Make Mine a Ranger (Special Ops: Homefront Book 4) (5 page)

Bess sighed in her sleep, her grasp on
her daughter tightening slightly. Bess’s red curls framed her face and even
though those gorgeous blue eyes of hers were closed, she looked almost angelic.
She was…

…pretty. The realization of it shouldn’t
have surprised him. He had always thought Bess was kind of cute. But since he
thought of her as a sort of honorary sister, he didn’t dare look too closely.

Yet somehow, after an evening with his
date, with her harsh makeup, dense eye shadow, and disparaging comments for
every other woman within a hundred foot radius, Bess looked so wholesomely
beautiful to him right now that it almost caused a little ache inside his gut.

Which must mean he was hungry, of course.
Kristina had wanted to go for sushi. But the problem with sushi is that no
matter how much he ate, he was always hungry thirty minutes later.

He stepped away from Bess and Abby. Probably
a good thing to do anyway, because if he started thinking of Bess as being any kind
of “pretty,” he might end up with an awkward year lease ahead of him.

Nearly three weeks had passed since Bess
thought she’d seen Dan behind the wheel of the red Lotus. She hoped that having
Tyler living with her had somehow tamed her paranoia.

So it was more of a jolt to her system
that night when she passed her bedroom window and spotted the same car parked
across the street. Quickly, she flicked off her light so no one would see her
from outside and peered out her window for a better look.

The car’s lights were out. It wasn’t
running. Probably just someone visiting the neighbor.

Grabbing her robe, she headed downstairs
for a better look. The house was dark, and Bess could hear Abigail’s soft
breathing coming from her room. Tiptoeing down the steps, she passed Tyler’s
closed door.

With the living room lights off, she went
for a closer look from the window of the small room where Tyler had set up his
workout equipment. From there, she might be able to see the license plate
number, or at least be able to tell whether they were Pennsylvania tags.

By the time she made it to the window,
the car was gone. Bess stood there, eerily wondering if it was all in her
imagination. It was late, and God knows she was tired.

But that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be. She
had
seen a red Lotus. Or at least it looked red. The street was pitch black out.
And had it really been a Lotus? She had never been too good at identifying
makes of cars. But it was pretty hard to mistake a Lotus.

Biting her lip, she leaned against the
window and looked at the small room filled with Tyler’s workout equipment—a
treadmill that looked like it had seen more than a few miles of use, a speed
bag, some weights, and a large, cylindrical heavy bag that hung from a steel
stand.

A punching bag. She touched it with a
sympathetic smile.
I know just how you feel
. She had been struck, felt
that crack of a fist against her cheekbone, heard the crunching sound as her
teeth clattered in her mouth.

What would it feel like to hit back?

Her hand on the bag, she could feel the smooth
texture of the dark, aged leather. Curious, she gathered her fingers into a
fist and hit it. Just a little. Pain rang out from her hand up to her shoulder.

God, she was weak.

She stood back a couple feet from the bag
and punched again. Her hand ached from the impact and she let out a small
curse.

“You might want to put on gloves when you
do that.”

Tyler’s voice made her jump at least two
inches in her bare feet. With PT shorts slung low on his hips, his bare upper
body filled the doorway. She felt trapped somehow, frightened, probably still
reeling from the thoughts of Dan that she had let slip into her consciousness.

This was Tyler, not Dan, she reminded herself.

“You scared me. I thought you were
asleep,” she finally said, stepping back from the bag, nearly tripping on a
free weight in the process.

“Whoa,” he said as he held his arm out to
steady her.

His simple touch usually quickened her
heartbeat, but this time it slowed it back to its normal pace, as though her
body knew that—red Lotus or not—all would be well with Tyler here.

“Sorry,” she said. “I should have asked
before using your stuff.”

“You can use it anytime you want.”
Reaching behind him, he grabbed some gloves that hung on a hook. “But put these
on first. You can do some damage to your hands without them. Here.” Pulling her
hand toward him, he gently slipped one glove on her, and then the other. The
gesture of him dressing her—even if it was with boxing gloves—made
her insides hum.

“This time, when you punch it, bend at
the knees and the waist a little so the impact doesn’t jolt your body.” He
stood behind her and put his hands on her waist, setting free a surge of
butterflies in her stomach. “Like this. Now when you hit someone, you need to
lean into him. Let the force not just come from your arm, but from your whole
body.”

