Operation Soldier Next Door. Justine Davis
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Cutter was “sort of” a dog who somehow knew that Tate had more of a problem than a freak explosion that had taken out a big chunk of his wall, barely feet from where he would have been sleeping had he not been too tired to make it to the bed? She wondered what on earth could be more of a problem than coming that close to dying, so soon after surviving another close call. It had to be big, to top that.
Then she realized she was taking them seriously about the animal knowing about said problem. She knew dogs could be incredibly sensitive and perceptive about their humans, but Tate was a complete stranger. Yet Quinn and Hayley, two perfectly normal people she suspected were very smart, had accepted easily that their dog not only knew about this problem, but had A Plan.
She watched as Cutter came to a halt, not near the hole in the wall and the temporary fix, but near the back door that opened out onto the flagstone patio Martin had been so rightfully proud of, having done it himself. The dog sat and stared at that back door as if willing it to open, sort of in the way she’d seen border collies will sheep to do their bidding.
Quinn and Hayley waited silently. Or, at least, not communicating with words; she saw them look at each other and guessed they were one of those couples who didn’t always need to talk to know what each other was thinking. Or apparently what their dog was thinking.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know dogs were amazing. She loved them, had often thought about adopting one since she’d moved here, but she’d been too busy getting her home-based tutoring service up and couldn’t give an animal the attention it deserved.
And she could accept that Cutter was particularly perceptive; she’d seen it herself. But however sensitive, perceptive and amazing dogs were, it was a jump from that to reading minds, hearts and the unseen. Wasn’t it?
“What kind of problem do you think he has?” It was all she could think of to say.
“Quinn has his doubts about the explosion,” Hayley said.
Lacy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said last night,” Quinn answered. “It takes a great deal to get one of those tanks to explode. Just a leaky or open valve wouldn’t do it. It takes something like that plus extreme heat.”
“You mean it must have caught fire?”
“Even then the escaping vapor would likely just burn, not explode. But if that second tank was close, or stacked on top of the leaking one...”
“Then it would explode?”
“Could.”
Lacy looked toward Martin’s house. Her brows lowered in puzzlement. “But how could it just catch fire?”
“Exactly,” Quinn said, his voice grim.
She was pondering the ramifications of that when Hayley said quietly, “Here he comes. Probably wondering what we’re all doing out here.”
The door Cutter had been so intent on swung open. Tate stepped out and let it shut on its own behind him. He stopped a yard or so away. Outside personal space, Lacy thought. Expressing that he didn’t consider them friends enough to get closer? Wary, or just unsociable? Or perhaps just plain rude?
“Make a habit of trespassing?” were his first words.
Lacy’s brows rose. Okay, rude won that one, she thought.
Hayley, with more benevolence than she herself would have shown at that—although perhaps living farther away she had less reason to be concerned about this man’s attitude—answered with a smile.
“Only to apologize for this one trespassing.” She gestured at the dog, who was watching him steadily.
“Ought to keep him under control,” Tate said to Hayley, still sounding stiff and cold.
“Many people should keep many things under control,” Quinn said. His voice was steady, inflectionless and nearly as cold as Tate’s, but somehow Lacy heard warning and threat and heat in it. She had the feeling that Tate would be unwise to ever talk to Hayley Foxworth like that again.
He seemed to realize it. She saw his gaze flick to Quinn, then back to Hayley. After a second, he nodded. “Yes. They should. Especially me. I’m sorry.”
It came out clipped, and rather flat, but it was an apology and Hayley moved quickly to accept.
“It’s all right. You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours, just when you should have had peace.”
At her gentle words he seemed utterly at a loss. For an instant he closed his eyes and looked chagrined enough that even Quinn appeared satisfied.
“And we’ll leave you to that peace,” he said, and slipped an arm around Hayley as they turned to go. Cutter seemed less than willing, but eventually, at a sharp whistle from Quinn, the dog followed, looking back at Tate the whole time.
“They’re nice people,” Lacy said. “Good people.”
“Mmm.”
Nice non-answer. Prodded by his gruffness, she added, “So am I.”
He looked at her then. She couldn’t read anything in his shuttered expression.
“Have it your own way, then,” she said, exasperated. Then, unable to stop herself in the face of his coldness toward people—and a dog—she found so likable, she added, “But Martin would be ashamed of your manners.
“Nice way to keep your vow,” she muttered to herself as she turned on her heel and went back to her house.
It was just as well the rest of her day would be taken up with work.
Okay, so she had a point, Tate thought as he rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw the next morning, debating whether to bother shaving. There was a difference between being aloof and being downright rude, and he’d crossed the line.
Martin would be ashamed of your manners.
That had stung like few things could. The thought of his grandfather being ashamed of him for any reason had the power to truly unsettle him. Much more than his parents, who had never agreed with most of his life choices, anyway. Of course, his father agreed with his mother if she said grass was purple. He was quite capable of standing up to anyone else—especially his son—but Michelle McLaughlin’s word was law.
If they’d had their way, he’d have gone to that Ivy League school, taken that knack he had for numbers and built a career around it. Wall Street, maybe. Never mind that the thought of being shut up in an office for hours a day made him twitchy, or worse. He shook his head at himself.
Shave, he thought. Then get started. It was already late, after a restless night trying to catch up on sleep. His makeshift bed on the big air mattress in the shop had been okay—he’d slept in much, much worse—but he didn’t want it to be long-term. He’d had to dig a blanket out of Gram’s linen closet, since everything that had been on the bed had been destroyed.
And the smell. The too-familiar smell, the lingering odor of destruction, that crept into the nostrils and stayed, haunting his dreams.
Maybe fresh paint would help that, though. At least it would smell like something had been done. But he was a long list of repairs away from painting.
He finished shaving, ran a hand over his still-damp hair, which was all it needed. He was going to keep that, he decided. Worrying about what his hair looked like was way down on his list of civilian habits to reacquire.
He pulled the list he’d made out of his pocket and read it again, looking for anything he’d forgotten. And trying to figure out how he was going to get it here when his only wheels were a motorcycle. He thought of Gramps’s pride and joy, that classic red Chevy El Camino, but it was sealed up on blocks in the back of the shop, and it would take more