The Other Soldier. Kathy Altman
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earbud thingies in. Likes to start off her day with some kind of self-help recordin’.”
Reid took a sip of coffee and it was all he could do not to spit it back out. Briggs chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.” He nodded at Parker, who’d worked her way closer. “This should be interesting.”
“Why’s that?” Reid set his mug on a table. He’d find someplace to dump it later. Like a barrel marked Hazardous Waste.
“She’s not happy you’re here but she’ll want to show you the ropes yourself. Girl’s not good at handin’ over the reins.”
At that moment, Parker turned and spotted Reid. Her backbone snapped straight. He waited, settling his gaze on a face even more hostile than the one he’d seen yesterday at the motel. Still it was a nice face, with smooth, pale skin, light brown freckles and bright hazel eyes. And a pair of nicely shaped lips, currently pressed in an unfriendly line.
He’d bet money at least one of those ropes she’d be showing him came equipped with a noose.
* * *
PARKER HAD A PLAN. A plan to avoid Corporal Macfarland. It involved…well, avoiding Corporal Macfarland.
Which would help keep her from being arrested for assault with a pitchfork.
But as easy as her plan sounded, she’d stayed awake most of the night coming up with it. At least she’d had plenty of practice over the years, operating on little to no sleep—before Tim deployed, during his deployment and after his death.
No way she’d let dealing with the corporal throw her off track.
Except, it already had. Just not in the expected way. Those scars… He could have played them up, used them to gain an advantage. Instead he’d scrambled for a shirt. And what he’d done for her in the bar—without his organizing that caravan, her business would have lost much-needed revenue.
Part of her appreciated his resourcefulness. A very small, tiny, minuscule part. The rest of her nurtured an all-consuming resentment.
Though her conscience kept reminding her that the resentment wasn’t entirely justified. Even her earbuds couldn’t drown out the voice of her conscience. She shoved the useless things into her pocket and forced her legs into motion.
“Morning,” she said stiffly. “Saturdays are busy around here so I don’t have a lot of time to spare. Harris, can you please show the corporal what to do?”
Briggs coughed. “Sorry, but no can do.”
“You all right?”
“Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He paid sudden fierce attention to a rip in his long-sleeved shirt. “I came over to let you know I need a few more hours.”
Uh-huh. She crossed her arms. “You got out of bed, got dressed and drove all the way over here to tell me you’re going back to bed? You could have called.”
“Guess I was hopin’ by the time I got here I’d be feelin’ better.”
He did sound tired. Suspicion gave way to worry and she dropped her arms. “Anything I can do?”
“Not a thing, but thanks for askin’. I’ll just go home and catch a few more winks. Be back after lunch.”
“Call me first. If you’re not feeling better I want you to stay home.”
“What’re you packing for lunch today?”
“Chicken salad and carrot cake.”
He winked at Macfarland. “Then I’ll be back before lunch.” He turned and strolled away, cut himself off midwhistle and ducked out the door.
Parker watched him go, wishing she didn’t feel like she was the only solo guest at a dinner party because her two-timing date had just bailed on her.
Macfarland cleared his throat. “Mind if I ask a question?” Without looking around she made a don’t-let-me-stop-you gesture. “Can I get in on some of that chicken salad and carrot cake action?”
She resented the heck out of the involuntary pleasure his words sparked. She put on a frown before she turned, and it deepened on its own accord. The man knew how to wear jeans and a sweatshirt.
And why should she care? She slapped her gloves together, impatient with the ridiculous turn of her thoughts. “You work here, you get lunch. Want some coffee before we get started?”
“Not if it’s from the pot Briggs made.”
She supposed she should give him credit for trying. But she didn’t have the time or the energy for banter.
“Follow me,” she snapped, and wondered if he’d salute behind her back. She led him inside the first Quonset hut and made a point of closing the door firmly behind them.
“Always make sure the door is shut tight. If Chance gets in and sees anything move, even if it’s just a leaf, he’ll chase it. Which means something will get broken. Someone’s delivery will be shorted, and I’ll lose money I can’t spare.”
“Understood.”
With a brisk nod, she launched into her spiel. “We have three greenhouses. Hut One for geraniums, Hut Two for petunias and pansies, Hut Three for seed propagation.” He opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “No football jokes.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” She shot him a look but his expression remained neutral. He followed her inside. “Seed propagation?”
“We save money by collecting seeds from existing plants to grow new ones. Actually, we only use seed propagation for the pansies. For the petunias and geraniums we do what’s called vegetative propagation, which is basically taking cuttings to grow new plants.”
“Kind of like cloning.”
“Exactly like that.”
She walked him up the aisle, breathing in the scent of the geranium leaves. He noticed it, too.
“I smell apples.”
“It’s the foliage. You’ll also notice nutmeg and lemon.” Usually the scents calmed her. This morning she was fighting a headache.
He stopped to finger one of the thin black tubes inserted into the soil in each flower pot. “These deliver water?”
“It’s called drip irrigation. We use recycled water and also rainwater. I’m only using it indoors, though. Sun exposure reduces the life cycle of the rubber.” She pointed at the plants hanging over their heads. “We use it for the hanging baskets, too. We have the assemblies on a timer so it’s all automatic. Hut Three has a different system. For the seedlings we use overhead misters.” An orange glow radiating through the plastic walls of the hut alerted her to the sunrise. Soon she’d have to get back to the house and arrange some breakfast for Nat.
And let out Chance, who was no doubt draped across the foot of Nat’s bed despite orders that he sleep in the laundry room.
“Ready to move on?”
She didn’t bother walking him through Hut Two. He stood at the entrance and stared at the expanse of flowers—on the benches, in midair and even on the floor. Those awaited delivery, Parker told him. His gaze lingered, she noticed, on the section of black pansies. They’d always fascinated her, too. But his question had nothing to do with flowers.
“You’ve already watered this morning?” He was eyeing the floor.
“We keep the concrete damp on purpose. Cuts back on spider mites and powdery mildew.” And in that instant, an idea was born. She bit back a smile and led the way to Hut Three.
“So the buildings aren’t heated?”
“What? Oh. No. When we’re ready to expand we’ll consider it. It’ll take some money to install the convection tubes but obviously it’ll let us grow year-round.”
“What