Bess hit the bag again. This time, the
pain was in her shoulder, but as she saw the bag move slightly from the impact,
she felt a hint of satisfaction.

“Good. Again.”

She struck it, this time following a
right punch with a second one from her left hand.

“How’s that feel?”

Bess cracked a grin. “Actually really
good.”

Tyler smiled back. “There’s something
kind of gratifying about beating the crap out of something, isn’t there?”

The smile on Bess’s face vanished, the
words somehow striking her differently from how he intended them. She had once
been the punching bag at the end of a rough day. She turned back to the bag,
hoping he didn’t notice her sudden frown.

“What women should always learn to do is
kick, though,” he continued.

“Kick?”

“Your strongest muscles are in your legs.
If some guy is attacking you, kicking can be more effective than punching. Kick
him in the balls. Just don’t practice it on me, okay?”

She laughed.

“And if you are going to punch, go for
the Adam’s apple. Poke his eyes out. And scream like hell. Women don’t scream
enough. Girls grow up being told to keep quiet. It starts to become part of
them. You should never lose the ability to scream.” Cringing, he let out a low
snicker. “Sorry. Can you tell I’ve given this lecture to my sister once or twice
over the years? I’ll be hell to have around when Abby gets to be a little
older. I’ll turn her into Ronda Rousey.”

Bess couldn’t help feeling gratified by
the idea that he’d still be around then. “Who’s Ronda Rousey?” she asked,
eyeing the bag again.

“Best female fighter out there, in my
opinion. Now, attack that bag, champ.”

Bess pictured Dan’s face eye-level on the
bag. She punched it first, then kicked. The first kick was timid, just to see
what it would feel like. The second, more powerful, once in imaginary Dan’s
groin, and once in the ribs, for old time’s sake, remembering the time he had
kicked her in the ribs on the bathroom floor. “How’s that feel, asshole?” A
voice inside her demanded, and then she blushed when she realized she had said
it out loud.

Tyler laughed. “I think the bag would say
you pack a hell of a kick.”

Mortified, Bess took off the gloves. “Sorry.
Got a little too carried away. I’ll have to only do this when Abby’s asleep,
huh?”

“Keep going. It’s good for you. If you
want to build those leg muscles some more, try the treadmill and put it on
incline. Just don’t push it too hard. I know CPR, but I’d like to avoid needing
to use it on you.”

Fighting the blush that was creeping up
her neck, she tried to erase from her mind the titillating image of Tyler
giving her mouth-to-mouth. She pulled the gloves off. “Thanks. I might give it
a try.”

“Good. Nothing better for Abigail than
having a strong mama.”

Her brow furrowed and she quickly looked
away. “I am a strong mama,” she muttered, stalking quickly out of the room.
Great,
another man who thinks I’m a weak victim. Just what I needed.

He grabbed her arm to stop her. “Wait,
Bess. I didn’t mean it that way. You are strong. You’re right. You’re raising
your kid on your own. You’re more determined and selfless than any 24-year old
I’ve ever known.”

Bess cursed the tears welling in her
eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing a stray
tear from cheek. “You are strong,” he said again. “You’re a survivor.”

How did he know that?
How had he figured that out without even
knowing what she had survived?

With his finger, he lifted her chin a
little. “I’m just overly protective. First time I got into a fight at school,
it was over my sister, you know.”

“Your sister was younger than you?” Bess
asked.

“Older, actually. She got pregnant in
high school. Some kid in my kindergarten class made some comment about it and
they couldn’t pull me off him fast enough. It pretty much stayed that way till
I graduated from high school.”

Curious, Bess cocked her head to the
side. “Did she keep the baby?”

“Oh, yeah. Mom pretty much raised my
niece like her own so that my sister could stay in school, and get her college
degree. My mom’s strong like you. Nothing stops her from making sure her kids
have a good life.”

Bess sank into the sofa. “Is that why
you’re so good with Abby? You’re used to having a little kid in the house.”

With a careless shrug, he sat beside her.
“Abby’s a great kid. It’s easy to have her around. But yeah, having a kid
around doesn’t exactly seem foreign to me.”

A realization struck Bess. “That’s why
you stayed with me in the hospital that day when Abby was born. Even after
Lacey and Maeve showed up. You stayed all through my labor. I reminded you of
your sister.”

“Maybe. Don’t know really. It just seemed
the right thing to do.”

