Czytaj książkę: «Operation Soldier Next Door»

Chapter 2

The chaos had ebbed, the firefighters had assured them the danger had passed and Lacy Steele’s heart had slowed to a near-normal pace after the adrenaline-induced rush of her rude awakening.

The explosion appeared to have originated in a lean-to shed on the north side of the house. The shed and whatever was in it, they said, had likely directed the force inward as much as outward. The shed was destroyed—the only things left were some shattered boards hanging at all angles. The blast had left a gaping opening at least eight feet wide in the house itself, including the roof. She knew the master bedroom was right there, and thought her neighbor was lucky to have escaped as lightly as he apparently had.

“I’d say welcome to the neighborhood, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate right now. You must be Tate McLaughlin. I’m Lacy Steele,” she said, holding out a hand to the new neighbor she hadn’t yet formally met. That he was wearing only boxers made the gesture a bit silly, she supposed, but she made it, anyway. It helped her to not gape at him; even in the dark, it was clear he was a tall, nicely put-together man with the kind of lean build she liked. What she could see of his somewhat angular face matched, and she wondered what he would look like in full light.

“I’ll bet,” he muttered, not even glancing at her, focused completely on the firefighters going over the house looking for any lingering embers or problems.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m an oxymoron.” She was used to jokes about her name, and they hadn’t bothered her in a long time.

“Not the word I was thinking.”

She didn’t ask what was. And she forgave him ignoring her proffered hand, figuring he had enough on his mind that she shouldn’t consider it rude. In fact, it was probably silly of her to do such an ordinary thing under the circumstances.

“There didn’t seem to be much of a fire, really,” she said.

“More boom than burn,” agreed the man who’d introduced himself as Quinn Foxworth, his wife as Hayley and their rather remarkable dog as Cutter.

To her new neighbor’s credit, he didn’t respond to Quinn’s comment any more than he had to hers. So it wasn’t personal. And she guessed if it had been her house that had had a gaping hole blown in it, she wouldn’t be much more talkative herself.

Quinn walked over to talk to the fire official who had arrived some minutes after the initial response, leaving her with the man she’d heard so much about. His name, she knew, had come from his grandmother. It had been her maiden name. But in everything else, he was pure McLaughlin, his grandfather had said, usually with a laugh.

“I really liked your grandfather,” she said to him. “We used to eat dinner together some nights. He’d do the meat, and I’d provide the veggies.” She waved a hand toward her garden, where she spent most of her time when she wasn’t at her computer station for her self-created job as an online reading tutor for kids. “I loved hearing his stories about his time in the war.”

He looked at her at last. And although there was nothing in his expression to make her uncomfortable, she was suddenly aware she’d come running over here wearing only the summer shorts and T-shirt she slept in.

Of course, she’d been aware from the beginning that he was out here in much less. Aware in a way that was just the tiniest bit unsettling. It wasn’t just that he had the lean, rangy build she preferred and a nice backside, it was the sleek-looking skin. So much skin...

“He didn’t talk about that much,” he finally said.

“I’m sure he sanitized them for my benefit, and he avoided talking about himself, but it was still fascinating.”

She looked back at the house, where the firefighters were clearing up, apparently satisfied now that there would be no flare-up.

“I miss him,” she said softly. She’d truly enjoyed her time with the feisty old man. She’d never known her own grandfathers, but she liked to think they would have been like Martin McLaughlin.

“You mean that,” he said, sounding not quite amazed, but at least surprised.

“Yes,” she answered simply.

After a long moment he lowered his gaze and said quietly, “Thank you.”

Something crashed and his head snapped toward the house. He winced at his own movement. The medics had bandaged his foot—a minor cut from a sliver rather than a shard of broken glass. His shoulder had a wound on the edge of needing stitches, which he had refused. The medics had suggested they take him to the hospital to be checked for any sort of head injury. He’d refused that, too, saying he’d had a concussion or two in his life and knew the signs.

She hoped he was right, and he’d just moved too quickly.

When his expression cleared she spoke again, hoping to distract him from the fact that the crash had been another chunk of his roof caving in. “He was so very proud of you, and your service.”

His gaze seemed to soften for a moment, but his voice didn’t when he finally said, “He was the only one.”

She blinked. “That’s not true. I didn’t even know you except by name, and I was proud.”

He drew back slightly at that. As if he didn’t like the idea that he’d been a topic of discussion.

“Well, Tate, I’m glad this wasn’t any worse.”

“I’m sure. Could have been big enough to take out a chunk of your place, too.”

Lacy sighed inwardly. Acerbic was one thing, and given what had happened he had the right, but it was the middle of the night, she’d stayed up too late reading and she was tired of working so hard to simply have a civil conversation when she was only trying to help.

“In which case you’d probably be dead, and I’d have missed the sheer pleasure of meeting you.”

His mouth quirked. It wasn’t a smile, not even close, but it was an improvement over the understandably grim expression he’d been wearing.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little...”

That was an improvement, too, she thought. “Of course.”

He nodded. Then he turned and started walking toward Quinn and the uniformed man. Only now, when the sunrise had brightened the sky, did she see the thick, long scar that wrapped around from his spine to his side, just above his waist. A second, thinner scar ran up the back of his left shoulder, his neck and twisted into the hair at the back of his head. Short hair, still almost military short, but long enough that she could see the new hair growth near the scar was coming in a silvery white rather than dark like the rest.

That scar had the reddish tinge that said it was newer rather than old. The thought of the kind of injury that would have left that, that had actually made his hair change color, made her shiver despite the early sun’s warmth. She guessed that was the injury that had sent him home from overseas. Guessed his recovery had been long and hard.

And then to come home to this, on his first night in his grandfather’s house... She’d be on her knees, probably wailing, she thought with a grimace. And he was merely a little cranky.

