In Glory, Kansas, the best bakery in three counties not only brings together ingredients for sweet treats, but is the place where—through the powerful mix of friendship, community and a well-stocked kitchen—a wounded hero can forge a forever kind of love.

Back in the hometown he left behind five years ago, Jack McConnell has returned battle-scarred and feeling like half a man. But Betsy Lewis only sees the hero who once saved her life and set her heart on fire. Now she’s burning to save him in return. She’ll use every trick she’s got up her sleeve, from her generous natural assets to her talent for baking, to coax Jack out from the bottom of his whiskey bottle.

At first, Jack responds to Betsy like any red-blooded man would. He’s always denied his attraction to the innocent girl he used to know, but he’s returned to find Betsy’s grown into a full-on woman with strength enough for both of them. Until Jack realizes the only way to conquer his demons and be worthy of the hero’s mantle she’s pinned to his shoulders is to save Betsy one last time—from himself.

Return to Glory

Sara Arden

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’m so excited to share my new series, Home to Glory, with you. These are stories that prove that love really does heal all wounds by teaching us to heal ourselves. In this series, it happens in the small town where they grew up—in the town where I grew up. There’s something both cathartic and terrifying about healing in the town where you were raised. It’s much harder to show your scars to people who already know you. But that’s definitely where the magic happens—you can’t get to the castle until you go through the haunted forest.

I can’t begin to thank everyone who helped me with with my research. The SEALs, rangers and private contractors I spoke with helped me bring these characters to life both as soldiers and as people. They chose to remain anonymous, as some of them are still in theater, but I thank them for their help, their courage and their service.

I hope you enjoy Jack and Betsy’s story. Do stop in and let me know what you think at www.facebook.com/saraardenbooks.

Thanks for reading,

Sara Arden

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dear Reader

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT WAS DURING the predawn hours on a Saturday morning when former navy SEAL Jack McConnell donned his dress whites and pressed the cold, hard barrel of his .357 Magnum to his temple. With only one bullet in the cylinder, he had a one-in-six chance fate would right the wrong it had so grievously dealt him eighteen months ago.

Jack was supposed to be dead.

He’d sacrificed all he had to give, and now he was nothing but a broken weapon of war. No use to anyone, or anything. If he’d had even a shred of honor left, he’d have made sure every slot in the cylinder was full when he played his little game with fate every Saturday.

But something wouldn’t let him, and for that, he cursed himself for a coward. Death was no stranger to him; it’d been a warm friend at his back for every mission. So why couldn’t he meet it with certainty?

Jack took a deep breath, hoping it would be his last, and pulled the trigger on the exhale. The hammer made an impotent little click that echoed like a gavel in his ears.

It occurred to Jack that maybe the first time he’d played this game, he’d won and this was actually hell.

Today, Glory would welcome him home, the returning hero. Welcoming him back to the town where he was born, back to the house that had stood empty since his parents’ deaths and back to the corpse of a life that was no longer his.

And he was expected to stand up in front of them all and happily accept it as his due with all eyes on him, his ruined face and his new leg made of metal and gears rather than flesh.

A loud bang exploded into the silence and Jack dived to the floor, his hand curled around the .357. The racket repeated and he realized it wasn’t an explosion. It was only someone knocking boisterously on the back screen door. Jack realized it was a paradox that he’d just held his own weapon to his head, but any sound similar to gunfire caused him to take cover. To try to protect himself.

He swore as he struggled to pull himself up onto the couch. Jack could walk on his leg, he could even run, but he still had a tough time from a prone position. The knocking banged again and the handle rattled.

Jack had a good idea who it was this early in the morning. He didn’t want anyone interfering in his business, and the best way to ensure that happened in a town like this was to act as if there was no business in which they could interfere.

“If this isn’t the zombie apocalypse or you’re not Salma Hayek,” he began as he finally pulled himself up and grabbed his gun, “you’re about to gain ten pounds of lead.”

Why had he come back? If he’d never— He cut the thought off. He’d come back because even though he was ready to die, he still had affairs to put in order. Jack was a man of his word and he’d told her he’d come back. It had been visions of her, of his promise, that had kept him alive, and while part of him hated her for that, he’d been the one stupid enough to make the promise.

“I’ve got your ten pounds and I’ll raise you another ten,” Caleb Lewis, one of Glory P.D.’s finest, said with a grin and his hand on his gun. “Saw your light on and thought I’d stop in.”

Jack had been in town for only a few days and he was glad their reunion was private. It meant more that he wasn’t just one of the rubberneckers.

“I could have left it on because I’m afraid of the dark. You might have interrupted my beauty sleep.” The words felt hollow to him, and this easy banter that had once been the hallmark of their friendship felt forced and awkward. At least for Jack. Although he did put his gun down.

Caleb snorted. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not getting any prettier.”

“That’s because you woke me up.” Jack forced the corner of his mouth that could still hold expression to curl into a half smirk. He appreciated the other man’s frank observation. It was something Caleb would have said to him before the explosion.

Silence reigned for a moment and the air was thick with expectation. It snapped when Caleb spoke again. “You know Betsy will want to see you.”

This was the collision of past and present Jack had been waiting for—the debt he’d come back to settle.

A tidal wave of memories hit him hard and fast. Betsy. Caleb’s sister and the girl he’d left behind holding only his dog tags and a childish promise to return. The way she’d looked at him at the bus station, as if her whole world hinged on the very air he breathed. He’d have done anything to keep that adoration in her eyes. Jack had never been anyone’s everything, and after he saved her from drowning, he’d become her hero and he’d allowed her to hoist him up on a pedestal.

He’d almost knocked himself off that pedestal when he came home after BUDs. She’d been so beautiful....

“Jack?” Caleb prompted, stemming the flow of memories.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t think you do. She’s still half in love with you.”

“She’ll get over it.” He looked at Caleb pointedly.

“Hey, you know her better than that. She doesn’t care what you look like. In fact, she’ll hoist your pedestal even higher when she sees the sacrifices you’ve made.”

“So what is this? Warning me off your sister? Really?” He scowled. “I’ve never taken advantage of her.” He’d come precariously close to crossing the line, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d given her his tags and a promise to return.

“You’ve never sat in the dark alone in your dress whites with your weapon in your hand, either. I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but you’re as much a part of my family as she is.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That I see you. Maybe you should see you, too.” Jack opened his mouth, but Caleb cut him off. “And that’s all I’ll say. I gotta go, man. Maybe we can catch up over a few beers later.”

He should’ve known that Caleb would see through all of his carefully constructed walls and chimera within seconds and that he’d call him on all of his bullshit.

Especially where Betsy was concerned.

The best thing to do with her was settle up, just as he’d planned to do. Then he could leave and he’d never have to think about this town, the people or the weight of a hero’s mantle that Betsy had so artfully pinned to his scarred shoulders.

CHAPTER ONE

BETSY LEWIS NEVER planned on staying in Glory. There was a big world out there with so much to be seen, done and most important, tasted. For one brief year, she’d escaped to the Institute of Culinary Education in New York.

If anyone were to ask her, she’d say freedom tasted like New York. Specifically, coffee and cheesecake from Junior’s before class. Sometimes, after class, too. For a city that was supposed to have horrible water, coffee didn’t taste the same anywhere else. Neither did the pizza crust, but that was another matter entirely. Her mouth watered just thinking about it. New York was freedom, success and happiness.

Paris, on the other hand, Paris tasted like Glory. A brew of bitter failure and broken dreams. She had gone there after graduation from the institute, one of the few chosen to be mentored by the famous Chef Abelard. Instead of being the jewel in her crown and the beginning of her career, it was a black stain. For her first dish, she and the other students had been told to prepare mushrooms bordelaise. They had to hunt for the mushrooms themselves, and rather than paying attention to what she was doing, she’d been too busy soaking up the countryside, the culture and Marcel to notice that she’d gathered death cap mushrooms. If not for Chef Abelard’s highly sensitive caninelike sense of smell, she might have killed someone.

After the incident, she’d told herself she never wanted to cook, she never wanted to be a chef, she was a baker. An artist who wrought beauty out of sugar and flour. Not someone who worried about brisket.

So she’d returned to Glory and the small-town life that always seemed too small. But after the incident, New York was too big.

Except for Jack McConnell. Yeah, she’d rather think about him than how she’d blown her dreams out of the water with both guns blazing. He was the only thing about Glory that was big-screen.

Jack. Even thinking his name made her insides flutter like a thousand butterfly wings. Of course, that fluttering nonsense had been cordially invited to stop when his letters stopped. The butterflies didn’t take the hint, but she hadn’t found a way to effectively serve them an eviction notice.

They were the reason she hadn’t slept. Or more accurately, Jack was the reason she hadn’t slept. The butterflies were hosting a rave at the prospect of seeing him again. Jack had come home and as of this particular moment was barely three blocks away. The knowledge they were even in the same zip code had each nerve ending on high alert. Betsy was sure her eyes were open so wide she looked like some kind of speed freak.

She’d replayed every memory over and over again until the edges seemed tattered like an old quilt, and just like that old quilt, she’d wrapped herself in those memories—especially of his kiss.

Betsy hadn’t been kissed like that since—an electric current she felt all the way through to her toes. Not that many had gotten close enough to try. Betsy didn’t trust easily. She was friendly and warm, but few were invited to her inner circle. Almost drowning as a child had been a hard lesson. When it had happened, Betsy could see the people who were supposed to be her friends through the heavy wall of water that held her down. They’d simply stood immobile and watched as her life slipped away. The EMTs said inaction associated with fear in that kind of situation was common, but rather than offering comfort to Betsy, it drove home the idea people weren’t to be trusted.

All except Jack. He’d rescued her. That memory replayed itself more often than his kiss.

This constant cycle of thoughts had been set to “spin” since she found out Jack was coming home. Now he was here, and today they’d welcome him home in the same gym where they’d said goodbye.

She rolled over and over, trying to get comfortable, but sleep was elusive. Betsy gave up trying. Her bakeshop, Sweet Thing, would open soon. While she loved her shop, it was still the consolation prize because it was in Glory. She had a small staff, but Betsy still had to finish the cookies she was taking to the ceremony. She wanted to do those herself. They were Nutella cheesecake, Jack’s favorite.

She slipped into the dress she’d made just for today. White with a bright red cherry print sewn in her favorite pattern. It accentuated her assets while kindly camouflaging her flaws. Betsy draped a crisp apron over the creation and headed downstairs to the shop.