It all made so much more sense to her. Tyler
treated Abby and her so well because he felt sorry for them. If it had been
anyone else, Bess would have felt insulted, or at the very least, defensive. But
for some reason, it didn’t bother her with him. She glanced his way. “You’re
right, you know.”

“About what? I’m right so seldom, I want
to mark this day in my calendar.”

Bess smiled. “I do need to get stronger. I’ve
gotten so out of shape since I was pregnant. I’ve embraced motherhood, one fat fold
at a time.”

Shaking his head, Tyler frowned. “Don’t
say that. You look like a woman. I won’t let you step foot in that room again
if your ambition is to look like some photoshopped model who has the hips of a
ten-year-old boy. But if you want to get strong—that I’ll get behind.”

Bess glanced at the room with its intimidating
equipment, and felt the strange urge to conquer it, even if she might need to
ask for a defibrillator for her next birthday.

“You know,” Tyler began, standing up, “if
you ever want to go to the gym with me in the evenings, you’re welcome to. I
can get you a few visitor passes to try it out. There’s even a child care room
Abby would probably love.”

“Isn’t it on base? I can’t go there
without a military ID.”

“Not that one. I show up there at zero-five-hundred
in the morning. I don’t think you’d be interested in that.”

“No doubt.”

“Some evenings and Saturday mornings, I
go to an MMA gym off base. You know, mixed martial arts. Brazilian jujitsu. Grappling.
Cage fights. That sort of thing. They’ve got some women’s classes, too. Something
to think about.”

Bess cracked a smile at the thought of
herself in a mixed martial arts gym trying to take down an opponent the way she
had seen in the fights Tyler would watch on TV after Abby had gone to bed.

Bess Foster. In a cage fight.

Nope. Not in this lifetime.

Bess loved Saturday mornings. There was
no racing to get ready for work and rush Abby off to day care which, now that it
was September, was referred to as “preschool” as some kind of justification to
charge more.

Tyler, a creature of habit, always spent
the morning at the gym or out on his paddleboard till at least nine o’clock. This
meant Bess could hang out around the house braless in her rattiest old t-shirt
and pajama shorts without feeling the slightest hint of shame or modesty.

Waking up at six, Bess had at least an
hour of peace until Abby woke up. Eyeing the kitchen that awaited her as she
opened the living room shades to the morning light, she wondered what recipe
she’d pick out today. Something that involved a little more prep time, as
always. Saturday mornings were perfect for baking, the extra minutes of freedom
spent kneading and watching dough rise. She never had time for that on
weekdays.

Pinwheel rolls. That’s what she’d make this
morning. Abby’s favorite breakfast treat—the kind that oozed out cinnamon
and butter, and were glazed with white frosting that dribbled over the edges. Tyler
would love a few of those when he came home from his workout.

His workout, she thought, her eyes drifting
to the room with the equipment that she hadn’t dared to touch since that night she
thought she had seen Dan.

She really should try out that treadmill some
day. Work out the muscles that were atrophying in her legs. Chasing after a
three-year-old was exhausting, but probably not the kind of exercise her body
desperately needed. There was just never enough free time.

She hmmphed to herself.
Free time
.
Time was exactly what she had now, yet how was she planning on spending it? Dipping
her finger into the bowl as she concocted another Saturday morning sinful
confection.

Tyler was right. Abby needed a strong mama,
certainly more than she needed a dozen pinwheel rolls this morning. Apprehensively,
Bess stepped into the room, the cumbersome equipment somehow mocking her.

Come on in, Bess, it seemed to beckon.
You
won’t last long in here.

Narrowing her eyes, she turned on her
heel and headed up to get her running shoes. They weren’t the fanciest kind,
certainly not what a real runner would wear. But they’d likely do well enough for
whatever speed she could manage to muster.

Shoes on, she strode back down the stairs
on a mission, staring down the intimidating room as she approached. Anyone
else, she imagined, would have real workout clothes to wear. But all by herself,
her t-shirt and frayed pajama shorts would do just fine. She had no one to
impress here.

She stepped onto the treadmill and gazed
at all the buttons, feeling hopeful at the sight of one labeled, “Quick Start.”

She pressed it, and it began to move. Slowly—too
slowly even for her out-of-shape self. What was a good running speed for a
beginner? Shrugging, she punched up the speed to five miles per hour, and it
slowly sped up. And sped up more, until her legs were striding along at a
comparable pace to what she’d seen from joggers in the street. She wouldn’t win
any 5K at this speed, but it was respectable.

