The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming. Judy Duarte
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not one he’d wanted to claim—so he’d never dared to consider a white-picket-fence dream. But his buddy had grown up as an only child, adored by his parents. So why wouldn’t he expect to have that same life for himself?
Joe had to admit that he’d wondered what such an attractive woman had seen in Dave. Not that his friend wasn’t a good person. He was kind and generous to a fault, but he’d been so sheltered by his doting parents that he tended to be naive about life and other things.
Dave had been more sensitive than guys like Joe, who’d learned early on to get tough in order to survive, and as a result, he’d been hit hard by his father’s unexpected death. Then, when his mom had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer nine months later, he’d been devastated.
Obviously Chloe had seen how broken up and vulnerable Dave had been and used it against him when she’d set her gold-digging plan in motion.
From what Joe had gathered, she’d rented a room from Dave’s widowed mother, and when Dave had gone home on leave last summer, he’d fallen hard for her. And, sadly, he’d been too caught up in grief and lust and starry-eyed wonder to see the writing on the wall.
After Mrs. Cummings’s funeral, Chloe had promised to take care of the ranch and to wait for him until he returned from war. Dave, of course, had bought her line of bull and had promised her the moon.
The dream that they’d get married as soon as he got back from deployment and eventually raise “a passel of kids” on the family ranch had been the only thing that kept him going.
Dave might have joined the Marines, hoping to man up and become independent, but he hadn’t been cut out for a life of combat, especially when his idea of happy ever after was in Texas.
Not that life in a war zone had been a cakewalk for Joe, either, but growing up with an abusive drunk uncle and then ending up in the foster care system had made him both street-smart and strong. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but in a lot of ways his crappy childhood had been a blessing.
Either way, Dave’s defense mechanism for dealing with his depression and fears had been to cling to his future with Chloe. It was all he’d talked about, all he’d looked forward to. But apparently Chloe had envisioned an entirely different future, one without Dave. And it looked like fate had granted her that wish.
As the last headlights of the oncoming traffic passed, Joe crossed the street, his boots crunching on the graveled parking lot as he made his way to the entrance of the Stagecoach Inn, where blinking Christmas lights adorned the front window.
He could have gone out to the ranch looking for Chloe, but from what Dave had told him, she worked at the honky-tonk to pick up extra money. And Dave had spent many nights in the war-ravaged deserts of Afghanistan, worrying that some rowdy cowboy might pick up his girl while she was there.
Was that what had happened? Had Chloe found someone better looking? Someone with more money and a bigger ranch?
Joe supposed it really didn’t matter why she’d broken Dave’s heart, just that she’d done it—callously and without any thought of how lonely and despondent the poor guy had been.
When her Dear John arrived, Dave’s depression spiraled downward. And in his grief, he’d taken off after a group of combatants on his own, a reckless act that bordered on suicide and nearly got him killed.
Joe had run to his defense and gotten shot, too, which resulted in two career-ending injuries. All because of that damn cocktail waitress. Couldn’t she have waited until Dave had gone home to break up with him? Her abandonment in his time of need had led to him having a death wish, which eventually came true.
As Joe neared the entrance of the rowdy honky-tonk, the country music as well as the hoots of laughter grew louder. He pulled open the door, then paused in the doorway, allowing his senses to adjust to the smell of booze and smoke, to the blaring jukebox and the chatter of people milling about.
He was looking for a woman—a sexy blonde who’d be taking orders and serving drinks. From Dave’s description, Chloe was twenty-two years old, about five foot four and a knockout. The photograph wasn’t going to be all that helpful, although Joe didn’t have any reason to dispute Dave’s claim. Either way, in a small place like this she shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Joe made his way across the scarred wood floor to the bar, which stretched across the far wall. While the bartender filled a glass of beer for a cowboy sitting three seats to the left, Joe asked, “You know a woman by the name of Chloe Dawson?”
“Yeah. She used to work here for a while, but not anymore.”
“What happened to her?”
“She quit.”
“Know where I can find her?”
The barkeep surveyed him for a beat, as if he was some kind of stalker or an abusive ex-boyfriend or something. “I got no idea where she is.”
Joe didn’t believe that for a minute, but there were plenty of others around here who might talk. Besides, he had a feeling she was still staying out at the Cummings ranch. Why wouldn’t she be? Last he’d heard, Dave had left it to her in his will.
Did she know that already? Dave had already been discharged at the time of his death, so the military wouldn’t have alerted her.
How long did it take for news from the outside world to reach a small town like this?
As the bartender delivered another round of drinks to a couple at the far end of the bar, Joe pulled out the stool and took a seat. It was pretty late to drive out to the ranch tonight. Besides, the sun had set several hours ago, and he was exhausted.
When the bartender finally returned, he wiped his hands on a dish towel. “What’ll you have?”
Joe wasn’t sure. Did he want something strong to help him unwind and go to sleep? Or something light and satisfying to wash down the road dust he’d swallowed since his trek from El Paso?
One thing he knew for sure, he was dead tired and running on fumes, although he doubted he’d be able to fall asleep right away.
“I’ll have a Corona,” he said.
The bartender continued to study him. “Can I see your ID?”
At twenty-six and after eight years in the military, Joe wasn’t used to being carded. But then again, he’d only been out of the service and back in the States for a couple of months. He reached into the front pocket of his jeans, only to come up empty-handed.
Where the hell was...? Oh, crap. He’d showered back in the room and changed clothes. He must have left his wallet on the nightstand, next to his cell phone and... Damn. The key to the room had been right beside it. All he had on him was Dave’s letter and the photograph, neither of which would do him much good tonight.
So much for hiding his valuables out of sight. Talk about being too tired to think straight. He blew out a ragged sigh. “I’m not trying to pull a fast one. I’m staying across the street at the Night Owl. Apparently, I left my wallet there.”
“Sorry, buddy. The guy who worked here before me got fired for serving a minor, and I was told to card anyone who looked younger than thirty.”
“I understand. I need to get my cash anyway. Keep that beer cold for me. I’ll be back.” Joe slid off the bar stool and headed for the door. He felt like a batter with two strikes against him already. What else could go wrong?
As he stepped outside and made his way to the parking lot, a drunk stumbled past him, walking toward a Silverado pickup, the keys in his hand.
“You got someone you can call?” Joe asked the guy.
“Get off my back,” the drunk said. “You sound like my wife.”
Joe was going to argue, but a woman came out a moment later and called out to the man. “Larry, I told you I’d drive. Wait for me. I can pick up my car tomorrow. Just let me get my purse and