The scent of glazed donuts and maple coffee greeted her when she walked through the door. Betsy inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, as if she could keep more of the scent with her. There was a kind of Zen for her in the bakeshop. Simply walking through the door was a tonic for Betsy that eased her hurts and soothed her mind.

A blond head poked out from the walk-in cooler. India George was a newly minted addition to the Glory P.D. and her brother’s partner. India was supermodel gorgeous, with high cheekbones, long legs and wide blue eyes. But she’d never been one for dresses and frills; she was rough-and-tumble all the way. She’d been back only for a few months, but it was as if she’d never left. This morning she’d agreed to be Betsy’s minion and help run the shop while Betsy handled the orders for the ceremony. In return, Betsy promised no cop/donut jokes for at least a week.

“Didn’t sleep, did you?” India asked as she pulled out a tray of donuts ready for frosting and set them on a prep table.

Betsy grabbed some icing bags and handed one to India. “Sleep is overrated.”

“Have you seen him yet?” India didn’t look at her as she accepted the bag and began icing a donut.

India wasn’t only her brother’s partner, she was also his best friend and had been since the first time she made him actually eat dirt on the playground after taking her ball. India was the big sister she’d never had.

“No,” Betsy admitted. “I almost went to see him the day he came home, but I thought he’d need some time.”

“That was smart. Adjusting to civilian life is hard, even without his challenges. His parents’ deaths...” She shrugged and kept icing.

What India hadn’t mentioned, but left hanging in the air like a contagion, was the stark reality of Jack’s injuries.

“I remember when I got the call last year,” Betsy said quietly. “After his parents died when he was first deployed, I was his emergency contact. The nurse asked me if there was anything I wanted her to tell him. She thought he was going to die.”

India had a donut halfway up to her mouth but put it down. “I didn’t know that. What did you say?”

“He promised to come back to me, India.” Betsy nodded silently as that last and most hated memory churned to the surface. She’d been avoiding that one, pushing it out of her head every time it struggled forward. She’d rather drown a thousand times than ever take that call again or remember how it felt. She found her voice and lifted her chin. “I told her to remind him of his promise.”

“Oh Bets.” India covered Betsy’s hand with her own. “That was a long time ago. Maybe even another person. He—”

“It’s not like I spent the last five years waiting for him.” Betsy turned back to her work.

“Isn’t it?” India asked in a careful tone.

“No, that would be stupid.” Or maybe just pathetic. She hadn’t waited for him, but Jack McConnell had the set the bar by which she measured a man pretty high.

“When was the last time you went out with someone?” India had latched on to the idea that Betsy had waited all these years for Jack. Like a rabid dog, she wasn’t going to let it go any time soon.

“Scott Meyer.”

“Not who, when?”

Betsy cringed at the answer. “Last year.”

“And before that?”

“There was that guy in Paris.” She thought about Marcel and how he’d broken her heart right after she’d broken her own dreams. She sighed. Marcel didn’t matter. What would she have done with him anyway? Stayed in France? Married him? And never been good enough, smart enough, pretty enough or talented enough? She’d always be the wide-eyed girl from America who liked to play in the kitchen. Why had she ever put up with that from him?

“Right about when Jack stopped writing and calling?” India eyed her. “You still have his dog tags, don’t you?”

The tags were in her nightstand. “I still have my yearbook, too. That’s not especially significant.” Now, Jack, he was the one she would’ve married. If she were with him, Glory wouldn’t be such a bad place to end up. In fact, when she was a little girl, she didn’t dream of France. She dreamed of him and Glory.

“A yearbook is nowhere near the same thing as a soldier’s dog tags.”

Betsy could admit India was right about that, but Betsy didn’t think there was anything wrong with keeping his tags. He’d been a big part of her life. The breath in her lungs was there only because he’d given it to her. Keeping his tags didn’t seem above and beyond reasonable.

“Look, I know Jack isn’t the same guy who left. He couldn’t be. But that guy made me feel like a live wire and see stars where I knew there weren’t any because my eyes were closed. If someone makes me feel that again, then I’ll go out with him. I won’t settle for less.”

“Honey, if Scott Meyer didn’t make you see stars, you’re a lost cause,” India teased.

Betsy could admit Scott was a catch. He was a fireman. It was some unwritten law that all firemen had to be sexy. He was smart and funny, country-boy sweet with a pair of shoulders like Atlas. Betsy had kissed him on their third date. It had been nice, but it had reminded her of chocolate. Godiva to be exact. She liked Godiva and enjoyed it, an excellent product, but it didn’t do things to her senses the way André’s Confiserie Suisse did. Having had André’s, she was spoiled for anything else.

“Didn’t you go out with him a few times after you got back? I don’t see any follow-up dates that you had, either. You must be a lost cause, too,” Betsy deflected.

A haunted look flashed across India’s features, only to fade into a brittle smile. “I am at that, Bets.” She nodded.

“India,” Betsy began haltingly.

“I’d rather deal with your mess than mine.” India’s expression softened. “I know you and Caleb love me. If I need you, I’ll ask, okay?”

There was so much Betsy wanted to say. India was just returning to civilian life after deployment as a military police officer. While she’d come home physically whole, something catastrophic had happened to her that was more than just the reality of war.

“Okay,” she agreed softly. “But you better hurry up in the dating department. Otherwise you’re stuck with my brother.” They’d made an oath at fifteen that if neither of them was married by thirty, they’d bite the bullet and marry each other. Betsy’s mom had been thrilled and suggested they start dating as a practice run.

“More like he’d be stuck with me.” India managed a real laugh. “Don’t you have cookies to bake?”

Betsy let it drop. “Are you sure you can handle the counter? The morning rush is kind of crazy.”

“I’m a cop.” India shrugged. “How bad can it be?”

“You’re tempting fate with that question.”

“She can go ahead and bring it.” India screwed up her pretty features into an expression that said she was indeed ready for anything that came her way.

That was old-school India, and Betsy was happy to hear it. “If you’re sure. If you need me, I’ll be in my laboratory.” She pronounced the last word with what her brother had come to call “evil genius inflection.”

Betsy had to admit that baking sometimes made her feel like a mad scientist, or a witch brewing spells and potions. It was part of what she loved about baking. Quality baked goods were all about chemistry and reaction, but not just of the ingredients themselves. It was about how those things interacted with the people combining the ingredients and those who would partake of the results.

Betsy tried to stay calm and happy while she worked. In the early days of her shop, she’d taken out her frustration on bread dough, and even though she’d done nothing different, when she was unhappy, the bread tasted like a scoop of used kitty litter.

As she mixed the dough for the cookies, Betsy let go of everything that weighed her down. She surrendered to the initial feelings that always enveloped her when she walked into the shop. Peace. Joy. Home. She kept each one on her mind and in her heart while she formed every cookie.

It was a blessed respite until several hours later. When all the batches had cooled and she packaged cookies for Jack and some for the ceremony, it occurred to her that maybe Jack wouldn’t want to see her at all. Her heart twisted in on itself, the cruel hands of possibility wringing it out like a sponge.

She crushed that thought beneath her vintage high heels. It didn’t matter if he wanted to see her or not. With all he’d lost, he needed someone. Even if it was only to let him know he wasn’t alone. It was possible and even likely he’d changed more than she could ever know, but underneath it all, he was still Jack. Betsy owed him her very life, and if he needed her now, nothing would keep her from repaying the debt. She might not be able to make mushrooms bordelaise, but she could help Jack.

Betsy kept her focus on that determination while she closed up Sweet Thing, loaded the bakery van with India and even after she’d taken her seat inside the community center.

But then her first sight of Jack obliterated all her good intentions. Any notion of debts and repayment quickly morphed into a familiar hunger. Her breath caught and time stopped.

A tsunami-like surge of emotion crashed over her now. She devoured the sight of him, as if any second he’d disappear and she’d have only these few precious seconds to remember him.

He was harder now, aged in a way deeper than skin. His shoulders were wider, his chest thicker and his jaw harder. His close-cropped hair now accentuated the high-angled sharp lines of his cheekbones and cinder block jaw. His mouth was set in a grim line, scar tissue crisscrossing in a haphazard melee across the left side of his face. When he turned his head, she saw that the scars ran down his neck and disappeared beneath his uniform.

Tears welled up in her eyes for him, but not because of how he looked. Even with the scars, he was as handsome as he’d ever been. Maybe even more. His scars were proof of his strength—of his courage. The spray of white-ridged marks across his skin, and tributaries and valleys of twisted, ropey sinew and puckered flesh, horrified her not because they were ugly, but because she couldn’t imagine the pain he’d suffered.

Betsy tried to look away. But try as hard as she could, there was nothing else she could focus on but Jack. Just as it had always been.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK WOULD HAVE known her anywhere.

Betsy Lewis was a lush caricature of the lovely girl he remembered. Her ethereal beauty had become earthier. That pale skin had turned to cream perfection and her rounded curves had become full-on dangerous. A tumble of black hair hung over her shoulder to curl against her cleavage, and she looked every inch a vintage pinup queen, right down to her matte red lips and the matching cherry print on her white dress. Everything about her blared sex, and his body answered, painfully hard, at just the sight of her.

Or maybe it was just because he was a twisted bastard? That was more likely. She was a beautiful, kind woman who deserved better than him imagining her to satisfy himself during the long, lonely nights. He’d thought that part of his life was over, that need. Either the shrapnel or the whiskey had taken it from him, and until now, he hadn’t cared. He didn’t want to look at himself, or touch himself, so he was under no illusions that anyone else would want to.

Especially not her. She couldn’t even look at his face.

He tried to block out the memory of her kiss, that innocent touch of her lips against his, begging him to be her first—and what inevitably came next. His patient, tender refusal. The look in her eyes now when she’d had to turn away was much the same. As if something inside her had been crushed.

What the hell was he thinking anyway? Even if he’d come home whole, he still wasn’t good enough for Betsy Lewis.

God, but he wanted a drink. He wanted to silence the voices in his head, the memories and the pain. He consoled himself that this would be over quickly. The townspeople would get their look at him and then they’d leave him alone.

That’s what this recognition ceremony was all about—they wanted their look to satisfy their curiosity. They’d go home and talk about what a shame it was what happened to Jack McConnell and then they’d leave him in blessed peace.

The mayor continued to drone on and Jack managed to tear his gaze away from Betsy. “And with that, we’d like to present you with this award,” the mayor finished.

