The Other Soldier. Kathy Altman
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“Bet you can.” The clerk pushed across a registration form. “Staying long?”
“No idea.”
“Just keep me posted.”
Reid signed the form and offered his hand. “Reid Macfarland.”
“Joe Gallahan.” He held out a key card. “Room six. Questions?”
“Yeah. Where can I get something to eat?”
An hour later, on the toaster-size TV—hell, a laptop could have gotten a better picture—James Coburn demonstrated his prowess with a knife in The Magnificent Seven while Reid eyed the remains of a pepperoni pizza that had looked a lot better than it tasted. He’d wanted to do better than fast food, but he hadn’t had the energy to take Gallahan’s advice and get something to eat in the next town.
Of course if he had, he’d have missed soaking in the atmosphere of Castle Creek’s only motel. He looked around with a grimace. The place must have been sitting empty for years. Considering what kinds of creatures had probably been hanging out rent-free, he probably shouldn’t be making jokes.
Probably shouldn’t be breathing without a mask, either.
Gallahan had one hell of a job ahead of him.
If the motel’s exterior, with its lime-green paint, scraggly landscaping and crevice-ridden concrete qualified as a horror flick, then the interior had to be every Michael-Myers-on-Halloween-night movie ever made spliced into one gory, never-ending saga.
The cheap paneling on the walls bore twice as many scars as the plastic covering Parker Dean’s greenhouses. Cigarette burns decorated the dresser, the table and the nightstand. He suspected that the carpet, which had been repaired many times over with duct tape, hadn’t started out that muddy-brown color. And someone had painted the ceiling turquoise, presumably to cover up water stains. Reid muttered a quick prayer that it didn’t rain.
But despite the less-than-lovely interior, the room was clean, just as Gallahan had promised. Not a speck of dust in sight. Someone had worshipped the bathroom with a scrub brush, and the fresh scent of lemon lingered just beneath the smell of tomato sauce.
He let the slice of pizza fall back into the box and found himself wondering what kind of meal Parker Dean and her daughter were sitting down to. Something healthy and hearty, no doubt. Like roast beef and mashed potatoes. Or spaghetti with meatballs. He frowned at the grease-laden pizza and closed the lid.
Then again, maybe she didn’t have time to cook, since she was a single parent. Thanks to him.
He grabbed the TV remote and stabbed at the power button. Wondered for the hundredth time if he’d done the right thing, coming to Castle Creek.
No way Harris Briggs would be able to talk Mrs. Dean into letting him help out. And even if he did, was it fair of Reid to do so? What the hell had he been thinking, expecting a grieving family to accommodate the man responsible for their grieving in the first place?
Money was the kinder option. Before he took off in the morning, he’d leave a check with Gallahan.
He finally recognized a far-too-cheerful chirping as his cell phone. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number and for a second or two his lungs went AWOL. Had Harris Briggs managed the impossible?
“That you, Corporal?”
“Mr. Briggs.”
A pause. “I’d tell you to call me Harris but I doubt we’ll be usin’ each other’s names much.”
Right. “She said no.”
“That’s puttin’ it mildly.” Reid snorted softly. Harris Briggs cleared his throat. “Was a pleasure to meet you, son. We appreciate what you boys are doin’ over there.”
Reid thanked him and ended the call. So that was that.
Son. He sat back and mentally sifted through years of memories, scrambled to single out the one where his father had last called him “son.” Couldn’t find it. And suddenly, desperately, he needed it.
A quick, disgusted shake of his head. Enough with the self-pity.
He should be relieved. Should be grateful he didn’t have to spend his leave trying to fix something destined to remain forever broken. He’d tried. And failed. He’d write that check, and when the loan came through he’d write a bigger one. One that would require years of monthly payments.
So why did he feel like he was getting off easy?
No doubt Parker Dean would agree. His mouth relaxed as he pictured her. She’d looked like she’d been digging an underground tunnel to Canada. She’d worn a sweat-soaked T under an oversize pair of mud-streaked overalls. Dirt marked both cheeks and flecked the cinnamon hair gathered at the back of her head. But despite all that mud he’d registered creamy skin, a curvy figure and eyes that promised sincerity and humor.
And once she’d found out who he was, she hadn’t hesitated to tell him to go pound sand.
Tim Dean had been a lucky man. Too bad Reid had no business thinking of Parker Dean as anything other than someone he owed a hellacious obligation to.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. The stealthy, scampering, wall-hugging movement of a mouse. Squatters. Terrific. They’d have to go. He hadn’t signed on for roommates. Not even for one night.
He stood and reached for the phone, intent on petitioning Gallahan for a few traps. A glance at the corner where the mouse had disappeared and he hesitated, let his hand slide off the receiver.
For fifteen months he and thirty other guys had tolerated a family of sand rats in their tent. Certainly he could handle a mouse or two.
Live and let live, and all that.
He collapsed onto the bed, and threw an arm across his face so he wouldn’t see the room start to blur.
* * *
PARKER CREPT DOWN THE hallway past her daughter’s bedroom. Thank goodness for the night-lights Nat had insisted on when they’d moved in. Their eerie green glow helped her reach the attic without breaking a toe. She eased the seldom-used door open, flipped on the light switch and pulled the door shut behind her.
She shivered and hesitated on the bottom step. A short-sleeved T and flannel pajama bottoms were no match for the attic chill. Why hadn’t she thought to grab a sweater? She grunted. Forget the sweater. It was the middle of the night. Why hadn’t she stayed in bed, instead of baking muffins and playing safari in her own attic?
She wrapped her arms around her waist and peered up the worn, narrow flight of stairs. But it wasn’t the cold or the cobwebs draped along the walls that rooted her in place. She hadn’t ventured up there since she’d tucked Tim’s things away a year ago.
Don’t be such a baby.
She took in a breath, then another, and started to climb. The air smelled thickly of dust, faintly of machine oil and faded roses. But the way her stomach was rebelling, anyone would think a family of skunks had moved in.
Five steps up she snagged a sock on a nail head. She yanked her foot free and kept going. She’d have to come back with a hammer.
If only all of her problems could be solved so easily.
Half an hour later, sitting cross-legged on a comforter she’d scavenged from a cardboard box, she thumbed through the last of the seven photo albums stacked at her hip. She’d had the sudden urge to look through them all—the pictures of her college days in Blacksburg, Virginia, where she’d met Tim; their wedding photos; their first home on post at Fort Bragg in North Carolina; Nat’s birth and progression from toddler to second-grader.
Parker closed the album. So many blank pages.
Nat was now in third grade. They’d stopped taking pictures after Tim died.
Guilt settled in. The final picture in the album was one Tim had taken of