11 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (5 page)

“Really? I don’t know if I have any, but I have cards.”

“I love cards.” He canted his head to her apartment. “Inside, lock the door. I’ll wait right here ‘til I hear it click. I’ll knock the wall once when I’m on my way back over so you know it’s me.”

Gratitude flared in her eyes, but she turned away too quickly for him to respond to it. “I’ll go ahead and order the pizza then.”

He gave her a thumbs-up and waited, as promised, for the door to close. As soon as the locks tumbled into place, he wheeled around and got himself into his own apartment. A bathroom break and a phone call later, he stacked a six pack of beer onto his lap but didn’t head out.

Tuck Carter, a private first class, died in Afghanistan seven months before. IED. He left a widow, Melody, and an unborn daughter. Carter’s jacket had two citations for conduct unbecoming and insubordination, both kept quiet out of respect for the family.

The information sat like a stone in his belly. He paused, chewing the information over. Fishing out his cell phone, he dialed home and his mother answered on the second ring.

“Hey baby, how you doing today?”

“I’m good, Momma. But I need your advice….” If anyone would know what to do, his mother would.

Chapter Four

Retreating into the apartment, her step seemed curiously lighter, the buzz of exhaustion underscoring every minute of the last several months muted. It didn’t make much sense, he was a complete stranger. Worse, he was probably a Marine like Tuck—no, not like Tuck.

Walking over to the playpen, she stared down at her daughter. Libby’s eyes were open, her little fists punching at the air. She cooed. Heart melting, Melody knelt and brushed her finger along Libby’s cheek.

“You’re never going to know what your daddy was really like. I promise. He died a hero’s death and that’s all you need to know. I owe him that much—for you. And I want you to have pride in your father.”
Even if I hate him
.

Which wasn’t true either. She didn’t hate Tuck. The ugly truth of the matter lay in the fact that she still loved him. No matter how many times he’d hit her or belittled her, she never stopped caring about him. It made her heartsick to feel relief over his death. Relief because he couldn’t hurt her anymore…and he would never hurt their little girl.

“Okay, you seem happy.” She grinned at the wiggling bundle in the playpen. Libby latched her tiny fingers around Melody’s. She stayed at the pen. It was always odd how happy Libby was after a doctor’s appointment, as though she knew they were trying to fix her heart.

Satisfied to just be with her daughter, she stretched her hand over for the cordless phone. The pizza place number, along with several other local take out places, was taped to the back of the receiver. The temporary housing took every consideration to make its residents comfortable.

Pizza ordered, she settled on the sofa, one hand in the playpen and watched her baby. She drifted into a half sleep—not quite awake—content to feel her daughter’s breathing and playfulness. The quiet knock on the wall followed by a tap at the door barely intruded, but she dragged herself upright and freed her finger.

Peeking through the peephole, she found Joe waiting in his chair patiently. A little flutter of nervousness beat in her chest. She liked the man, maybe too much considering the relatively short acquaintance. But she liked talking to him even more. Another adult, no ties to her former life. He didn’t know Tuck, he didn’t tell her he was sorry for her loss, and he didn’t remind her of the grief she should feel.

Pushing aside the tumble of thoughts, she pulled the door open. “Pizza’s ordered.”

“Excellent.” The warm honey in his voice soothed all the dry, parched places in her soul. He held up a six pack of beer. “Wasn’t sure if you would be up for any, but I brought my best.”

Uncertain of whether or not she should offer to help him bring the wheelchair inside, she claimed the beer and opened the door all the way. He backed up and wheeled forward, crossing the little bump of a threshold and onto the tiled entrance. He glanced around the apartment briefly, but rolled right over to the playpen.

Libby gurgled up at him and he smiled a soft greeting. “Good afternoon, little one.”

Still holding the beer, Melody walked over to him. “Libby. Her name is Libby.”

“Libby. Short for Liberty or Elizabeth?” He turned his attention to her, still wearing the warm smile and she melted a little.

“Liberty. Liberty Belle Carter.”

“Philadelphia.”

“Guilty.” Her face warmed. She dropped her gaze to her daughter. So much safer than staring at the man and the slippery, flip-flopping sensations he brought to the surface.

