed shoulders. She fought the sudden sting of helpless tears.

“You’re not old. But you are right. I work you too hard. I’m sorry, I get so caught up in—” She swallowed. “I’ll figure something out. Get you some help. Why don’t you take it easy for a few days? I’ll handle tomorrow’s delivery.”

“You think I don’t know you can’t afford to hire anyone else right now? And you can’t run this place by yourself. There’s the spring contract orders to fill and more coming in every day. Unless you’ve found the secret to gettin’ by on a few hours’ sleep every day, I don’t see the harm in lettin’ the man help out.”

“I thought I’d made myself clear. That’s not going to happen.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“I think you’re more worried about him than me. Since when did you become so charitable?”

“Since when did you become so selfish?”

Parker stumbled back a step and banged up against the table. Harris looked at her, his eyes sad.

“You need help. He needs to help. Gardening’s therapy. You’re not the only one suffering, my girl.”

“But Nat—”

“Needs to learn not to hightail it every time she sees a man in uniform. She also needs to learn the power of forgiveness. And who’s she gonna learn that from, if not you?”

“I can’t forgive him. You don’t know what you’re asking. Even he knew better than to ask for that.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it.” He waited a beat. “All I’m askin’ is for you to try.”

Parker shook her head. “That’s too much. I’m trying to rebuild here. Not just the greenhouses, but our lives. I don’t have time for anything—or anyone—that threatens that.”

Harris didn’t say a word. Not that she’d expected him to. How could he argue with her wanting to put her family first?

CHAPTER TWO

REID SQUINTED THROUGH the windshield. The motel outside Castle Creek looked about as inviting as a trailer park after a tornado. But according to Harris Briggs, it was his only option. Unless he wanted to sleep in the Jeep.

Still, the dingy, mildew-coated structure almost made him homesick for the pitiful piece of real estate he’d been assigned over in southern Afghanistan—which had included room for his bunk and his footlocker, and not much else.

Hell, who was he kidding? He’d been homesick for his unit since stepping off that cargo plane at Godman Army Airfield. Especially after learning he’d been kicked out of Fort Knox housing. New regulations—all unmarried soldiers had to find accommodations off-post. His shoulders tightened, and he rolled them back to shrug off the tension.

He pulled into the motel’s crumbling asphalt lot and parked in front of a battered metal post turned golden by the afternoon sun. The pole supported a newly made sign that read Sleep at Joe’s.

Clever. And just the kind of place he didn’t need. Odds were that behind the registration desk lurked an attention-starved, big-haired woman who would set aside her latest diet bible and siphon Reid for information like she was a ’78 Lincoln and he was the last gas pump for five hundred miles.

The backseat of the Jeep was looking better every second.

Then he thought about his unit over in the sandbox, and how during missions they had to sleep in trenches dug for protection from mortar fire. What did he have to complain about? He got out of the Jeep, stepped over a cluster of wilting daffodils and entered the office.

The clerk manning the desk was just that—a man. Despite his stubbly jaw and frayed jeans and T, he didn’t seem the casual-conversation type. And the book he set aside when Reid walked in had nothing to do with weight loss—it was bulky, yellow and full of telephone numbers.

The clerk gave Reid and his uniform the once-over and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Need directions?”

The man’s eyes held respect. Reid lowered his own gaze and pulled his wallet from a back pocket. “Only to an available room.” He slid a credit card across the counter. The clerk didn’t even glance at it.

“Sorry, man. Not open for business yet.”

Damn. “Any recommendations?”

“There’s a Motel 6 twenty-five miles east.”

“Thanks.” The phone trilled and the man nodded, then turned away. Reid was at the door when he called after him. “Not one to ask for favors, are you?”

Slowly Reid turned. “Meaning?”

“That was Harris Briggs on the phone. Said he’d told you to mention his name.” The clerk shrugged. “I have a room that’s clean but postapocalyptic ugly. I just bought the place. The reno’s barely started.”

“I can handle a lot of ugly.”

Another survey of his uniform. “Bet you can.” The clerk pushed across a registration form. “Staying long?”

“No idea.”

“Just keep me posted.”

Reid signed the form and offered his hand. “Reid Macfarland.”

“Joe Gallahan.” He held out a key card. “Room six. Questions?”

“Yeah. Where can I get something to eat?”

An hour later, on the toaster-size TV—hell, a laptop could have gotten a better picture—James Coburn demonstrated his prowess with a knife in The Magnificent Seven while Reid eyed the remains of a pepperoni pizza that had looked a lot better than it tasted. He’d wanted to do better than fast food, but he hadn’t had the energy to take Gallahan’s advice and get something to eat in the next town.

Of course if he had, he’d have missed soaking in the atmosphere of Castle Creek’s only motel. He looked around with a grimace. The place must have been sitting empty for years. Considering what kinds of creatures had probably been hanging out rent-free, he probably shouldn’t be making jokes.

Probably shouldn’t be breathing without a mask, either.

Gallahan had one hell of a job ahead of him.

If the motel’s exterior, with its lime-green paint, scraggly landscaping and crevice-ridden concrete qualified as a horror flick, then the interior had to be every Michael-Myers-on-Halloween-night movie ever made spliced into one gory, never-ending saga.

The cheap paneling on the walls bore twice as many scars as the plastic covering Parker Dean’s greenhouses. Cigarette burns decorated the dresser, the table and the nightstand. He suspected that the carpet, which had been repaired many times over with duct tape, hadn’t started out that muddy-brown color. And someone had painted the ceiling turquoise, presumably to cover up water stains. Reid muttered a quick prayer that it didn’t rain.

But despite the less-than-lovely interior, the room was clean, just as Gallahan had promised. Not a speck of dust in sight. Someone had worshipped the bathroom with a scrub brush, and the fresh scent of lemon lingered just beneath the smell of tomato sauce.

He let the slice of pizza fall back into the box and found himself wondering what kind of meal Parker Dean and her daughter were sitting down to. Something healthy and hearty, no doubt. Like roast beef and mashed potatoes. Or spaghetti with meatballs. He frowned at the grease-laden pizza and closed the lid.

Then again, maybe she didn’t have time to cook, since she was a single parent. Thanks to him.

He grabbed the TV remote and stabbed at the power button. Wondered for the hundredth time if he’d done the right thing, coming to Castle Creek.

No way Harris Briggs would be able to talk Mrs. Dean into letting him help out. And even if he did, was it fair of Reid to do so? What the hell had he been thinking, expecting a grieving family to accommodate the man responsible for their grieving in the first place?