Yet her legs were struggling to keep up. Feet
pounding, she wobbled. Was she supposed to run flat-footed, or up on the balls
of her feet the way she always chased Abby when she was running astray?

As the arches of her feet fired off pain,
she answered her own question, switching to a flat-footed run. She pounded
onward, feeling the jarring in her knees. Everything soft on her body, which
was pretty much
everything
on her body, bounced.

Suddenly she understood why women
invested in good jogging bras. Even if she had her normal bra on, it probably wouldn’t
have given her the support she needed right now.

Trying not to glance down at the elapsed
time, her lungs actually ached. Thirty seconds. Sixty seconds. And
oh dear
Lord
, only ninety seconds and she was already heaving, tapping furiously at
the button that reduced her speed till she found herself walking at a more
manageable 3.5 miles per hour. Her eyes caught a glimpse of the warning label
affixed to the machine.
Contact your doctor before beginning any exercise
regimen, indeed.

Ninety seconds? She could only run ninety
seconds? That was pathetic. What if there was an emergency? What if Abby was in
some kind of trouble and the only way to get to her was to run? She’d collapse
by the time she made it to the end of her block.

Seriously, this just wouldn’t do.

She stopped the treadmill and raced
upstairs to get her iPod. About 55 minutes till Abby woke up. And if she was
going to spend it torturing herself getting stronger, she might as well do it
listening to Lady Gaga.

***

Pulling into the driveway, Tyler’s back seized
up even putting the damn car into park. He was too young to start having back
problems, but his last mission had caused a little more damage than he cared to
admit. It wasn’t enough to send him to seek a medical profile, and thank God
for that, because the Rangers would have no place for him. But it did make
grappling on the mats with the guys a helluva lot more difficult some mornings,
especially when he was trying to get out of a rear naked choke.

Feeling like an old man, Tyler had finished
up early, deciding to spend the rest of the morning on his back, hopefully with
one of those baked goods that Bess always seemed to create on Saturdays.

From the lack of chaos that met him at
the door, Tyler figured Abby must still be sleeping. He had no idea what time
everyone got up in this house on Saturday mornings, having always spent this
part of the weekend in the gym or paddleboarding on the Bay. He sniffed the
air, an unconscious action since living here, to see what Bess was making in
the kitchen. But there was… nothing. Nothing except the sound of feet pounding
and the whirring hum of his treadmill.

Stepping further into the house to
investigate, he saw Bess walking at a fast pace on the treadmill, her stubby
red ponytail bobbing behind her as she apparently rocked out to something on
her iPod. With her back to him, she hadn’t noticed him walk in, and he wasn’t going
to disturb her. Poor woman didn’t get much time to herself and he wasn’t about
to stop her from working out.

Good for her, he thought, feeling a swell
of pride.

Stepping into the kitchen, he noticed a
definite lack of baked goods awaiting him on the counter. Damn, he was getting
spoiled with all her good home cooking. Last week, she had even packed up
leftovers for him for lunch in little plastic containers. They sure tasted
better than the cafeteria food he generally picked up mid-day. Although the
guys at work all seemed to think he was married. After all, what single man on
the planet gets to enjoy leftover beef bourguignon for lunch?

He had hit the lottery of housemates when
he had moved in with Bess.

He really should do something for
her—for them. Take them to Pirate Pop’s again or maybe one of those
touristy cruises on the Bay. A memory struck him of a sign on base reminding Troops
about the Twilight Tattoo coming up at Fort Meade. Abby would love that. The
Army band would be playing, and the Drill Team from the Old Guard was a hell of
a sight.

It was a big family event, not something
he’d normally go to, but Tyler could picture Abby dancing around on the lawn of
the parade field to the tune of
Stars and Stripes Forever
.

Drinking a glass of water from the tap, he
was staring out the kitchen window at the view of the Chesapeake wondering if
his back would hold up to a little paddleboarding this morning, when he heard
the treadmill stop behind him. A heave of relief came from the other room, and
it made Tyler grin. The first workout was always the hardest.

The light padding of footsteps approached
and he turned around—

Holy shit!

A shocked look on her face, Bess stood
framed in the doorway of the kitchen, obviously not expecting company. But the expression
on her face was probably nothing compared to his own.