Jack stood slowly, his prosthesis working with him and straightening as the rest of his body did. He still couldn’t move too fast or it would throw off his balance.

He was expected to speak, but he had nothing to say.

“It’s an honor, sir,” the mayor said, shaking his hand.

He leaned over the mic and fixed his stare on a point against the far wall. “The honor is mine. Both to have served my country and to be part of this community. Thank you.” Jack accepted the plaque and headed for the exit, trying not to choke on the bile in his throat.

Betsy was suddenly standing in front of him with one of the purple boxes—just like the ones she used to send him. “Hi, Jack.” She thrust the box into his hand and flung herself into his arms.

She clung tightly to him and he couldn’t stop himself from clinging back. The scents of vanilla and sugar washed over him. She smelled so good, so wholesome, and she felt even better with her full breasts against his chest. She fit against him as if she’d been made for this moment—for him. Her hair was so soft against his cheek, like black silk. Jack could have stood there forever simply holding her.

But like all breakable things, he knew every second he touched her was dangerous.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered against his ear.

Her breath was warm on his skin, tingling. The sensation caused him to remember what it felt like to want. To need. Jack couldn’t help himself. He tightened his embrace and crushed her solidly against him. “You smell like cookies.” He hadn’t seen her in five years, and the first thing he said was that she smelled like cookies. Stupid.

What else was there to say? Don’t tell me it’s good to see me when you can’t even look at me?

She laughed, the sound musical and light, but she made no move to release him and he found he didn’t have to the courage to pull away from her. Right now it was just a hug. They could be Jack and Betsy. When he released her, she’d have to look somewhere and it wouldn’t be his face. He couldn’t blame her.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Instead of letting go, he wanted to touch her more thoroughly. To see if she was really so soft and perfect everywhere. Only being this close to her made his skin feel too tight, itchy. Made him think if he could just scratch deep enough, he could peel off what he’d become, but he knew better. So he pulled back from her, but she stayed in his embrace.

“That’s because I was baking all morning. They’re Nutella cheesecake.”

He looked at her blankly.

“Your favorite.” She had yet to focus on his face.

Jack couldn’t remember what his favorite was, but if she said it was, he’d believe her. He hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash, or remember anything before the char consumed his nose, his mouth and his lungs. She pulled farther away from him slowly, and he let her go.

It occurred to him that she was as beautiful as he was ugly. No, that wasn’t even the right word. She was like the sun, warm and bright, but she would scald him through to the bone if he let himself bask in her rays for too long. He needed to take cover, and in this case, distance and darkness would be his shield.

“Thanks.” He held up the box in his hand. “I guess we should settle up.”

“What do you mean?” She looked at a point past his cheek, not focusing on his face.

“I owe you. For taking care of the house. My parents.” He swallowed hard. “Being there to take the call when I was injured.”

“Oh Jack. You don’t owe me for anything.” She looked down and smoothed her hands on her dress to straighten an imaginary wrinkle. “You came home. That’s all I wanted.”

Before this moment, he hadn’t been able to admit he wanted Betsy to look at him the same way she had done those years ago when he left. She wasn’t that girl anymore and he certainly wasn’t that boy. “My parents left you something in their will. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t get it.” That was a damn lie, but it had to be done. After everything she’d done for him, he owed her. Jack was a man who paid his debts.

“Come by tonight after you close the bakery.” It would be dark then and she wouldn’t have to see his face. He didn’t wait for her to respond but abandoned her there by the stage. Jack didn’t want to hear her say no.

Hours later, with a bottle of whiskey in hand, Jack was wishing he’d stayed to hear her refusal. Then he wouldn’t have been sitting there rotten with hope for just one more look at a woman who wasn’t coming.

What the hell had he been thinking anyway? He could have the papers to the account drawn up and have them delivered. Jack didn’t have to be here. He could leave her the house, too. He took a long pull, finding comfort in the fact that oblivion was only a bottle away.

He was almost all the way through the amber bliss when the front bell rang. Jack didn’t jump half out of his skin this time, because he’d reached that plateau where his constant fight-or-flight reaction was a distant discomfort. Jack would’ve just let the bell ring, but there was still the faint hope it could be her.

She smiled at him when he opened the door, another purple box in her hands. “Sorry it’s so late. I’ve got Halloween orders to fill, so I’ve been working late.”

He held the door open to allow her inside. She was wearing a different dress. This one was vintage as well, yellow-checked gingham with pockets in the front and a neckline that had to be illegal.

The sound of an old engine backfiring on the street outside elicited an immediate response: take cover. He hit the floor, dragging Betsy with him and shielding her with his body before he could process that it was just another shitty car in a small American town. He wasn’t in Iraq anymore.

A cool hand on his cheek brought him into the present. “It’s okay. We’re safe,” she whispered to him.

Shame, hot and putrid, washed over him. “I’m sorry.”

“You were protecting me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He recoiled from her, pulling himself off her and leaning his back against the wall. “I, uh, what my parents wanted you to have, it’s on the table.”

“Jack,” she began. Her presence was overwhelming, smothering. She seemed to burn up all the oxygen in the room.

“Just take it and go.” He struggled to get up, but he couldn’t get his balance with nothing stationary to which he could anchor himself. The prosthesis bent at an awkward angle and he crashed back to the floor. Jack cursed, more determined than ever to get up now. He had to. She couldn’t see him like this.

At least at the ceremony he’d been upright and in his uniform. Wearing a symbol of something that mattered. Now he was just Jack.

Broken.

Useless.

He tried again to stand but failed. Rage filled him and he didn’t care if he broke the thing, he would stand. Jack attempted to claw his way up.

“Jack,” she said again, horror shading her voice.

“I don’t want your damn pity,” he roared.

She reached for the crushed purple box and put it up on a nearby table and then moved next to him, pulling his head down into her lap.

Even as it was happening, Jack knew it was wrong. He wanted to tell her to leave. No, now he was lying to himself. He didn’t want to tell her to leave, but he knew he needed to. Her touch was tender and sweet, stroking over the good side of his face. “Pity and empathy are two different things.”

She still smelled so good—of all things sweet and wholesome. While he stank of Old North Bend whiskey.

“You should go, Bets.” His actions betrayed his words because he’d wrapped an arm around her thighs.

“Not a chance. It’s not you who owes me, but the other way around. Did you forget that you saved my life?”

“That was a hundred years ago and another life.”

“Maybe. But men aren’t the only ones allowed to have their honor. I pay my debts, too.”

“There’s no debt. Your life is yours, free and clear.” He didn’t want her to be here because of some imaginary debt.

“I’ll never forget opening my eyes and seeing you leaning over me.” She stroked her fingers through his hair. “The streetlight made a halo around your head and I thought you were some kind of angel.”

“What utter tripe,” he said without conviction.

“I have never been so terrified. When I realized I wasn’t going to make it back up to the surface, I was so angry. I wasn’t ready for my life to be over. Especially not for some stupid childhood prank. I didn’t want to die. And it hurt, it was like my lungs were on fire while being pressed under a million pounds of solid rock.”

He didn’t speak but pulled away from her and the intimacy of the position.

“Then there you were, Jack. While everyone else watched and did nothing, it was you who saved me. You gave me everything I have. So if you think for a minute I wouldn’t do the same for you, you’ve got another think coming.”

“I’m not drowning, Betsy.”

“Yes, you are. You’re drowning yourself in whiskey. I smelled it on you at the ceremony, and your house reeks of it.”

“I’m already dead, sweetheart. It’s a wasted effort. So take what my parents left you and go.”

“Shall we see about that, Jack?” She pulled away from him and stood.

“What?”

“Get up.”

“I can’t.” He might have expected this from someone else, but never Betsy.

“I said get up, soldier. You made me a promise. You said you’d come back, but this isn’t you. This isn’t Jack McConnell.”

“You’re right. I told you, Jack McConnell is dead and I just brought his body back for you to mourn.”

“I don’t accept that. I said get up.”

“How!” he roared again, and it wasn’t a question.

“Ask me to help you.” Her voice was calm and steady.

“I didn’t beg when I was captured in Mosul. I’m not begging for anything here.”

“I don’t want you to beg. I want you to ask. There is no shame in that.” Her voice, while sweet, was braced with steel. “Ask me.”

“No.”

“Unacceptable.” She nudged him with her foot. “Ask and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How could you conceivably do that? I can’t taste the sweets you make, and my dick doesn’t work. So what could you possibly offer me?”

“Right now I’m offering to restrain myself from kicking you. The Jack I used to know would knock your teeth down the back of your throat for talking to me that way.”

He sighed. She was right. “I’m sorry, Betsy. Just go.”

“Not a chance.” Her voice was softer now and she leaned down over him. “I will help you. I’m not leaving until you’re at least in that chair.”

“Fine. Help me.”

Seemingly satisfied she wasn’t going to get any better from him, she helped haul him upright. It was an effort, but she managed. He should’ve expected her strength; she carried around fifty-pound bags of flour all day and kneaded loaf after loaf of fresh bread for hours.

She didn’t try to help him to the chair. Instead he found his back against the wall and Betsy on her tiptoes, her matte red lips pressed against his with no care for the ruined part of his face. She kissed him wholly, completely.

It was as if those years had never passed and they were under the stars again the same as the night he’d left. Pieces of himself he thought long dead sparked and flickered—a bulb in a faulty socket. He tightened his arms around her, pressing her more firmly against him.

She felt so good. It had been so long since anything felt good. She even tasted like vanilla. That had to be his imagination because he hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash since he’d awakened from the burning hell of his nightmares into a real world just as awful.

Jack deepened the kiss, tasting more of her, storing up the memories of vanilla and sugar. Betsy broke the kiss all too soon and pulled away from him, and the new bud of light that had taken root grew dark. He’d have given anything to turn it back on.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack.”

He didn’t respond, only watched her go.

She turned halfway out the door and light from the street lamp pooled around her. “In case you were wondering, everything seems to be working just fine.” She shut the door behind her.

CHAPTER THREE

BETSY’S LIPS TINGLED from the passionate kiss. Her body burned with need, and those fireworks she’d been talking about with India had burst to bright and heated life. Even tasting the whiskey on his breath, even scarred as he was, his mouth was still the only thing that had ever lit a blaze so hot. Being pressed against his hard body... Yes, everything was in deliciously proper working order.

Except for the most important spark. The flame that was inside him that made him Jack. There was a darkness in him now that was so heavy it threatened to smother all the light.