“I like it.”

“Thank you.” Oh God, could she get any more awkward? Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. Glancing down at the bottles, she bit her lip. “Do you want a beer?”

“I’m good. I can wait for the pizza unless you want one. In which case, I encourage it.” Was he teasing her? Once upon a time she could do that, flirt with a guy without any kind of expectation or second guessing, but apparently that skill was as rusty as her ability to laugh.

“I have a feeling I’ll be asleep in five minutes if I drink one. So how about we have coffee instead?”

“Coffee sounds great.”

“Okay. I’ll put these in the fridge.” She studied her daughter, taking a quick, mental inventory of her color, her breathing, her happiness—even the way her eyes tracked their movement. Libby stared intently up at Joe, the sweet, melted chocolate smoothness of his voice captivating her just like it did her mother.

Satisfied she could take a couple of minutes, Melody retreated to the kitchen and stored the bottles in the fridge beside a dead sandwich, three takeout boxes, and fresh formula bottles stored in the door.

Pathetic
. She cleaned out the coffee maker and started a fresh pot brewing. “Do you like cream or sugar?” she called. He’d made the coffee earlier, but she didn’t remember what he put in it.

“Whatever you have is fine.”

She grimaced. No sugar or cream in her barren kitchen, just coffee. It might be time to plan a store run or at least order in some stuff. That could all wait though. Just a couple of nights until Libby’s surgery. Panic slithered up her spine.

Three days.

If it went wrong
….

She clenched her hands, digging her fingernails into her palms.
Think positive. Focus on what you can fix
. Repeating the mantra four times, she waited while the coffee maker gurgled. A yawn crept up on her and her jaw popped from the force of it.

“Hey….” Joe’s voice so close made her jump, and she knocked a coffee mug over. It hit the floor with a thud. Fisting her hand to her chest, she stared at him. He held up both his hands, wheelchair parked next to but not quite blocking the door to the tiny kitchen. “You okay?”

“Sorry. I’m a klutz.” She half-feared disappointment curling through his expression, but the patience and kindness in his eyes never wavered.

“My fault. I forget how quiet this thing is on carpet.” He tapped the wheelchair arm for emphasis. “Did we break the mug?”

Kneeling, she examined the cup. Not even a chip. “No, apparently it’s a lot sturdier than I am.” Was her voice as wan as she felt?

“Good. They stocked these places for military, and we don’t tend to be easy on fine china.”

The lightness in the joke eased some of the tension ratcheting up her spine. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she rose, swinging her attention to the coffee maker lest they begin running down her cheeks.

“And apparently clumsy wives. I guess I was lost in thought.”

“I saw that. Look, Melody…I’m going to overstep the boundaries of polite company for a moment and you can tell me shut up and buzz off if you like. No harm. No foul. But I’m afraid I have to say something.”

Her gut clenched. “Okay…but could we have the coffee and pizza first? And maybe watch some of the game? I was looking forward to it.” It sounded lame, particularly when she knew next to nothing about the sport. To be honest, she wanted his company, to listen to him tell her about the game.

To not be alone.

“Okay.” He nodded. “If you need an ear…both of mine work real well. I can’t run or walk at the moment, but I can listen.”

A tear splashed down to land on the back of her hand, and she choked on a laugh. “You must think I’m crazy.”

“Nah. I know crazy. I think you’re beautiful. And I like you. A lot. I’d like to get to know you better, and I’d like to take certain liberties, but I’m good with a game and some pizza tonight.” The bluntness of the words greatly underscored by a note of flirting took her aback.

Turning, she stared at him. “I—” What the hell was she supposed to say to that?

He grinned. “Yes?”

She fumbled the words. “I—I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me.”

“Ah.” He nodded and a soft, encouraging smile. God, he was such a beautiful man, from the sexy curve of his lips to the dark warmth of his skin to the sharp intelligence gleaming in his eyes. “That’s ’cause most men are stupid where ladies are concerned.”

Her lips twitched. “And you’re not stupid?”

