Chapter Two

      Forgetting. It wasn’t something Jack Barlow did easily.

      When he was a kid, his grandmother used to tease him about his incredible memory. Looking back, he didn’t think that he had such a great memory as much as a penchant for paying attention to details. That had served him well when he worked in his father’s garage and needed to reassemble an engine, and when he’d been on patrol in Afghanistan. In those cases, lives depended upon noticing the smallest things out of place. Still, there were days when he cursed his mind and wished the days would become a blur, the details a blank.

      A car door slammed somewhere outside the garage. Jack flinched, oriented his attention in the direction of the sound, adrenaline rushing through his body. To anyone else, it was just a car door, but Jack’s brain jogged left instead of right, and in that second, he saw the bright light of the explosion detonating, heard the roaring thunder blasting into the Humvee, then the spray of metal arcing out and away from the impact. Through the floorboards, the passenger seat, up and into—

       Eli.

      Jack squinted his eyes shut, but it didn’t erase the sounds of Eli’s agonizing screams, didn’t wipe away the sight of his blood on the truck, on Jack, on everything. Didn’t make him forget watching Eli’s big brown eyes fading from light to glass. Jack shut his eyes, but still all he saw was the moment when he’d turned the truck east instead of west, and the shrapnel intended for Jack hit his best friend instead.

       Goddamn.

      Jack took in a breath, another, but still his heart jackhammered in his chest, and his lungs constricted. Sweat plastered his shirt, washing him hot, then cold. The wave began to hit him hard, fast, like a riptide, dragging him under, back to that dark place again.

      Blowing out a breath, he unclenched his fists and opened his eyes. He stared up at the underside of the Monte Carlo. The snake lines of the exhaust, the long rectangle of the oil pan. Inhaled the scent of grease, felt the hard, cold concrete beneath his palms. Listened to the sounds of passing traffic. Reality.

      Finally, Jack pushed himself out from under the car and into the cool, dim expanse of the garage. He rubbed the tired out of his eyes, worked to uncoil the tension that came from snatching a few minutes of sleep every hour. But still the memories stayed, a panther in the shadows.

      Ever since he’d come home from the war, Jack had done the only thing he could—worked until he couldn’t stay awake. He divided his days between his father’s garage and Ray’s cottage, because it was only when he was immersed in a disabled engine or surrounded by a stack of unchopped wood that he could pull his mind away.

      Away from the past. Away from the mistakes he had made. Away from his own guilt.

      And now, away from Meri. He hadn’t expected to see her—not today, not ever—and the encounter had left him a little disconcerted, unnerved. Meri represented everything he wanted to put behind him, everything he wanted to forget—

      And couldn’t.

      How the hell was he supposed to tell her the truth? Tell her that he was the one who should have protected Eli, who should have made damned sure Eli, with his perpetual smile, was the one who came home? How could Jack ever look in Meri’s eyes and admit the truth?

      That it was Jack’s fault Eli had died. Jack’s, and no one else’s.

      He threw the wrench in his hands at the workbench. It pinged off the wooden leg and boomeranged into his shin. Jack let out a long string of curses, but it didn’t ease one damned bit of the pain.

      “Whew. I’m impressed. I usually only hear language like that when the Yankees lose.”

      Jack turned, grabbing a rag to wipe off the worst of the grease on his hands, and to give him another second to collect himself, push that panther back into the shadows a little more. His brother Luke stood just inside the garage, looking as though he’d just come from the beach, or a vacation, or both. His brown hair had that lightened tint that came from too much time in the sun, and Jack suspected his brother’s khaki shorts had more sand in the pockets than dollars. Unlike their eldest brother, Mac, who worked so much the brothers had nicknamed him Batman because of how rarely he showed up at family events. “You here to help me change out that transmission?”

      Luke laughed. “Work? That’s against my religion.”

      Jack leaned against the tool chest and tossed the rag on a nearby bench. “Funny, I don’t remember laziness being a lesson in Sunday school.”

      “That’s because you and Mac were too busy trying to compete for teacher’s pet.” Luke reached into the small fridge by the door, pulled out two sodas and tossed one to Jack.

      Jack popped the top and took a long swallow of the icy drink. “And you were too busy trying to ditch.”

      Luke grinned. “Something I have perfected as an adult.”

      Jack snorted agreement. He swiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and propped a foot against the front bumper of the ’87 Monte Carlo. The car had more miles on it than Methuselah had kids, but longtime customer Willie Maddox refused to junk the Great White Whale. The car was big and loud but classic and sporty, and Willie babied his ride like Evangeline Millstone babied her overdressed, overindulged Chihuahua. Hence the new transmission in the Great White Whale, and a decent payday for the garage. Ever since their dad’s knee replacement surgery, Jack had been shouldering the garage—and that meant shouldering the responsibility for his father’s income. Another week or so and Bobby Barlow would be back in the garage.

      “What do you say you knock off early and we head down to Cooter’s for a couple beers?”

      “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, Luke.”

      “All the more reason to celebrate.” Luke tipped his soda in Jack’s direction. “Come on, you workaholic. The world isn’t going to fall apart if you close down the shop a couple hours early. Besides, I hear Meri Prescott is back in town. All the more reason to grab a beer with me.”

      Jack scowled. “What does Meri being back in town have to do with anything?”

      “You telling me you aren’t interested?” He arched a brow. “Or horny?”

      “Jesus, Luke, let it go.” Jack tossed the empty soda into the trash, grabbed the wrench and slid back under the Monte Carlo. He tightened a bolt and waited for the sounds of his brother leaving. Instead, a pair of familiar sneakers appeared in his peripheral vision.

      “You still gonna stick to the I’m not interested in her line?”

      “We dated a million years ago.” Eight, his mind corrected. “Of course I’m not interested.”

      Yeah,