Betsy refused to allow that to happen. She’d meant what she said. She would save him whether he wanted her to or not. When she was drowning, she’d had no way to ask for help, and she figured that analogy couldn’t be more spot-on. He was drowning in the dark.

Jack had taught her that life was meant to be lived. He’d shared part of his spark with her, and that was why she had to ignite that inside him again no matter what it took.

She cast a glance back at the house over her shoulder as she headed to her car. Jack was at the window. Betsy knew he would be—he’d watch over her until she was safely locked in her vehicle.

She held up her hand in a gesture that wasn’t quite a wave, but more of a thank-you as she unlocked the door and slid inside.

She drove the short way to her mother’s house on Westwood, and the memory of the night he left crashed over her. Betsy pushed it away; she didn’t want to remember. It was too much like holding on to a dream that could never be real.

Except it had been real and it was over. Time marched forward, their lives changed, but she’d never forgotten how he made her feel.

And the night she’d said goodbye to a dream.

Jack McConnell had been all-American perfect.

The boy who’d been an Eagle Scout, volunteered at the homeless shelter in the city, an all-star quarterback and a straight-A student had graduated from BUDs. Jack was officially a navy SEAL, the best of the best.

And just as he’d come home from BUDs, Betsy had had to say goodbye again. But before he left to serve his country, there was something he had to know. Something that couldn’t wait.

Betsy was in love with him.

Nothing else mattered but making sure Jack knew he had a reason to keep himself safe—to come home. Her mind flashed back to that night.

* * *

HER HEART WAS so full of him, it actually hurt. Sometimes she wondered if it was possible to love someone so much a heart could burst.

The party Betsy’s parents organized in the community center gym to send him off in patriotic style was in full swing. Couples moved on the floor to a high school band that supplied melody while others scavenged the potluck buffet. Veterans and active-duty service members shook Jack’s hand. They thanked him for his service. The man who ran the military memorabilia store teased him and said even though he’d chosen the navy, Jack was still okay in his book and guffawed.

Jack took it all in with a good-natured grin that was his trademarked expression. He turned to her, as if he felt her eyes, and gave her a smile that was only for her. He excused himself from his well-wishers.

“Hey, sweet thing. Did you have a good time?”

She smiled. “The party was for you.” Betsy didn’t know how she could be expected to have a good time when he was leaving again.

“No fun at all?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Not a single bit.” She gave him a conspiratorial look. “You can make it up to me, though.”

“Oh can I? Who says I want to?” he teased.

“You never tell me no.”

“And now I’m paying the price.” He slipped his arm around her waist.

Betsy couldn’t help the thrill that jolted through her at the contact. His hands were so warm; his whole body radiated heat and the sensation stole nearly every thought in her head. “You can let me go with you to the bus station.”

“Bets. We talked about this. You’re still in high school and you shouldn’t be out by yourself that late at night. It’s dangerous.” He held up his hand to silence her when she would’ve interrupted him. “And I don’t want my last memory of tonight to be you red-eyed and snot-nosed.”

Betsy had other plans for his memories of tonight, but she had to get him to agree to the bus station first. “I promise I won’t cry until you’re gone, and Caleb said he’d bring India to ride home with me so I won’t be alone.” Betsy bit her lip. “Please? I need to tell you something and I don’t want to tell you here.”

“What’s this about?” His confusion looked genuine.

As if he didn’t know how she felt or what she could possibly want to tell him. All the more reason this was so important.

“I’ll tell you if you come with me. You’ve had enough of the party, right? Wouldn’t you rather have some of my mother’s fried chicken and my Nutella cheesecake cookies down by the river?”

“Sometimes I think you know me too well. The party, your parents, it was great, but—” He shrugged.

“They know that. My mother packed the picnic basket in my car.”

“I’m going to miss Lula’s cooking.”

You could have it every day if you stay. Of course, Betsy didn’t say that. This was the life he’d chosen, the one he wanted. Either she could behave like an adult and support him, or she could be a selfish child worried only about her own feelings. She was trying very hard to be the kind of woman he needed.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Come on, then.” She grabbed his hand and led him out to the parking lot.

Betsy was so nervous her knees shook and she considered herself lucky she was able to walk upright and didn’t fall on her face. Not only did Betsy plan on telling Jack she loved him; she planned on showing him, too. It would be perfect. Moonlight and stars, the smells of the grass and his cologne would be indelibly marked into her memory. The taste of the homemade blackberry cordial she’d smuggled out of the pantry on their lips.

Or so she’d read in the books her mother kept under her bed. Of course she’d heard things from friends, but Betsy preferred to think it would be like the books rather than sweaty grunting and strange faces with a gearshift digging into her back.

Whatever it was, she decided it would be perfect because it was with Jack.

The community center overlooked the Missouri River, but there were still too many people around for what she intended. Betsy drove to a small campsite close to the riverbanks and parked. They walked a short trail to a secluded spot where she spread out the red-and-white-checkered blanket.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been here. I thought you forgot.”

When she was younger, after he’d saved her from drowning, Jack had brought her here to show her the river wasn’t something to fear. It was powerful and should be respected, marveled at, but never feared. She always felt so safe with him, which was why this was the perfect spot. Something else new to experience with him.

A small voice niggled at the back of her brain asking what if he said no? What if he didn’t want her? Betsy refused to think about that. Fate was never wrong, and she knew with a certainty as deep as her bones that Jack McConnell was her fate.

“How could I forget, Jack?”

She pulled out the cordial and offered him the bottle.

“Does your mother know you have that?” he asked.

“I told you that she packed the basket.” A teensy, tiny lie. Infinitesimal, really.

Of course he could see straight through it. “You’re a horrible liar.”

“What she won’t know won’t hurt her. It’s just a little bit and it’s just tonight.”

“Only one sip if you plan on driving me to the bus station,” Jack admonished.

A four-letter word clanged in her brain like a gong. She hadn’t thought of that. “Like I said, just a little bit. My grandmother calls it her tonic, so it must be good for us.” Betsy grinned.

“So, what did you need to tell me that was so important?”

No! Not yet. She had to let him relax into the moment before she pounced. “In a minute. Right now I want to lie back and be still with you. We’ll make our own constellations in the stars like we used to when my brother was playing Ghost in the Graveyard and wouldn’t let me play. How was it you always got stuck with little sister duty?” Betsy laughed and reclined on the blanket, close enough to touch him.

“I volunteered.”

More sparks burst in her stomach and Betsy swore her fingers were numb. Simply being this close to him and knowing he wanted to spend time with her, too, it short-circuited something vital.

“That one, over there.” Betsy pointed, leaning so her head was almost on his chest. “It looks like a lollipop.”

“You see sweets everywhere. In clouds, stars, and probably when you sleep.”

“I do,” Betsy admitted. “I dreamt about spring cake last night.”

“What’s spring cake? Or do I dare ask?”

“You’d love it. It’s going to be yellow cake with lemon. Just enough for a bit of tart, but otherwise sweet with key lime frosting, I think.”

“You’re going to make some man very lucky someday, sweet thing.”

Her heart thudded so loud for a second, she couldn’t hear anything else. It was now or never. “What about you, Jack?” she asked quietly.

“No, I doubt I’ll make any man happy.”

Was he being purposefully obtuse? The night was suddenly still, a calm before the storm, but Betsy wanted the storm. She needed it more than her next breath. “Would I make you happy?”

“Jesus, Bets.”

That was not the response she’d been looking for, but she forged ahead. “What I wanted to tell you is that I’m in love with you.”

He propped himself up on his elbow and he studied her a moment before he spoke. “I know you think you feel these things, but it’s only because I’m going away. You’re scared because things are changing, and that’s okay. I may be leaving here, but I’m not leaving you.”

“Things have already changed, Jack. I will admit that I’m scared, but it made me realize I want to spend every day with you. Every night.”

His face was unreadable. “You don’t know what you’re saying, what you’re asking for.”

He was determined to be the good guy. She’d known this part would be difficult, but that was part of why she loved him. Even if she had to work harder to get what she wanted—happily ever after with Jack McConnell. “Don’t I?”

Being bold was easier now that she’d already said she loved him. Betsy looped her arm around his neck and pulled him down to her. She tilted her mouth up to kiss him, and as soon as their lips met, lightning coursed through her veins and she swore that for the briefest millisecond, the spark between them stopped her heart.

His kiss was everything she’d hoped it would be. Strong and sure, but passionate and tender. She knew the stars burned brighter and hotter because she could see supernovas behind her eyes.

He became the aggressor, shifting his hard body on top of hers, his fingers tangled in her hair. Betsy loved that he was touching her, but she wanted him to touch her everywhere. Not just her hair. The fire of her need burned her from the inside out.

This was sheer bliss and just as she’d imagined, she committed every sensation to memory. The exploding stars, the scent of him, the texture of his shirt under her palms and the taste of the cordial on his mouth, which was more potent than she could’ve imagined. They’d drink this at their wedding.

His hands wandered down to her hips and slid beneath her dress and up her thigh. Betsy couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; she could only feel. He broke the kiss, his mouth trailing down the column of her throat.

This was actually happening. “Yes, Jack. Please,” she urged.

He stopped all the delicious things he was doing and stared at her as if she’d morphed into a two-headed dog.

“Betsy! I’m so sorry.” He scrambled away from her, his breathing ragged.

“Don’t you dare be sorry!” Betsy straightened herself. “I have my own brain, which works just fine, and a mouth to say what I do and do not want.”

“You’re only sixteen.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Jack. I may be a young woman, but I am a woman.”

“I’m not talking about your body. I’m talking about your life. Your experiences.”

“So give me some,” she blurted.

He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. “You can’t say things like that. Someone will take advantage of you.”

“Obviously not.” She eyed him expectantly and all of her bravado melted away as that tiny voice whispered doubts in her head. “Unless you don’t, you’re not...” She pursed her lips and shook her head, unable to finish asking if he wasn’t attracted to her.

“You’re beautiful, sweet thing. Your letters during basic and BUDs kept me sane.” Jack paused. “I’ll admit I thought about you more than I should have. In ways I shouldn’t have. But, Betsy, you’re Caleb’s little sister and where I’m going, I can’t put that life on you.”

Betsy accepted what he said, but it wasn’t surrender. Fate didn’t make mistakes. She grabbed his hand. “Then I’ll wait for you. Just promise you’ll always come home no matter what it takes.”