“No, ma’am. My momma taught me a long time ago that women like honesty and they don’t like games. So no games, no pretending. I like you. I want to get to know you better to see how much I do. It’s just fair that you know my intentions.”

Clearing her throat, she wiped away the trace of tears on her cheeks and reached for the coffee pot. “And if I don’t want to pursue this any further than pizza and football?”

“Then it’s my job to convince you.” He sounded so confident, so easy in his masculinity—but not arrogant.

“Okay.” She surprised herself. Picking up the mugs, she nodded toward the living room. “After you.”

He backed the chair up and swung around with ease. It allowed her a moment to watch him. The brace on his back gave him a stiff, rigid posture. Her gaze trailed over his shoulders. His olive-green T-shirt rippled along the muscles of his arms with each roll of the wheels. He was in terrific shape, and terrifically injured.

“Will you tell me what happened to you?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question, it popped out before she could catch herself.

He angled the chair near the baby and glanced at her. “If you tell me what happened to you.”

“Quid pro quo?” She put his cup on the table next to him within easy reach and circled the coffee table on her way over to the sofa. Her gaze went straight to Libby. The baby was asleep. The radiant, peaceful slumber gave Melody courage. Setting her cup down, she adjusted the blankets, pausing long enough to rest a hand against her chest. Libby’s tiny heart still beat.

“What’s wrong with her?” Joe’s voice softened to a whisper.

“She was born with a heart defect. They thought she would outgrow it, but it’s gotten worse. They need to repair one of her valves to make it stronger.”

“She’s a tough kid then.”

“The toughest. They’re doing the surgery on Monday.”

He blew out a long breath. “You have someone sitting with you Monday?”

She shook her head.

“You do now.”

By all rights, that shouldn’t have made her feel better.

But it did.

***

He edited the recount of his injuries. She didn’t need to hear about insurgents storming through the walls in an armored vehicle, the heavy fire falling on their barracks, or the three men who crashed after a fifteen hour patrol and never woke up again. He couldn’t forget the cries of the wounded, the smell of charred flesh, or the pools of blood polka-dotting the ground like sick little lily pads on the pond of death, but he didn’t mention it.

“They were under fire when we arrived. We punched through the enemy’s line. It was pretty sloppy. We took down the insurgents and went after the wounded. And we had a lot of wounded. My unit only had one corpsman; the unit hit had two, both injured. Air support was incoming and the Brits, too, but in the field, every second a wound is open is a chance for infection and death. I ordered my corpsman to see to our men, and I did what I could.”

Melody cradled the coffee mug in her hands, staring at him. “But you were injured, too.”

“Yes. But I am the captain. My job is to protect my men and bring them home. My injuries weren’t life threatening.”

That was his story and he would stick to it. He knew the whole truth and knew his men did. She didn’t need the gory details and he would walk, and by God, run again. Shock kept him from feeling most of his injuries at the time. The bullet in his back damaged the bone, but left the nerves. A one-in-a-million injury he thanked God every night hadn’t left him paralyzed.

“That’s amazing.”

She moistened her lips and the glistening lower one tortured him. She was in no way ready for him to go for a kiss. He slammed the brakes on those thoughts and put them in his back pocket. The tight lines of worry around her eyes seemed to have eased, but the wariness hidden in her hazel depths still stared at him.

“It’s the job, ma’am.” The civilian population didn’t understand life in the field demanded courage, fortitude, and commitment. It wasn’t about being a hero, but about taking care of the guy standing next in line and letting him do the same. They paid it forward every damn day.

“I’ve heard that before, but I also know it’s different when you’re the one in the line of fire. You could have taken care of yourself first.”

He smiled. She didn’t know him well enough to realize the insult so he let it slide by. “No, I couldn’t. My self-respect, my honor, and my duty rely heavily on the care and keeping of the men under my command. The needs of the many do outweigh the needs of the few or one.”

“You’re a hero.”

Shifting in the chair, he ducked his head and his face warmed. “No, ma’am. I’m a Marine.”

Fortunately, his awareness of her let him see the change ripple across her expression the moment he said the words. She retreated, her cheeks paling and leaving her lips almost scarlet by contrast. Her husband had been a Marine, too.