Another whimper stopped him short.
What the hell? He angled toward the sound, searching only to see Trooper bowing down by the bed. The dog scrambled underneath and barked. Shit. He didn’t have time to deal with the dog’s fear of fireworks. He squatted, snapping his fingers. “Come on, Trooper. It’s okay, boy.”
Then he noticed Trooper wasn’t alone underneath the high four-poster bed. The General lay flat on his stomach, eyes narrowed.
“Soldier,” the General hissed. “Come down here in the bunker quick before you get your damn fool head shot off.”
Mike looked under the bed, then at the window where fireworks still lit up sky, and toward the television replaying a decades-old battle. The old warrior must be caught in some PTSD episode, somehow made worse by Alzheimer’s placing him firmly in that moment for real, unable to pull himself out. The fireworks and the movie must have combined to create some kind of personal hell.
Mike turned off the television, hoping for a miraculous turnaround in Gramps’s state of mind, but he stayed under the bed, gnarled fingers digging into the carpet. Trooper scooted around in a circle until just his nose poked out. Mike wrestled with everything he’d learned about dealing with the man and realized nothing he said or did could bring the General back to the present. There seemed to be nothing more to do than climb into that place in time with him and help him through.
Dropping to the floor, Mike commando crawled on his belly, carpet burning along his bare arms instead of sand, until he wedged under the bed, Trooper between him and the General.
“Good job, soldier, good job.”
Soldier. The General avoided names when he was confused. He didn’t even use a rank. Mike said, “My name’s Sergeant Kowalski, sir.”
He left it open-ended for an answer.
Gramps nodded, his face tight, not registering that he lay beside a gym shoe and a pile of dust bunnies. “I’m Captain McDaniel. Glad to meet you, Sergeant. Looks like we may be holed up here for a few hours till the firefight passes.”
God, he hoped the Hammonds ran out of fireworks sooner rather than later. Mike buried his hand in the dog’s fur, rubbing the velvety ears. “Thanks for sharing the space with me.”
“Is this your first tour of duty in a war zone?”
“No, sir. I’ve been overseas twice.” He kept his answers generic, not sure exactly which war zone the “Captain” was currently in. Doing the math on where Joshua would have been at that time could be tricky if he picked the wrong place. And he’d noticed sometimes Joshua McDaniel moved from year to year in his past, blending memories and moments.
“Do you have a girl back home?”
Now wasn’t that a loaded question? “Yes, sir.” The shadows flickered under the bed, a quilt trailing over the side swaying from the ceiling fan circulating air. “There is a special woman in my life.”
“Me, too. My wife, Millie. We have two little ones, a boy and a girl. They’re what keeps me going on days like this.”
A son and daughter. In the old man’s mind, Allen was only a kid. And the daughter? Mike remembered Sierra telling him once that she’d been named for an aunt she never met, her father’s sister who’d died young of a ruptured appendix.
A series of firecrackers snapped his every last nerve. Trooper rested his head on the General’s arm, and Mike realized that even in his fear, the dog was seeking to comfort more than be comforted. So many times Trooper had done the same for them overseas.
The boom of the fireworks echoed again, mingling with the noise of the cuckoo clock piled on top, a strange blend of war and home. Another sound snaked through as a voice called out, “Sierra?” Lacey must be at the bottom of the stairs. “Sierra? Do you know if the dishes in the dishwasher are clean or dirty? And where did you hide Gramps’s pills?”
The General blinked, confusion dulling his blue eyes to a murky shade in the darkness under the bed. “Sierra?” He turned his head toward the dog. “Trooper? Where’s Millie? I’m not . . . I don’t understand . . . Sergeant Kowalski?”
Ah hell. Sympathy for the man’s confusion kicked through Mike. “Sir, would you like to, uh”—he searched for a generic phrase that would cover any time frame, any era, any possible mind-set for the General’s confused state—“head down to the chow hall for a late-night snack?”
The shadows shifted in the old man’s eyes like cataracts, then cleared. “I think I want to get out from under this damn bed before anyone sees us.”