He took off the tags from around his neck and pressed the warm metal into her hand. “I promise.”

She knew there was nothing else to say then but goodbye.

They drove to the station in silence, and when it was time for him to board, Betsy gave him a fierce hug.

Rather than tell him she loved him again, she whispered in his ear, “Don’t forget your promise.”

“I won’t.” He brushed his lips lightly over the crown of her head and boarded the bus without looking back.

Betsy stood alone in the pale, sodium light of the station with his dog tags clutched in her fingers and kept her own promise. She didn’t cry until the bus was gone.

* * *

THAT WAS THE last time she’d seen him, before todday.

Now he was back and her stupid heart didn’t understand how much things had changed. How much he’d changed.

Betsy knew the only way this could end was badly—that was one thing her heart did understand.

And it didn’t care.

CHAPTER FOUR

JACK COULDN’T FACE HER after what had happened.

He’d been so weak, so powerless, so broken. His failure had been splayed wide in front of her like an autopsy, but she hadn’t turned away from him, which was worse somehow. Maybe because it was obvious she thought he could be fixed.

But some things, once broken, couldn’t be pieced back together—parts were missing.

Like Jack. He wasn’t whole, and he never would be.

Despite what had happened last night, he had to face her again, if only to make her take that check. Jack knew he owed her, and the money was the only thing he had to give.

A small voice reminded him that wasn’t quite the truth. He had his wreck of a body, and if her kiss was any indication, she seemed to want it. She couldn’t look at his face, but she’d pressed herself up against him, her sweet, lush curves so inviting.

He knew she was still in love with the idea of him, still wanted the golden boy he’d been when he left. Maybe that was what she needed—the ugly truth to crush the fantasy.

So maybe she’d let him go. The fire in her eyes, the determination...

Now he was lying to himself. He wanted Betsy, and as far as he’d fallen, if she’d have him, he wouldn’t be able to say no. Touching her was bittersweet because it was the only time he could feel anything more than pain.

He eyed the whiskey bottle on the table, and when he would have reached for it, he stopped. Next to it was the envelope that held Betsy’s check, and it sat there like an accusation.

Jack swore and picked up the envelope instead of the bottle. He’d need it when he got home anyway.

It occurred to him that rather than see her again, the embodiment of the life that was lost to him, he could simply give it to Betsy’s mother and leave. He’d promised Betsy he’d come back, and so he had. Their accounts would be as even as they ever could be.

Yes, he’d leave before he shattered the image of the hero she believed him to be, and the heart of the girl who’d loved the man he’d been.

His decision made, he grabbed the envelope and headed to his car. Driving with the prosthesis wasn’t a challenge, and he knew that he’d fared better than most with the cutting-edge technology of the endo/exo implant—the titanium mesh implanted in his femur having actually become part of him. He’d had less downtime, fewer struggles, and logic told him that he had a lot to be grateful for.

But logic wasn’t there with him in the dark. It should have been; he’d been a SEAL—the best of the best. He stared death in the face and dared it to come take whatever it thought it could, and yet, when the flames came and he could smell the stench of his own burning flesh in his nose— He pushed the thoughts away, unwilling to face his cowardice.

When the house came into view, a sickening wave of nostalgia washed over him and turned his stomach. He remembered every night he’d spent in that house. The tree house at the back of the property where he and Caleb had hidden out from India when she was on a tear, his first real kiss in the closet in the downstairs family room during a middle school party, and Lula Lewis’s fried chicken on a Friday night after a home football game.

The house lived and breathed with memories that were better left undisturbed.

A sudden dread hit him. As if, if he took those last few feet, everything would change, but that was stupid. There was nothing behind door number one that could change what he’d come to do—what he had to do.

He moved forward, one foot in front of the other.

The brightly painted red door opened, and rather than Lula, it was Betsy standing there.

Her features were drawn and tight, some heavy burden tugging her shoulders down, the corners of her mouth, and the weight extinguished the light in her eyes.

Seeing her like that tore at him with sharp claws. That was exactly what he feared he’d do to her. He realized Betsy wasn’t the only one attached to an ideal. Jack needed to believe nothing could touch her, that she was safe from all the bad things in the world. Especially him.

“I came to give you this.” He thrust the envelope at her.

She drew her gaze up slowly, her regard burning him through to his bones. Suddenly he felt even worse about offering her the check than he did not reading her letters. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t been angry, but it was all there in the pools of her eyes. The acknowledgment of everything he hadn’t wanted to say to her, but somehow she knew.

“I don’t want your money.” Betsy turned away from him, but he grabbed her wrist.

Jack found himself watching the scene from a place outside time. A place where his rational mind could protest what his body wanted and no one would hear it. Instead of releasing her when she turned, he pulled her into his arms.

She came to him easily, all soft sweetness. Betsy clung to him like a life raft in a hurricane—and he thought the description apt because he was ravaged by the storm the same as she was.

Touching her felt as if all of his nerve endings were on fire at once when before, they’d been numb. It was pain, it was bliss. It was everything he wanted and everything he feared.

If he could feel all of this from a simple embrace, what would it be like if he kissed her again?

The moment hung between them, gravid with everything they’d left unsaid and undone. The weight of a semi crushed down on his sternum, and the envelope burned his fingers.

She pulled away from him slowly as if moving through water. Betsy slipped her hand into his. She led him inside and toward the stairs.

Toward her bedroom.

Toward something he knew was wrong but wanted more than his next breath.

If he’d taken her that night under the stars with whispers of love and blackberry cordial on her breath, it would have been more forgivable than what he was about to do.

She pushed the bedroom door open silently and he followed behind her.

The room was still pink, her sheets still white, just as they’d been when she was a girl, but all of the pictures and posters had been taken down and there were boxes stacked in the corner. Two lone pictures had been stuck to the mirror. One of Betsy with two friends with the Statue of Liberty in the background, and one of Betsy with a man. They were standing behind an array of pastries, both of them with a certain glow to their cheeks. Accomplishment. Camaraderie. Something else Jack didn’t want to name.

Betsy reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck again and he looked away from those pictures of another life, turned his mind away from the questions that bubbled up inside him. If he spoke, he knew the spell over them would shatter.

It was the right thing to do, to stop this before it went any further, but Jack was tired of the right thing.

Even though it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she didn’t want this with him and all of the reasons why:

That he was broken.

That he was ugly inside and out.

That he had nothing to give her.

That even these moments would only be a hungry shadow of what she deserved.

He said none of them. Instead he kissed her. Jack crushed his mouth to hers and he wasn’t sure if it was because he needed to taste her again or if he was punishing them both.

Her for making him feel, making him want, and himself for not being able to deny the pull between them.

She melted under the onslaught, her body molding against his. There was no shy confession from her, no demure invitation like before. She was bold, her hands moving under his shirt, over his chest, his shoulders, his back.

While scarred, he knew that part of him was well made and pleasing. He was strong; he had to be to lift himself. He could lift her, too. Jack remembered that was something Betsy had always liked, to be picked up. To be shown that her curves weren’t too much for a guy to handle. To be reassured that petite wasn’t the only definition of sexy.

When he would have hauled her up and wrapped her legs around his waist, she was too busy tearing his T-shirt off him, her fingers on the button fly of his jeans.

Stark terror coursed through him and he stumbled away from her.

Because she’d see. The ugliness would be right there in her face. There was no hiding it under a pant leg; there was no pretending he was whole.

What the hell had he been thinking? It was the middle of the day, the sun high overhead, and there was no darkness for him to hide in, no shadows.

His dick withered at the thought. He couldn’t let her see.

Yet his eyes were drawn to her mouth, the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

She still didn’t speak but turned her back to him and pushed her hair to the side, exposing the zipper on the back of her dress. Betsy stepped out of her vintage shoes and nudged them out of the way with a stocking-covered foot.

Everything about her was seductive, every gesture and every breath.

Against his will, he found himself drifting toward her, his hands on her zipper, sliding it down the length of her back. He drank in the sight of her creamy skin, her bra and panties a splash of delicate pink lace against perfection.

He pulled her back against him hesitantly, his arm around her waist, and fastened his lips to the swan arch of her neck. Even her skin tasted sweet. If he thought he was broken before, Jack knew she was going to wreck him.

He could still stop. He could pull away from her; he could—

Betsy drew his hand up from her waist to cup her breast. He could do none of those things because he was lost in the undertow. Instead of drowning in the dark, he was drowning in her, in the inky black waves of her hair, in her creamy skin. He never wanted to surface; he wanted to fill himself up with her until there was nothing but Betsy.

She was warm, safe—she was all things good.

Until she tried to turn in his arms again.

“I don’t want you to see,” he confessed in a harsh whisper, sure that the spoken words would rip like daggers through the haze of need over them.

Betsy turned anyway and for a moment, he thought there would be pity on her face, but there wasn’t. Her dark eyes were half-lidded, her lips swollen from his kisses, and she was the embodiment of desire.

“There’s so much you don’t want, Jack. Tell me, what is it that you do want?”

“To stay lost in you,” he answered honestly. “But I haven’t touched a woman in two years.”

“What about yourself? Have you touched yourself?”

“Bets—” He was torn between being even more turned on that she asked, that she thought of him like that, and the shame that he hadn’t had the desire since his injury. He couldn’t stand to look at himself, let alone bring himself pleasure.

And the whiskey...he was surprised he could maintain an erection.

“This isn’t going to be good for you.” Another confession torn from him. He meant for more than the here and now, more than just fleeting bliss he might have been able to offer once upon a time, all those years ago.

Her hands slid down to his button fly again. “Yes, it will. You’re good at everything. You’re Jack McConnell.”

When her fingers closed over his length, he still had his doubts. “This is going to be over before it starts.”

“And yet it still will have happened.” She tilted her face up to his and feathered another kiss across his mouth. It was nothing like his cruel mastery, but it punished him all the same.

“Why do you want it to?” He breathed against her lips.

“Because if all we have is ashes, we should at least get to burn in the fire.”

He could understand that, process it. Her words made much more sense than the idea that she actually wanted him. He didn’t know where things had gone wrong for her, but obviously they had if all she had to do on a Sunday afternoon was him.

She was right. They both wanted this and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t whole, that he couldn’t spend hours worshipping her body, bringing her off time and again, even though he wished he could. This was about the moment, about burning to nothing. About feeling something more than pain.

For all that he thought she didn’t understand, with that simple sentence, he knew that she did.

