Santa Olivia (Santa Olivia #1)

“I’m not a whore,” Carmen said.

“I didn’t think you were,” the soldier-who-wasn’t-a-soldier replied.

“It’s just a place to stay,” she added. “I have a son.”

He nodded. “You’re a widow?”

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. “Aren’t we all?”

He didn’t move. “Yes.”

Still; so still. Carmen reached out her hand. He took it, his fingers folding around hers. Strong and gentle. Too strong; too gentle. It felt like a promise of grace and a harbinger of sorrow. Her eyes burned with tears. He regarded her with the same weary fearlessness that he had shown before. He smelled hot and acrid, like sun-scorched dust. Her pulse beat hard, the blood throbbing in her veins.

“Why am I doing this?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. You don’t have to.”

She gazed at their conjoined hands. “Tell me your name.”

“Martin.” The name had an unfamiliar lilt on his tongue.

“Just Martin?” she asked. He nodded. She smiled ruefully. “I’m Carmen. Carmen Garron.”

She led him upstairs. The room wasn’t much; there was her bed and Tom’s cot, a table and a pair of chairs, and a hot plate where she cooked a little. Mostly she ate food from the diner. But it had its own bathroom, and it was clean. Martin took off his cap and hung it carefully from the back of one of the chairs. He looked younger without it, except for his eyes. “Where’s your boy?”

“Down the hall with Sonia. She looks after him while I work. I should go fetch him.” Carmen hesitated. “Make yourself at home. The shower works, if you like.”

His lips curved upward. “I can take a hint.”

She flushed. “It’s not that.”

“Carmen?” He stopped her as she was leaving. “Will your boy be scared?”

She paused, considering. There hadn’t been a man in her quarters since Danny Garza beat her. “Maybe.”

Martin nodded. “I’ll wait, then.”

She went to fetch Tom. He was reading a picture book while Sonia watched him, her gnarled hands folded in her lap; or at least he was turning the pages and telling stories to himself. He glanced up brightly when she arrived. “Hi, Mommy!”

“Hi, mijo.” She kissed his cheek. “Any progress?”

Sonia shook her head. She’d been trying to teach him to read, but she suspected he had a learning disorder. “I know there are techniques, but I’m afraid it’s beyond me. Mr. Ketterling might know.”

Carmen planted another smacking kiss on her son’s cheek. “Ketterling’s a coward and a drunk. He leers at the girls and he hits the boys. I’m not putting Tommy in school until he’s old enough to take care of himself. Unless he’s a bother?”

“Never.” The older woman smiled. “I’d miss him something awful.”

“Go kiss your Tia Sonia goodbye,” Carmen instructed him. “We have a special visitor who wants to meet you.”

“Okay.” No fear, just cheerful obedience.

Jesus, she thought as they walked down the hall. What am I thinking? He’s such a good kid; he shouldn’t have to see what he saw with Danny. Why did I ask some stranger—some fucking deserter, from the look of it—if he needed a place to stay?

At the door, she almost changed her mind. But Tom, holding her hand, looked up at her with an expression of fearless trust. Carmen opened the door. “This is Martin,” she said. “He’s going to stay with us for a little while. Say hello.”

“Hi,” Tom said.

Martin the soldier-who-wasn’t dropped to squat on his heels, his hands dangling loosely between his knees. “Hi there, young fellow.” They gazed at each other, man and boy. An inexplicable grin split Tom’s face, widening, filled with glee. He let loose a chortle that sounded like a flock of birds taking flight. Martin laughed and shook his head, rising to his feet. “Well. I guess that’s all right, then.”

“I guess it is,” Carmen agreed.

THREE

Shit!” Carmen said fervently.

Martin came out of the shower glistening, a white towel around his waist. Her towel. There wasn’t an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, gesturing. “My clothes…”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved one hand. “I’ll wash ’em.”

He stepped closer to her, moving with that odd, thoughtless efficiency. “You don’t have to do that.”

Carmen dug her nails into her palms. “I don’t mind.”

Oh, sweet Jesus, she wanted to touch him! Wanted to run her hands over his shower-slick skin, feel those muscles surging and leaping. Wanted him atop her, against her, inside her.

“Thank you.” He touched her forearm. “You’re kind. I won’t last long, I’m afraid.”

She stared blankly at him.

“Sleep,” he said. “I haven’t had much.”