Martin McLaughlin had said his grandson was smart, tough and brave. She supposed the scars were proof enough of that, if she’d needed any after the medals Martin had shown her.

I think the boy sends them to me because I know what war is.

I think he sends them to you because he loves you and wants you to be proud of him.

She’d forgotten that conversation until now. And again she felt the tug of sadness since she genuinely had liked Martin and truly would miss him.

He’d also said the grandson who shared his birthday had a generous soul, a good heart that had been hurt too often and was a gentleman to the core. She remembered smiling at the word rarely used these days. Those qualities she wasn’t so sure of, but it was hardly fair to judge him under these circumstances.

Martin had definitely been right about one thing. His grandson was a hero. And for that he deserved all the patience she could muster.

She walked over to where the man who had rolled up in the car labeled Battalion Chief was standing with the Foxworths and Tate. She got there just as another man in turnouts walked up. The chief frowned when he saw the dog at the man’s heels. She supposed they were worried about the dog getting in the way, or perhaps messing up whatever investigation they had to do. But the firefighter quickly forestalled his boss.

“Yeah, I know, Chief. But in fact, he probably just saved us a lot of time.”

The frown deepened. “How?”

“We found that propane tank here, right? Well, he just led me right to what’s left of a second five-gallon propane tank a few yards from the house. In really bad shape. Looks like that might have been our explosion.”

The man drew back. And Lacy saw that Quinn Foxworth was frowning, as well—although clearly not surprised that his dog had apparently provided a major clue to the cause of this middle-of-the-night chaos.

“Those things don’t blow up easily,” he said.

The chief nodded. “Not without a leak and some pretty extreme heat.”

“The arson guys and the lab’ll have to figure it out.” The man grimaced. “Maybe in a month, if we’re lucky. They’re pretty backed up.”

“I’ve got some friends with access to the fed’s lab, if that’ll help,” Quinn said, and Lacy guessed his tone was purposefully neutral.

Lacy saw the chief’s gaze shift to Quinn. “Heard about you Foxworth folks. Word is you know what you’re doing and you don’t get in the way.”

“A reputation we’ve worked hard to build,” Quinn answered.

“Brett Dunbar’s a friend of mine,” the man said.

Quinn smiled. Widely. “And of ours. A good friend. As is his girlfriend.”

Both men nodded, connections established. Lacy was pondering the interesting way things worked when something occurred to her.

“I saw someone out here, just after midnight,” she said. “I was up reading, and when I turned out the light I looked outside and saw someone in the yard.” She glanced at Tate. “I thought it must have been you, still getting settled in.”

He shook his head, and finally spoke.

“It wasn’t me. I was tired, crashed early. And my grandfather,” he added, “would never keep a leaking propane tank, even a small one.”

The chief considered that for a moment. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Tate grimaced. “A while before my last deployment. So a couple of years ago.”

Lacy bet he wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye. She felt awful for him, but glad for Martin that the illness that had taken him had been quick. He would have wanted it that way.

“How did he seem?”

“Fine. Like always.”

“How old was he?”

Lacy realized where the man was going, and hastened to head him off. “Martin McLaughlin was sharp as a tack until the very end. We should all be so clearheaded and active now, let alone at ninety-three.”

The chief shifted his attention to her. “You knew him?”

“Yes. I was there, and talked with him barely an hour before he passed, and he was still mentally together.”

Tate went very still. “You were...with him?”

She glanced at him. “Yes. Your father hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet and I didn’t want Martin to be alone.”

He stared at her silently. In the morning light she realized his eyes were a greenish hazel, like his grandfather’s. The moment stretched, the voices of the others as they discussed the situation fading out somehow. Only when she sucked in a deep gulp of air did she realize she had actually stopped breathing.

“—to board up that hole when we’re finished, if you’ve got something we can use,” the chief was saying.

Tate shook his head, as if he were still fuzzy.

Or as if he’d been as caught by that long moment as she had been.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. It sounded automatic, as if it were a standard response. As if whatever it was, he was used to handling it.

“I’ve got some panels from my greenhouse you could use temporarily,” she said. “I think a couple of them would cover that gap. That and a tarp for the roof would keep the wildlife out, at least.”

His mouth twisted ruefully. “I’ll take the local raccoon over scorpions.”

She made a face. “I think I’d take anything with fur over scorpions.”

He gave her a fleeting smile. Definitely improving, she thought. “Speaking of fur,” he said, looking at Quinn, who in turn was studying him assessingly, “that’s quite a dog. Yours, I assume?”

“My wife’s first,” he said, “but now, yes.”

“Interesting that he headed for an explosion.”

Lacy hadn’t thought of that, but he had a point. Her mother’s ball of fluff would still be cowering under the bed.

“To be expected, once you get to know him,” Quinn said.

“And finding the cause of explosions?” She might just have met him, but she could tell Tate McLaughlin had an idea in his head.

“That, in particular, is a new one to me,” Quinn answered, “but again, knowing him, not surprising.”

“He looks too young to be retired. But he acts trained.”

So that was it. He was wondering if the dog had been a working dog, military or police, she guessed.

“Don’t know. He just showed up on Hayley’s doorstep one day and stayed. So while I wish I could take the credit,” Quinn said with a grin, “he came that way. I’ve only fine-tuned what was already there. He’s a wonder, that dog.”

Lacy couldn’t argue with that. But it wasn’t the finding of the cause of the explosion she was thinking of.

She was thinking of those moments when the dog had somehow managed to make Tate McLaughlin do what he needed to do—sit down. When the man had responded to the dog in a way he didn’t to the sudden influx of concerned neighbors.

If the animal hadn’t been trained as a therapy dog, he surely had the instincts.

And it appeared her new neighbor just might need that kind of help.