If she could lose herself in him the same way he could be lost in her, he could give her that.

He tangled a hand in her hair and surrendered.

* * *

BETSY DECIDED THAT was nothing compared to what it was like to have his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, and the sure knowledge that she’d finally experience this with him. It was the culmination of a fantasy, of a schoolgirl crush, but it was something more, too.

This joining was a haven against everything wrong in the world, against all their shattered dreams.

It was only right that the first time would happen in this room where she’d spent so many hours dreaming of him. Of course, when she’d imagined giving herself to him, it was all fey bubbles and breathy sighs. He’d been kind and patient in her fantasies—gentle and tender.

The reality was nothing even close to that. His hands were rough and calloused, his kisses were more like a battle than a seduction, but it was still everything she wanted because it was real.

She angled him back on the bed, still stroking him. Betsy didn’t want him to think about anything other than how good this felt.

Part of her was still afraid he’d try to be noble or maybe that he just didn’t want her. Even with the hard evidence of desire in front of her, that fear was still present that he’d said no all those years before and used her age, her brother, his nobility as an excuse so he didn’t have to tell her that her stomach wasn’t flat enough, her face not pretty enough...

Marcel’s face bloomed like a rancid flower in her mind. You could be so lovely if—

No. She wouldn’t do this to herself.

“It’s okay if you changed your mind.” His voice was ragged and low, as if every word cost him something vital to speak.

Betsy realized she’d stopped her caress and was leaning over him with his jeans halfway down his hips. Low enough to reveal only what he wanted to share, but would still hide what he didn’t want her to see.

He thought that was why she’d stopped. Nothing could be further from the truth—it was only her own insecurities, but she was determined to face them.

“Just a bad memory.”

“Then I’ll give you a better one.” He slipped the straps of her bra down her shoulders and made quick work of the thing, discarding it on the floor. Her panties were next and she shivered with anticipation.

When she straightened to step out of the lace, she reached into the nightstand to grab a condom but found her fingers closing over his dog tags. Betsy didn’t want him to know that she still had them, and she snapped the drawer shut as soon as she found the foil packet. They’d been there for a few years, the condoms. She’d stolen them from Caleb’s room in hope that some day, she’d be exactly in this position. Alone with Jack, and he’d want her.

Even though they were here in this room, in this tribute to days gone past, the tags belonged to the man who’d left. She knew they didn’t belong to the man in front of her, and she didn’t want him to doubt that she did.

He took it from her but dropped it on the bed next to him. “Oh no, sweetheart. Not yet. You can’t burn with only kindling.”

The expression on his face was familiar, the look he always wore when he met a challenge he was sure he’d defeat. From silly bets to when he told her he was going to be a SEAL.

To have all of that intensity focused on her made her bite her lip.

“You did say you wanted to burn, didn’t you?”

She nodded, breathless.

“Then come here.”

Betsy leaned into him, suddenly shy. When she’d been pursuing him, it gave her focus and made her forget everything but the goal. Now the goal was in sight and she was afraid to reach for it. She wanted to hide from him and her own desire.

His arms closed around her waist and he dragged his stubbled cheek across her skin. She shivered again and pushed her fingers through his close-cropped hair. He turned his face into her and kissed the soft curve of her stomach.

“I haven’t been able to taste anything, Bets. Not for so long.” His tongue darted out against her flesh. “Except your skin. Your mouth. You taste as good as you smell.” Jack’s hands wandered the curve of her hip, the dip at the base of her spine, the round globes of her bottom. “And I can’t help wondering if you taste as good everywhere.”

His words sent shudders through her body and she clenched, imagining what it would be like to be tasted everywhere.

“Show me,” he said as he leaned back on the bed and dragged her with him. Jack splayed his hands on the backs of her thighs and pulled her forward.

She obliged him, sliding up his body until her knees were positioned on the outside of his shoulders. Betsy felt vulnerable, exposed, and she kept waiting for him to say something about needing to adjust their position because of her weight, but he didn’t.

He didn’t say anything at all.

Jack tightened his grip and anchored her against him, his mouth too busy to form words.

At the first caress, Betsy cried out and fisted the duvet. A myriad of sensations bombarded her. The intimacy of their position, the feel of his tongue curving around her swollen nub, and the sure knowledge that all of her fears had been for naught because he loved this. If there was one thing Betsy understood, it was the palate. No one could use their mouth so diligently if it wasn’t the most decadent of delights.

His touch sent her spiraling higher and higher until she was up in the stratosphere with no way down and begging for more anyway. She fought the sensation he wrought in her until she was mindless with bliss. Something hot and sharp exploded into thunder and lightning through her veins, and that ecstasy shot through her body.

But he wasn’t done. While she shuddered and quaked, the rip of the foil was a distant sound. He maneuvered her easily with his great strength, shifting her down his torso until she was positioned over him, his erection poised at her channel.

Jack pulled her down so that his lips were a breath from hers. “You were sweeter than I ever could’ve imagined. And believe me, Betsy, I imagined it time and time again.” He kissed her hard and gave her no time to process his words, his actions.

All she could do was feel.

Then he was inside her, and even though she was on top of him, he was still very much in charge of their encounter. He set the pace by rolling her hips to meet his thrusts, moving her as he would.

Nothing had ever felt this good. Not getting accepted to the institute, not getting out of this town, and not even her first time with Marcel. Only this.

The aftershocks of her orgasm still ricocheted through her even as he continued.

How he’d ever thought this thing between them could be anything but magic, she’d never know. He hit the core of her with every tilt of his hips.

It was heaven, but it was hell, too, because Betsy knew no one else could ever make her feel this way. Jack wasn’t looking for forever, and he’d as much as told her that he didn’t have it to give.

When his body tensed and he found his culmination, it was bittersweet for Betsy.

She knew the spell that had led them here had been broken.

Betsy buried her face in his shoulder because she didn’t want their idyll to be over. Part of her wondered if she could just hide inside him, inside this moment, and make it last forever.

He stroked her hair, fingers tangling in the mess of curls almost lazily, as if maybe he wanted to stay in the moment, too.

Or maybe because now that it was over, they’d have to come up with something to say, some action to take that was both the same as it had been before they’d done this, but different, too.

The only action she wanted to take was to do this again—be touched by him, utterly consumed by the fire. Burning once just wasn’t enough.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHY DID YOU come back here?” he asked as he continued to comb through her hair.

“Who says I left?”

“The pictures on your mirror.”

“Maybe it was a vacation.” Betsy didn’t want to talk about this now. Anything she could say would make him feel guiltier for not reading her letters, and this wasn’t supposed to be about guilt or duty, only passion.

“Betsy, if you’re still pissed I didn’t read your letters and you don’t want to tell me, it’s okay. I get it. But that guy you’re with, the body language between you speaks of more than a vacation. There’s intimacy there.”

“Is this really the best time to be asking about other men?” Betsy giggled.

“Yeah, the bastard was looking at us the whole time,” Jack teased.

She couldn’t help it, she laughed again. “If only.”

“I didn’t know you were that kinky,” he teased some more, and Betsy was grateful he hadn’t gotten too serious, too heavy. It somehow made it okay to tell him what had happened with Marcel.

“No, he was just... It was over with him when Paris was over.” It would have been over anyway; moving was an impetus. Marcel didn’t do the things a lover was supposed to do. He didn’t make her a better person. He didn’t make her want to be better, and she didn’t do those things for him, either.

His fingers stilled. “Why was Paris over? It wasn’t because of me, was it?”

Betsy closed her eyes. “No, it was because of me. Because I failed.” It was the first time she’d said it out loud. Betsy had replayed it over and over in her head, said it to herself again and again, but she’d never articulated those exact words before. She’d always said she made a mistake, a dangerous mistake, but just a mistake. She’d never owned her failure. Now she was burning again, but it wasn’t with the heat between them. It was with shame.

Everyone had had such high hopes for her.

Especially herself.

She wasn’t ready to examine that too closely.

“Rather than beat it to death, maybe we could go back to the singing my praises and giving me orgasms. I like that better.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Do you really?” She lifted her head and met his gaze.

So much for not beating it to death. Why couldn’t she leave the hows and whys of this thing between them alone and just enjoy the moment? She’d been managing so well for about five minutes.

She saw from the look on his on his face that she didn’t really want the answer.

Betsy reluctantly peeled herself from his arms. Their idyll was over. Whatever spell they’d been under had unraveled. “I know Mom would like it if you’d stay for Sunday dinner.” At his stricken look, she added, “Caleb and India will be here, too. No big deal if you can’t.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Betsy.”

She tried to convince herself that the sharp pain that stabbed through her was just because she was hungry and craving her mama’s fried chicken.

“Okay.” Betsy hated how forlorn and sad she sounded at his refusal.

“I came to give you that check because I’m leaving,” he added. “I can’t stay here.”

“I said okay.” She wouldn’t look at him as she slipped into her dress. “Will you zip me up?”

“It doesn’t sound okay.”

What did he expect? “You want me to tell you it’s okay that you’re leaving again to go somewhere no one knows you, no one loves you, only to drink yourself to death alone? That’s not going to happen. So go. I can’t stop you, but it won’t be with my blessing.”

“That’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think?” His breath ghosted along her neck as he helped her with her dress.

After he’d zipped her, she turned to face him. “No, I don’t.” She studied him hard for a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity. “I think you decided that you came back. You showed your face so you fulfilled your promise to me, and now you can go off and do whatever it is you want to yourself in peace. I know you, Jack. I know how your mind works. And I can’t stop you. But you should consider that no one knows how much time they have and you may not want what you’ve got. I can see it in your eyes. But would you rather spend it drinking whiskey and choking on the ashes that we’ve talked so much about or have more days like today?”

“You can’t save me. I already told you that.” He shook his head.

“Only because you won’t let me.”

“You don’t understand.” The defeated expression on his face was killing her.

“Maybe I haven’t been to war, but this—” she gestured at the space around them “— isn’t what I wanted, either.”

“I’m supposed to be dead.” His voice was low and gravelly.

“You told me last night that you already were. That you just brought back a body for me to mourn,” she reminded him.

“Yes.”

The one-word answer infuriated her. He was being purposefully obtuse and drowning himself not because he couldn’t break the surface, but because he just didn’t want to. “Dead men don’t talk about the taste of sweetness, Jack. And they sure as hell don’t move their tongues like you just did.”

“When I’m with you is the only time I’m not dead, Bets.”