Carmen flushed. “Right.”

She found a pair of old drawstring pajama bottoms that had belonged to Tommy’s father for Martin to wear, then sent Tommy down the stairs to the kitchen while she washed Martin’s uniform; standard-issue desert fatigues, suitable for chasing the ghost. She hung them on the line stretched across the narrow balcony, overly aware of his presence, his goddamned presence. Tommy came back, trotting up the stairs, clutching a grease-stained paper sack of hamburgers.

“Eat,” she said shortly.

Mother and son watched in amazement as two burgers vanished at record speed.

“Sorry.” Martin crumpled the paper wrapping, then yawned, his jaw cracking. “I’m about done in.” He gestured at the floor. “There okay?”

“The bed’s fine if you don’t mind sharing it.” She got the words out without blushing. Jesus, it wasn’t as though she was going to fuck the man with Tommy in the room!

Martin looked at her for a long, long time. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”

Five minutes later, he was sound asleep on one side of her bed. When Tommy crept over to peer at him, Martin’s eyes opened like a shot, but when he saw it was just the boy, he gave a smile of surprising sweetness and closed his eyes. Tommy stayed where he was, watching the man sleep as though he were some exotic pet his mother had brought home.

And exactly what the hell was he, anyway?

A soldier, a deserter. Yeah, probably. Maybe. But who deserts on an army base in the middle of nowhere? The cordon was fifty miles wide, fifty miles of nothing. Maybe he’d been out on patrol and had just had enough. Walked away, walked back to town because it was the only place to go. Maybe he was afraid of the other soldiers seeing him because they’d report him.

So why didn’t he look afraid?

Why didn’t his uniform fit quite right?

Why did he look so damned there, and why did his muscles feel like they writhed under his skin like a sack of rattlesnakes? And why, oh why, had she invited him to stay with them?

“Fuck,” Carmen said in disgust, then glanced at Tommy. “Sorry, honey.”

Dusk came without answers. Martin slept, barely moving. Tom took to his cot without a single protest. In the bathroom, Carmen washed her face, then looked at herself in the mirror. At twenty-six, she looked worn, but she was still a pretty woman.

“What are you doing?” she asked her reflection. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Her reflection didn’t reply. She brushed her teeth, put on a nightgown, and went to crawl into bed beside Martin-the-mystery.

He woke and turned toward her. In the gathering dusk, his eyes glimmered, dark and steady. Carmen laid one hand on his bare chest. His skin was smooth and cool. He shifted to accommodate her. She put her head on his shoulder. His arm came around her. Heavy; Jesus, it was heavy! But it felt good, too. Solid, protective.

She slept.

In the morning, the bed was empty. She came awake all at once with a sudden pang of loss and sat up; but no, Martin was still there, sitting at the table with Tommy, teaching him some card game.

“Mommy!” Tom’s face was ebullient. “Martin’s teaching me poker.”

“Great,” she said. “A card shark.”

“He’s a smart boy.” Martin gathered his cards and squared the deck. “You keep these, Tom. A goodbye present.”

The boy’s face fell. “You’re leaving?”

He glanced sidelong at Carmen. “You’ve been kind. But I can’t stay.”

“No?” A wave of anger swept over her. “Where you gotta go?” She gestured around. “You gotta hot date out there in the desert? You think you gonna run all the way north? With no food, no water? You think you gonna make it to the wall, climb right over?”

Martin’s eyes flickered. “No.”

“So, what?” Carmen climbed out of bed, put her hands on her hips. “South?” she asked incredulously. “You running south? You some kind of spy?”

And then he was there, just like that, all the way across the room, one hand on the back of her head and the other covering her mouth, and she hadn’t the slightest doubt in the world that he could break her neck with one quick twist. “No. Hush.”

Tommy made a stifled sound.

She hushed.

Martin sighed, his hands dropping. “Better you don’t know. Trust me.”

She took a deep breath. “Is someone looking for you?”

He hesitated. “No. Not exactly. Not here, not yet.”

“So stay.” Carmen glanced at her son. It was what he wanted, despite what had just transpired. He didn’t want Martin to leave. It was written on his face. “Stay a few days. You’re tired, you’re hungry, and wherever you’re going, you don’t have any supplies to get there. I’m lonely and Tommy likes you. Stay a little while.” She paused, then needled him. “Unless you’re scared?”