“Yes, sir. Agreed.”
Mike commando crawled back out, sweeping the trailing blanket out of the way before he stood. Trooper scrambled free with the shoe in his mouth, then plunked on his butt, sitting, waiting. The General moved slower. Age stole agility as well as memories. Mike extended a hand and helped him to his feet.
Gramps reached to tuck in his T-shirt with Army stamped across the front in bold type, then stopped with a sigh. “Shit.”
“Something wrong, sir?” Mike asked, then saw.
A wet stain splotched the front of the General’s sweatpants. Whether from fear or incontinence, he’d urinated on himself while under the bed. It seemed age was a beast damned determined to steal dignity as well.
Mike turned his back and tugged open drawers until he found a change of clothes, not too tough since the drawer contained only underwear, sweatpants and tees. All alike. He passed a pair of gray sweats to the General without glancing back. “Here, sir. I’ll just go now and check on . . . stuff.”
He heard a rustling behind him as he walked to the half-open door. He started to slip out only to find Sierra standing with her back against the wall, face pale. How long had she been there?
Before he could open his mouth to explain or reach out to comfort her, Lacey’s voice drifted down the hall again. “Sierra?” Her voice grew closer, louder. “Where are you? I need to find Gramps’s meds.”
“Uh, Mom,” Sierra shouted back, “hold on. I’ll check in his room.”
She started past. Mike reached out to stop her, trying to warn her, but his brain was still more than a little scrambled from the fireworks and witnessing the General’s struggle.
Sierra pushed the door open and—thank God, her grandfather was dressed in dry clothes. Since he always wore the same thing, it was as if nothing had happened.
Except his pile of soiled clothes lay on the floor behind him.
Damn it. Mike launched forward, desperate for some distraction to preserve the old man’s dignity a little longer, to shield Sierra from this one moment of pain in the middle of so much. Even if that meant “accidentally” tripping into her so she would stumble to the side. But at the last second, Trooper dropped the shoe and lifted his leg.
The dog aimed straight for pants on the floor. Bull’s-eye. The yellow stream nailed the wet spot on the clothes dead-on.
Sierra gasped. “Trooper! What are you doing? You naughty dog.” She charged into the room, grabbed him by the collar with one hand. With her other, she snatched up the clothes and pitched them into the laundry hamper by the closet. “No! Let’s go outside, boy, and you sure owe Gramps an apology.”
She angled past with the dog trotting alongside. “Mike, we can talk later. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said softly, stroking a hand down her back only to realize more than giving comfort, he was taking comfort from touching her.
He watched her until she disappeared down the hall. Then he glanced back at the General. “We should head into the kitchen. Lacey said something about time for your meds.”
Nodding, the General joined him, clapping him once on the back. “Thank you, son.”
And in spite of the generic name, somehow Mike knew that in this moment, those eyes were crystal clear, so much so, Mike could see straight into his own dark future.
* * *
SIERRA WAITED FOR
Mike in his studio apartment, a space that would be empty and hers again all too soon. Her heart had been racing since she overheard him and her grandfather. When the television had turned off, she’d figured there must be something wrong. Gramps never turned off the TV.
She’d heard and seen enough through the crack in the partially open door to realize what was going on. Enough to break her heart in half seeing Mike there under the bed, doing his best to comfort her grandfather. She’d stood in the hall with her hand pressed to her mouth to hold back her sobs.
God, she couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. Not with it staring her so firmly in the face. She was still in love with Mike. Her legs folded under her and she sat on the edge of the mattress. This love wasn’t some beautiful sonnet. It was scary and tumultuous, full of an uncertain future. She didn’t know if she could be the kind of woman he needed.
But she couldn’t face the prospect of letting him go again.
Finally, she heard his footsteps climbing the outside stairway. Steady, sure-footed. How strange that he called himself a rebel, yet he was the most reliable man she’d ever known.
The door opened and Mike walked through, his features gaunt with a stress deeper than any she’d seen on his face before. She’d been so immersed in her family troubles, she hadn’t thought about the fact this was supposed to be a decompression month for Mike for a reason.