His confession cooled her anger. “So be with me.” She didn’t understand why it had to be so complicated. One plus one equaled two. Betsy plus Jack equaled happy. It wasn’t so difficult a prospect.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” He wouldn’t look at her, and this conversation sounded very much like the one they’d had the night he left.

His answer wasn’t good enough. “People rarely do. That’s not specific to me. Stay for dinner.”

“And eat food I can’t taste, laugh while I can’t breathe and surround myself with everything I can’t have?”

Part of her softened at his words, but she knew him too well. That’s what his words were designed to do, to deflect her attack. Even if they were true. “You’re not even trying. You don’t know. Give living a chance. No matter what you think, you’re not dead,” she cried.

“No, Betsy. It’s you who doesn’t know.”

“Maybe not, but I dare you to have dinner with us and find out what I do and do not know.” She put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin in defiance.

He raised his gaze to hers again, something dark there. “Fine. After dinner you come home with me and spend the night.”

Anticipation and expectation curled in her belly. Another night like today? She’d take it. “How is that a chore?” She rolled her eyes and slipped into her shoes.

“You’ll see what it’s like to be me.”

“Fine.” She lifted her chin another notch. Yeah, spending the night with him was some kind of punishment. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Betsy waltzed out of her room as if she’d just one-upped him, but as soon as she was out of sight, her shoulders sagged. She’d practically bullied him into staying. The same way she’d bullied him into letting her take him to the bus station.

Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? He didn’t want her help.

Well, that was too bad, because he was getting it.

She needed to do something to get her mind off what had just happened, and what was going to happen again later tonight.

And inevitably, what was going to happen in the morning. His regret, his— No. She wasn’t going to think about that. There were potatoes that needed peeling and oil that needed heating for the fried chicken.

“Hey, Bets. Is that Jack’s car in the driveway? Am I setting another place for dinner?” Caleb asked as he barreled through the door.

He was still in his policeman’s uniform. It made him look taller, more imposing. As if he needed it. He was already a big guy, but there was something about the uniform that made his jaw look harder, his eyes brighter, and his black hair shinier. When Betsy was little, she always thought he looked like Christopher Reeve. Except he had brown eyes instead of blue.

“You better take off your gun before you sit down to the table.” She looked pointedly at his duty belt. “You know Mama doesn’t like to have it in the house. Let alone at the dinner table.” She took down the cast-iron skillet her mama used for the fried chicken and started making the preparations.

“Didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes. Jack is having dinner with us tonight.”

“How did you swing that?” Caleb smirked.

“The promise of sexual favors.” It wasn’t a lie, if she boiled it down to the basics, and she liked to rattle him.

“You’re not funny, Betsy.” He scowled.

“Why do you always think I’m kidding?”

“I don’t want to know.” Caleb shook his head in denial.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Before I thought better of it.” Caleb peered down at the oil over her shoulder. “Did you add a little salt to the oil? Because—”

Betsy was quick to interrupt him. “Mom’s frying the chicken.”

The Great Chicken Debate had raged in the Lewis household for years. While Betsy was the baker, Caleb was an expert when it came to main dishes. Before the army, he’d considered going to the same school Betsy attended in New York.

“Well, I just think that she should—”

“Caleb,” India said from the doorway. “You know you never win this. Your job every Sunday is to be the dish boy. Deal with it.” Her blond ponytail swung as she nodded her head to accentuate her point.

“I’d think you’d be on my side, India. You love my fried chicken.” Caleb eyed her.

“At your house when we’re watching the Chiefs with a cold beer. This is your mother’s thing. I fancy keeping my head where it’s attached to my neck, thanks.” India nodded sagely.

“I don’t know how you stand him,” Betsy teased her.

“Me, either.” She shrugged.

“You’re no picnic yourself, George.” Caleb grabbed a beer out of the fridge.

“I am a paragon of virtue,” India retorted.

“Whoever told you that was lying like a rug.” Jack wandered into the kitchen.

“Shut up, McConnell. I’ve got a pair of cuffs and I’m not afraid to use them.” India indicated to her duty belt with a grin.

Jack arched an eyebrow. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“You always were the bad influence,” India tossed back, and grabbed two beers out of the fridge. She handed one to Jack.

“You just didn’t like it that Caleb and I would hide from you in the tree house. Your mom didn’t want you climbing trees, so that was the only place we were safe.”

Betsy watched the easy flow between them. Yes, things had changed. The three of them had gone away to war, and two of them had come home with pieces missing.

But she knew that India’s pain was Caleb’s, too. If she was wounded, it twisted something in him, as well. Caleb and Jack were as close as brothers, but his bond with India was something different.

Something Betsy always thought was more like love. Not a familial love, or even a brother in arms, but deep, abiding happily-ever-after kind of love. Betsy had mentioned it to Caleb once and he told her it was just because she always wanted India to be her sister.

“I seem to remember that time with the firecracker bomb you were not safe at all. In fact, you both screamed like little girls.”

“We were ten.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you blew out the floor of the tree house.”

“Hey, man, that’s okay. Let her have that. That’s the only time she ever got the better of us.” Caleb grinned and stiffened as he prepared himself for the impact of her fist into his arm.

“Did you forget that you have to go home with me tonight? I know where you sleep.”

It was Betsy’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

India blushed, something she didn’t usually do. “His place is being sprayed. The neighbors have roaches, so he’s bug-bombing just in case.”

Betsy didn’t mention the obvious: that he had a room here he could stay in, if need be.

Jack wouldn’t leave it alone, though. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Betsy fled the scene.

She suddenly understood what Jack meant about sitting around wanting things he couldn’t have. All of the easy banter in the kitchen, just like when they were kids. It had been a scene much like this one where she’d planned out their lives. India and Caleb, Betsy and Jack. They lived in Kansas City, far enough away from the small town to have a city life, but still close enough to their parents. Instead of going into the navy, Jack had taken a football scholarship to KU and was drafted to play for the Chiefs. Betsy and Caleb were partners in a successful restaurant, but India, she was still a cop. There was no life Betsy could imagine where India wasn’t chasing down the bad guys and giving them what they had coming.

And they spent all their time together. Every night dinner was together at the restaurant.

Betsy knew those dreams were naive and childish, but they’d been born in simpler times. A more innocent time.

* * *

JACK WATCHED BETSY FLEE and gave her all of three minutes before he went looking for her. If he wasn’t allowed to hide, neither was she. He knew that’s what she was doing. He could see the memories crashing over her in some acid wash that wounded her. Why did she think it would be any different for him?

She was leaning against the wall in the kitchen, her arms crossed over her breasts, and he did his best not to let his gaze linger there because he’d forget what he was supposed to be doing. Harsh words brewed on his tongue to remind them both, but when she turned to look at him, she looked so utterly fragile that they withered to dust.

“Outside, Bets.” He nodded toward the door to the back patio.

For the briefest moment, he thought she might argue with him, but she stepped toward the door. Once they were outside, she turned to face him.

“What happened just now? Why did you leave?” he asked.

“It was too much like old times. But neither of us is the same person who left.”

“That’s why this wasn’t a good idea.”

“One moment of melancholy doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good idea.” She’d gone from vulnerable to determined in less than a second.

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’m going to go. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Don’t go.” She wasn’t begging or demanding now. It was simply a quiet request that was all the more powerful when she fixed him with the weight of her clear-eyed stare.

“Bets—”

“Maybe you don’t need us, but we need you. I need you. Okay?” Emotion hung on the last word, making it come out like a question that needed an answer, and he had only one to give her.

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’m not a hero. I never was. When you realize that, you’re not going to need me. You’re not even going to like me.”

“Maybe.” She narrowed her eyes. “So start making it up to me now.”

Christ, but she was like a dog with a bone. He cocked his head to the side. “You never give up, do you?”

“Not when it’s something that’s important to me.”

“Okay, Bets. What do you want?” He’d give her anything if he thought it would erase the guilt, if it would stop twisting up his insides.

“This is about more than dinner.”

“I gathered.” He might have been weak and broken, but he wasn’t stupid.

“That you really give life a chance.”

“This again.” She didn’t know what she was asking of him. Not really. She didn’t know what it was like to wake up from a nightmare and find the scenery hadn’t changed, that she was still trapped. She didn’t know what it was like to be missing a piece of herself, literally and figuratively. She’d always known what she wanted and reached out and taken it.

And of course how could she understand? She’d never had to do the things he had done, witnessed the things he’d seen. Not that he’d want her to. He couldn’t imagine what it would do to her, the way it would change her.

“This, always.”

“I agreed to dinner. What else do you want?” He always felt torn around her, as if he were two people. Part of him wanted to break that air of innocence around her, sully it, so she couldn’t taunt him with it. The other part of him wanted to wrap her in a glass bubble and protect her from anything that could ever touch her or take that away from her.

He was a twisted bastard, he thought yet again.

“I propose a trade. Like dinner. You asked me to come home with you tonight, and I agreed. For every new thing that you do, with minimal complaining, I will do one thing for you.”

The part of him that wanted to sully her, to make her understand, to break that sweet naïveté, reared to the surface. He smirked. “One thing? You should probably specify your parameters.” He knew just how to make her back off from this. Even though they’d shared something this afternoon, he was sure when he started suggesting sex she’d change her mind. This would be too sordid for her. Earlier had been about some girlhood fantasy for her and this...this was the real world. He wasn’t a hero, or a memory any longer. He was a flesh and blood failure.

“There aren’t any. You want me to clean your house? I’ll do it. You want me to bake you cookies? I’ll do it. You want me to give you one day where I leave you alone? I’ll do it.”

Jack knew she’d do all of those things for him anyway. Except leave him alone. That was the one thing that would be a concession. Although none of those things were what appealed to him most. Even being left alone, which surprised him, but it shouldn’t have.

He’d come over to give her the check because he knew where things were headed and also knew that could only end in a fiery wreckage for both of them.

Yet he forged ahead anyway, his mouth moving, speaking words he had no right to speak. Especially in her mother’s house. If he were Caleb, he’d knock out his teeth and leave him to pick them up with broken fingers for talking to his sister in such a way.

But he wasn’t her brother.

“What if what I want is you in my bed?”

Twin spots of color bloomed on Betsy’s cheeks. “Jack, you could have that anyway.”

Her voice was breathy and soft, all sex. He was hard again. His body’s reaction to her surprised him, but it shouldn’t have. Nothing had ever been able to exorcise his fantasies about her. “No expectations, no strings, and it’s my time. No trying to fix me,” he warned.

