“The whole thing?” she asks with a grin.
“Yes,” I say without matching it. She studies the box to catch the count and rings them up before I dump them in my purse. My total doubles.
So much for pinching pennies.
Ignoring her crazy bitch stare, I’m almost out the door when I hear my name called.
“Scott!”
Looking back, I see Anderson, one of the medics I worked with closely at the clinic, before.
“Hey, Anderson, you’re back stateside.” Suddenly anxious, my eyes dart toward the door hoping this conversation will be brief. Today’s been a good day, and lately, I’ve been testing myself, but I don’t want to push too far.
“Yes. Damn, if I never see or feel sand again, it will be too soon.”
“Understandable,” I say as she scrutinizes me.
Time to go.
“I’m glad to see you’ve made it back safely, and I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got stuff that’s going to melt.”
“Sure,” she says, eyeing my scarcely-filled cart. “I’ll be honest, I’m shit for words right now anyway.”
“It’s okay, really.”
She looks sincerely apologetic. “I visited Mullins.”
“Me too.”
“I wish I could have been there, for the funeral.”
I nod. “That makes two of us.”
She winces. “Sorry, I just…but can you believe Briggs is going back?”
“Can’t you?” I say, trying to ignore the searing pain that comes with hearing his name.
She shakes her head. “I mean stateside is understandable, but volunteering to finish his tour, especially after what happened?”
The floor shakes beneath me. I should be ready to hear this—prepared. He’s a soldier, and it’s what he does. She takes a step forward. “I mean I get the adrenaline, I guess, but does that idiot have a death—”
Before she can get the rest of the sentence out, I’m gone.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Briggs
Gliding over the grass, I spot Houdini in the distance, trying to break out of his pen.
“Stupid bastard,” I mutter to no one. The cool spring morning has given way to a blazing afternoon as the sun beats on my back. I’m covered in filth, but I love the days where the work seems effortless. Days like today, when the temperature is bearable, and nothing breaks. Earbuds turned up, I cover the grounds as I sing along to an old Zeppelin tune. The past few days have been peaceful, and I couldn’t have asked for better. I’ve been concentrating on work and doing a fuckload of it. Every night when I hit the pillow, I’m too worn out to think of much. And when that pesky bastard beating in my chest decides to remind me, I drown its ass in cardio so it starts thinking different.
I figure we’ll catch up with each other, eventually.
Spending hours cultivating the land that is my future seems like a much better idea than fucking and fighting. I’m done with it. The need for peace is much more present at this point. In the wake of what’s happened, perspective has come into play, and I have to remind myself that how things played out is the way they were meant to be.
And maybe, in a year or two, when I’m ready to think about more than this land, and I don’t have to wear myself to the ground to dull the ache, I’ll have more peace.
Still, as I look over the pastures that make up my family’s legacy, I know I’m a part of something bigger than me.
I pray I’m doing the man who raised me proud. “Miss you, old man.” What I wouldn’t give for one more day with him.
On the last leg of the expansive yard, I sit back and take a swig of water, just as a black Jeep comes racing up our long gravel drive. Before I have a chance to question what the hell is going on, the Jeep comes to a skidding halt about fifteen yards away. A fireball of arms, legs, and wild blonde hair comes barreling toward me with clenched fists, her mouth parted with words I can’t make out because I’m paralyzed where I sit.
She stops right in front of my bush hog, arms flailing and mouth going ninety miles an hour, as I sit there stupefied, unable to hear a word. She’s fucking gorgeous.
She’s still got faint circles under her eyes, but other than that, she looks far different from the woman who left that dressing room a month ago. Her chest is heaving over a thick halter. An overshirt is tied around the waist of her shorts, and she’s wearing ankle boots that accentuate her calves.
Fuck me.
The only thing wrong with this picture is the slew of words coming out of her mouth that I’m sure at this point I don’t want to hear.
Our eyes connect, and instantly I’m choking on this ever-present ache. A month of progress goes up in smoke and fear laces my veins at the mere sight of her. She’s madder than I’ve ever seen, and it would be comical if I could get past the need that surges to the surface and ruins my ability to keep my shit together.
She can’t do this to me again.
As I watch her rant, I can’t help the smirk that curls my lips. She looks like a baby bird trying to take flight.
After a few seconds of her kicking up dirt in front of me, I take my earbuds out and kill the engine, managing to catch the tail end of her rant.
“You. Stupid. Son. Of. A. Bitch!”
My grin may have gotten a little wider.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Katy
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing!”
He shakes his head, pointing to his ears, as I stomp around at his feet, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life.
I can’t stop the words coming out of me as I do everything but lunge at him.
“You. Stupid. Son. Of. A. Bitch!”
His smirk turns into a broad smile, and my anger goes inferno.
“Good to see you too, Scottie.”
“What in the hell are you thinking, volunteering to go back there?”
He pulls his gloves off, wiping his brow, and it’s then that I notice he’s shirtless, wearing just his dark jeans and well-worn gray leather boots. He’s grown his hair out longer, so it rests in waves on his head. Bronzed muscle shimmers in the sun as rivulets of sweat trickle down, coating his skin. My mouth waters at the sight of it. In mere seconds, I’m brought back to the side of that boxing ring. Nostalgia, for what seems like ages ago, tugs at my heart.
I can’t lose him.
His words cut through my gawking. “I’m thinking I’m a soldier, and it’s my job.”
“You’re so full of shit!” I counter.
Golden eyes drink me in, and I realize my chest is heaving, my boobs spilling out of the tank I’m wearing.
His eyes flit away before I feel the warmth of them.
He takes a step toward me and blows out an exaggerated breath. “I know what happened back there was hard on you.”
“Hard on me?!” I screech.
He grips his water bottle and takes a sip as if we’re having a casual conversation. “On both of us. It was torture. I won’t deny that,” he says, capping it before setting it on one of the tires.
“By feeding me that line, you’re denying everything!”
“And what exactly is it you want me to admit to now?”
My silence seems to piss him off.
“What? No quick reply? Tell you what, I’ll talk real talk when you’re ready for it. For now, let’s get to work.”
“What?”
“You’re pissed, I understand why, but it changes nothing. My guys need me. I’m going. And seeing as how the last time I saw you, well,” he says, pulling a tattered ball cap from his back pocket and pulling it over his eyes, “well, it seems you have different demands. Frankly, I’m finding it hard to keep up. So, I figure since you have all this damned aggression to work through, and I have a month’s worth of work to catch up on, why not help me? I mean, we are buddies, right?”
I’m shaking my head adamantly as I speak. “Tell them you’re having second thoughts, after a psych eval—”
“Passed it,” he says easily.
Ripping at my hair, I stomp the ground between us. “Well then go seek counseling, raise a red flag. Tell them you’re having dark thoughts…or something!” I’m yelling at the top of my lungs, and he’s basking in the sun, staring at me like the crazy lady I am.