He’d just come back from war, yet he’d walked right into all her family land mines, selflessly helping them when she should have offered him so much better.
She clenched her fists in the bedspread, unsure quite how to approach him. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a Gatorade.
“I appreciate what you did for my grandfather tonight.”
“I didn’t do anything except be there.” He tipped back the bottle and drained the blue sports drink.
She wouldn’t let him minimize what he’d gone through for her grandfather. “That’s not as easy as it sounds when he’s in another world, another time.”
“I just went there with him.”
Willingly, he’d returned to the hell of war for another person. Her heart was in her throat. “That couldn’t have been easy for you, either.”
He flipped his empty bottle into the recycling bin and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you about to recommend I go to counseling like your brother?”
He was putting up walls between them. No question. And she wouldn’t let him. Not this time. She didn’t know where they were going with their relationship or how to handle this love filling every corner of her heart. But she damn well wouldn’t walk away from him while he was so clearly hurting. “I was going to offer to listen if you want to talk. If you don’t, I thought I would . . . just be with you.”
“For how long?” Tension showed in the flex of his jawline. The tic beneath one eye.
She hated that she contributed to that stress. That she hadn’t been there for him enough. That she had no idea where their relationship was headed.
“What do you mean?” She hoped she’d misunderstood. But she wasn’t passing up an opportunity to talk. Not now that she realized he’d gladly duck serious conversation wherever possible.
“How many times have you said you don’t want to live your mother’s life?” he pressed, diving right into her fears. “You know that’s all I have to offer, and making a much lower salary than your dad.”
“I’ve never cared about money.” She was a bargain bin clothes shopper who preferred to spend her money on good books. “You know that about me.”
“Well, thank God for that much.” He half smiled, the humor never quite reaching his golden brown eyes. “What a relief to know you’re not after me for my wide-screen television and beat-up truck.”
Unable to stand watching him in pain a second longer, she stood, slowly unbuttoning the white cotton blouse she’d worn to the university today and offering the one distraction that always worked for them, even if only temporarily. “Right now, what I want most of all, is you. With your clothes off and your hands on me.”
Seventeen
A
FTER THE HELL
he’d just gone through stepping into a mental war zone with the General, there was nothing Mike wanted more right now than to lose himself in what Sierra was offering, one sweet button at a time.
But he was teetering on the edge here, his head in a messed-up place, his emotions tied in knots thinking about losing her. He needed to lock all that down and make this a night she wouldn’t forget. This was all-or-nothing time.
She reached for the clip in her hair and tugged it free with one hand, releasing a waterfall of silky blond hair down her shoulders. She was a fantasy come to life, his for the taking.
“Hold that thought.” He scrambled for the handle on the refrigerator door. “Something sweet to top off dinner sounds about right.”
“I’ve got dessert right here,” she teased, walking her fingers up his bent spine while he dug in the fridge.
Sensation skittered over his flesh, landing in a whole lot of heat headed south. The rush of blood was damn near making him light-headed. He blinked and made a grab for the leftover caramel sauce he’d been looking for. Backing away, he slammed the door to the icebox.
Turning, he had to face Sierra before he could get to the microwave, but the sight of her in an undone blouse with her hair spilling down her shoulders and one tawny curl skimming the top of high, round breasts made him forget everything else. She took a step toward him and his thoughts went up in flames along with the rest of him.
The container of caramel sauce clunked to the counter behind her, his arms going around her. With a groan, he slid his hands around her waist and drew her to him, hip to hip.
Yeah
.
He molded her to him, her breasts flattening against his chest, her slender arms sliding around his neck. She smelled good. Tasted better. He backed her into the kitchen counter next to the microwave and lifted her, setting her on the smooth butcher block top and making room for himself between her thighs.
Putting her lace-covered breasts right at eye level.
“The logistics of this could get complicated,” Sierra whispered, shrugging off her unbuttoned blouse until it fell down her arms and landed in a pool of white cotton behind her, covering up the empty canisters for flour and sugar. “There’s not a lot of room to work.”