“I’m not trying to fix you. I can’t fix you. You have to fix yourself.”

“And I don’t want to, but you’re forcing it on me. So I might as well get something I do want out of it.”

He hadn’t realized how harsh his words sounded until the cycle of expressions played out on her face. First, she’d blushed and a secret smile had curved her lips. It made him remember kissing them and being inside her. Her back straightened and the line of her mouth tightened at the no expectations and no strings. He expected her to balk then. Although when he told her he might as well get something he wanted, it was almost as if he’d taken a knife and cut her. He’d basically told her he had no use for her but her body, and that wasn’t what he meant at all, but he didn’t know how to fix it without digging the hole deeper.

Maybe this would be what she needed to see that he was beyond help, that all he would do was hurt her.

Only he’d underestimated her again. “Okay.” Her whisper was barely audible.

His displeasure must have shown on his face, because she spoke again. “What, you didn’t want me to agree? Why ask for it if it isn’t what you actually want?”

He closed the distance between them. “Oh I want it, all right. But I think about another man saying these things to you and the way you just said yes...I’d kill him, Bets. So would Caleb.”

“It’s not Caleb’s business, is it? Not yours, either. You said so yourself. No strings, no expectations. That goes both ways, cowboy.”

He scowled. She’d changed since he was gone. He knew that, but seeing it here in front of him, it startled him somehow. She’d always been headstrong, but this was more than that. This was steel in her spine and more nerve than sense. “Maybe we should set some ground rules.”

“You want rules now? I’ve got some of my own. You will give me until Thanksgiving. You will dedicate yourself wholly to every task. If you refuse a task, then you don’t get your night.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said I could have you in my bed anyway.”

“I thought you said no strings. With ground rules, those are strings.”

She had him there. “Fair enough, but if I’m dedicated wholly to this, then so must you be.”

“I am.” Her eyes narrowed.

“No, you’re not. There’s a picture of another man on your mirror.” He felt small and jealous by demanding she take it down, but it was still in his head. He didn’t like knowing that picture was part of a room of memories that should’ve belonged to him. Once upon a time, that mirror had been covered with pictures of him. He realized he’d taken her devotion for granted.

“Oh for the love of—” She rolled her eyes. “He’s just a memory.”

“So am I.” That was all she was to him, and that was what he wanted her to remember, that he wasn’t that Jack anymore. Only seeing evidence that she’d moved on, that someone else had taken his place—no, not his, the place that could’ve been his in her life—stirred up his guts like a stick in a rotten stew.

“Really?” She pursed her lips. “Marcel Babineaux has more right to that space on my mirror than you do. When I offered him my V-card, he didn’t say no.”

He knew that she was right, but being right only fueled his rage. Jack pushed her up against the door, and even though he was angry her arms still twined around his neck. “I’m the one that’s here,” he snarled.

“Are you?” she whispered against his mouth. “Are you really?” Betsy kissed him hard and fast. “Then I guess it’s you who’d best remember that when you’re talking about living and dying, huh?”

“And you should remember I’m not the same man who said no.”

When he would’ve slammed his mouth back down for another punishing kiss, the gentle touch of her cool fingers on his cheek stayed him.

“That’s not something that I’ll ever forget.” As if it was a good thing.

His anger dissipated like mist and he found he couldn’t even look at her. Jack tried to turn his face away, but she wouldn’t let him. Suddenly all of his sins were under a spotlight and he couldn’t hide them, but she continued to meet his eyes, unflinching and unafraid of anything she saw there.

“How did you get to be so strong?”

“You,” she said simply, and kissed him again. Her mouth was tender and reverent as it moved over his lips. The caress was everything he’d wanted to drive out of her. But he couldn’t. Not when she said he’d made her that way.

“Am I interrupting something?” Caleb asked, pushing the door open.

“Yes, and you obviously know you are and don’t care,” Betsy pointed out, slipping from Jack’s arms.

Caleb shrugged. “You’re right. Kick rocks, little sister.”

“Don’t you dare give him the big brother speech.”

“Wasn’t going to. We already did that Saturday morning.” Jack’s friend smirked.

“Oh really?” She scowled and put a hand on her hip.

“Yes, really.” He was unfazed.

“I don’t need you to fight any battles for me, Caleb.” Color rose in her cheeks.

“Who said we were fighting? Did you forget that Jack and I are friends, too? Go play dolls with India.”

“I’m going to tell her you said that.” Betsy and Jack shared a grin. He knew that if India thought he’d actually said any such thing, the consequences would be dire. He didn’t know how she did that—switched subjects and emotions so easily. She let each one roll through her—pass over her—just like a storm.

“You do that.” Caleb smirked again.

“I know that’s just a ploy to get rid of me, but I’m going along with it because I want to see her hand you your hind parts on a platter.”

“Bloodthirsty, isn’t she?” Caleb said casually as Betsy went inside the house.

“That’s tame compared to what’s going to happen if India thinks she’s serious,” Jack warned his friend.

“I know, but it’ll be worth it. I love that look of incredulity India gets when I say those things. It just completes my day.” Caleb laughed. “You should’ve seen her last week when we were watching the game and I told her to go get me a sandwich and a beer.”

“You live to annoy her.”

“I do. It’s brought me untold joy since we were kids.” Caleb shrugged again.

Silence reigned for a moment that stretched on forever. Jack got the impression that Caleb was waiting for him to fill it with something, but he didn’t know what to say.

“So, you wanted to get rid of Betsy. I assume to talk about her?”

“No, I just wanted to rile her up, too. It’s a spectator sport.”

“Living dangerously.”

“No, living dangerously would be to have a few more beers and challenge the girls to a round of Ghost in the Graveyard after dinner.” Ghost in the Graveyard was essentially a mashup of tag and hide-and-seek played in the dark.

“Oh yeah, that’ll be fun,” Jack said in a tone that indicated it would be anything but fun.

“It’ll be like old times. Except Betsy’s old enough to play.”

Jack cut a sharp glance at his friend, wondering if he meant the double entendre the way it sounded. “Man, if you want to chase India around in the dark, you don’t need a game of Ghost in the Graveyard. You should just tell her. That way I don’t have to fall and break a hip just so you can get into her fatigues.”

“You’re a crappy wingman.” Caleb took another pull off his beer.

Jack was surprised Caleb hadn’t argued with him about wanting to be with India. He’d refuted it so many times when they were growing up, his protestation had started to sound like a scratched CD.

“I’m crappy at a lot of things.” Jack would be the first to admit it.

“Did you really tell Betsy that we should go play with our dolls?” India stood like a raging Valkyrie in the arch of the door, eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed.

Caleb smirked at Jack. “See what I mean?”

For the first time, Jack looked at India and really saw her. She wasn’t the tomboy kid who always had a dirty shirt, tangled hair and a scowl on her face any longer. India George was a woman—a beautiful woman. Not as beautiful as Betsy, but Jack could see the appeal and knew why Caleb liked to bring that flush to her cheeks.

“Yeah, I think I do.” Jack nodded.

“Oh do you?” India turned on him. “And just what is it that Mr. Soon to Be Dead meant?”

“That you’re hot when you’re angry.” Jack didn’t hesitate to dump his friend from the proverbial frying pan into the fire.

Then Caleb did what any sane person would do when faced with the wrath of India George.

He ran.

Caleb took off toward the property line and the tree house that had once offered him protection against her fury, but India launched herself at him the way she would have a perp and took him down.

“They’re like puppies,” Betsy said, laughing.

“He thinks it’s a good idea to play Ghost in the Graveyard after dinner and a few more beers.”

“He’s still twelve.” Betsy shook her head. “It could be fun.”

Jack couldn’t help wondering if things had been different, if he’d come back whole, whether he’d be chasing Betsy through the grass right now. If he’d be thinking about a few more beers and stalking her in the dark until she was breathless and wanting underneath him.

Instead he had to worry about navigating unfamiliar and unsteady terrain—the very real possibility that he could fall and break something vital that would further impede his mobility. He couldn’t think like he was twelve, or seventeen, or even twenty-four. He had to think like an old man who was at the end of his life and whose body had started to fail him.

The sensation that his skin was too tight washed over him again and he wanted to rip it off, along with the mask that told the world everything was okay. It wasn’t.

It never would be.

He needed a bottle of whiskey, but he’d have to settle for another beer.

“Come on. Don’t you want to chase me? I’ve been chasing you since we were kids. It’s your turn.”

“Bets, I can’t.” He gritted his teeth as he spoke. Damn her for making him say it.

“Yes, you can.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“What? Because of your prosthesis? People do triathlons, cross-country and all manner of things. You just have to do it.”

“And how do you know so much about it, huh? You go missing anything vital lately?” he snarled.

“Yeah, I did.”

He’d had enough of this. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

“Isn’t it? I feel like there’s a part of me missing, Jack. I’ve had to start over. Aren’t we in the same place?”

Her face, her innocent determination, it was all just too much. “Only you, Bets, would equate moving back to Glory with fighting a war.”

“That’s a mean thing to say. You know that’s not what I meant.” She bristled and straightened her spine, obviously gearing up for a fight.

“Isn’t it?” He laughed, but the sound was cold and empty. “I feel as if there’s not a piece of me missing. In fact, it still feels like it’s on fire. So you should really know what you’re talking about before you make that comparison.”

“You know, Jack, you’re not the only person who’s ever suffered. Your pain isn’t so much bigger and worse than everyone else’s. You’ve got it worse than some, but better than others.”

“Really? Who do I have it better than?”

“The ones who didn’t come home.”

“If I could trade with any one of them, I would.” Jack watched as Betsy deflated. All the fight seemed to just wilt out of her, faded away with an exhaled breath.

“I wonder if they’d say the same, if they could speak.” Betsy turned and went back into the house, carefully pulling the door closed behind her.

CHAPTER SIX

THE BRIEF GLIMPSE of the old Jack was gone and in its place was this hard, angry man who’d come home in his stead. Maybe Betsy shouldn’t have been so hard on him, but she couldn’t stand to see him like this. Their conversation earlier had felt as if she was being cruel, but he needed someone to tell him these things. Didn’t he? She wished she could just take away his pain, Betsy thought as they ate dinner.

His gaze met hers over the mashed potatoes, and she was surprised to see how unguarded his expression was. His eyes were pools of sorrow, and they were so clear she could see all the way to the bottom.

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