Eyes up, asshole. Eyes up.

A threadbare white t-shirt, drenched in
sweat, clung to her like she was the headliner in a wet t-shirt contest. And
damn
,
Bess would win hands down.

“Hey,” she said, surprise in her voice,
and not the least attempt to cover what was right now making Tyler feel horny
as a three-balled tomcat. She had no clue she was as good as naked right now,
waist up. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quavering a
little, so he took another sip of water. “Sorry if I surprised you.” If he
stood in the room much longer, he’d have to throw the water over his head just
to cool down.

Bess had a rack. A prize-winning stunner
of a rack. Tits as full and tempting as in a twelve-year-old boy’s wet dream.

Which, of course, was a completely
inappropriate thought to have about someone he had always considered something
like a sister to him. What the hell was the matter with him? It’s not like he
hadn’t seen breasts before on a woman. And hell, these had been
working
breasts, mom boobs, not the kind a guy was supposed to fantasize about at all.

Get it together, horn dog.
“You enjoy the treadmill?” he asked,
quickly turning his back to refill his quarter-empty glass, more out of respect
than out of need.

“Yeah. Shocker, isn’t it? I loved it.”

Not even looking at her, he could tell
there was a smile in her voice.

“Felt good to actually feel my heart
pumping. I don’t know the last time I worked up a sweat like this.”

Yeah, no kidding.
That would explain why she had no clue
that a thin white t-shirt wasn’t the thing you work out wearing, especially
braless.

Glancing briefly—very
briefly—over his shoulder, he saw her pull her sweaty hair out of the
ponytail. “I’m gross. I better go shower.”

Tyler just nodded, devilishly tempted to
ask if he could join her. Giving himself a visible shake, he stalked over to the
fridge just to keep his eyes off her. “Um, hey, Bess. There’s a Twilight Tattoo
this week on base. You want me to take you and Abby?”

Dead silence met his invitation and he
had no choice but to look at her again. Only look at her eyes, he commanded
himself noticing they were as blue as the waters he used to paddleboard over
when he was stationed in Schofield Barracks, Hawaii.

“Uh, I’m not really a body art kind of
person.” Confused, Bess’s wide eyes were almost as big as what was peering at
him through her t-shirt seven inches below her face. With the AC pumped up, her
nipples were standing at attention, just like one particular organ on his own
body was poised to do any minute.

Sister. Sister. She’s like my sister.

Tyler swallowed. What exactly was proper
etiquette in this kind of situation? If he told her to go cover up, she’d be
mortified. But if he didn’t say anything, that would make him some kind of
perv. He opted to turn his back again, pretending to search for something in
the refrigerator.
“Not that kind of tattoo. Twilight Tattoo is a kind of
military tradition that dates back to the Revolution. The U.S. Army Band comes
to play. The Old Guard will be there and the Army Drill Team.” He reached for a
yogurt, even though he hated yogurt, and started to peel back the foil top. “I
think Abby would love it,” he finished, toying with the foil before tossing it
in the recycle bin, back still turned.

“Oh, sounds nice. Yeah, totally sounds
like something Abby would like. Thanks.”

Okay, good. Now please put some dry
clothes on.

Instead, she pulled a chair out from the
table to sit down.

Crap
. His stomach churned. He wasn’t going to sit at that table staring
at her tits eating yogurt he hated. “Um, were you going to shower? Because I’m
gonna need to in a few minutes and I don’t want to use up all the hot water.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Okay,” she said,
turning and walking out of the kitchen, seeming somewhat flustered.

Ha.
She
was flustered? How about
him? He shouldn’t have had such a reaction. He should have played big brother
to her and laughed it off saying, “Hey, you might to cover up those headlights
or the boys in the neighborhood will start swarming the place.”

Instead, he found himself struggling for
words—even for breath, for that matter.

Had he actually said he’d be needing a
hot shower?

Cold shower. Definitely a cold shower
this morning.

***

She couldn’t blame Tyler for kicking her out
of the kitchen. She must smell like a dead sewer rat. And she probably looked
twice as bad.

Stepping into the bathroom, she didn’t
dare look into the mirror. Granted, in the first couple weeks of Tyler living
with her, she had hesitated to emerge from her room without at least a little
mascara and lip gloss. But over time, she started to loosen up, daring to show
him her completely bare face and the worst of her old t-shirts, the ones Maeve
swore she’d burn one day when she came to visit.