Tempted by the Soldier. Patricia Potter
reached around in the dark and turned on the bedside lamp. He still wore yesterday’s clothes. The shirt still smelled of cow. The pounding headache was a memory, but a dullness remained.
Had yesterday really happened? The weird afternoon. The pretty veterinarian who intrigued him. Was it real? Or another of the crazy dreams that plagued him since the accident. The pain in his right foot told him it was, indeed, real.
It still throbbed, but he was damned thirsty and the water glass next to the clock was empty. He was also ravenous. He placed his good foot on the floor, then the injured one. He could put some weight on it now, but he had learned recently that caution was a good thing.
Clint grabbed the crutch and hobbled out of the bedroom and down the hall, turning on lights as he went. He entered the kitchen and looked in the fridge.
It was full as promised: a whole roasted chicken on a plate, a casserole dish probably filled with the chili, packages of cheese and ham, a quart of milk and veggies. A loaf of bread sat on the counter.
He opted for a ham and cheese sandwich, which was easier to handle than a whole chicken. With one hand, he made a fat sandwich and took it to a chair in the living room, then returned for a glass of milk.
He surveyed the cabin. He hadn’t noticed everything yesterday afternoon. He’d been too worried that the headache would spiral into a blackout. But he felt better now, and he looked around with interest. The walls were newly painted—a soft sand shade—and the wood floor was partly covered with a colorful Indian rug. Light from the moon filtered through the windows.
Clint hobbled to a window and peered out. There was enough light to see a backyard with a large stone barbecue pit, and behind that the lot steepened into woods.
Loneliness hit him like a sledgehammer. He’d lost his friends, his community, even his identity. He was used to being in a crowd, the life of any party. At the base, he’d shared a house with three other pilots, and in Afghanistan, he’d shared a large tent. He was used to noise, people coming and going, laughter, clowning, sharing harrowing stories, which made them less painful.
After learning he probably wouldn’t fly again, certainly not in the near future, he had assessed possibilities. He was good at mechanics. He had accrued credits at the University of Maryland in computer engineering, although he was about twenty hours short of a degree. People generally liked him. He had learned to compensate for the loneliness and rejection he’d felt as a boy by being gregarious. He wasn’t sure whether it was learned or natural, but he was usually comfortable with others, and they with him.
Dr. Stephanie Phillips was an exception. He pictured her in his mind: her deep blue eyes and copper hair tied back, the high cheekbones and full mouth. And grace. Despite her height, or maybe because of it, she moved with the grace of an athlete. She was a natural beauty who seemed totally unaware of it. Or even contemptuous of it.
He thought about looking her up on his laptop to see what he might find, then realized it wasn’t with him. He rarely forgot it, but he’d been distracted and left it tucked next to his seat in the van.
A good excuse to call her tomorrow.
STEPHANIE WAS FEEDING her two canine boarders when the phone in her office rang. She glanced at her watch. Seven thirty. She looked down at the ID display.
She didn’t answer “Unavailable” or “Name unknown” or “Anonymous,” all tactics her ex-husband had used.
But it was none of those. Instead, the ID reported “C. Morgan.” She muttered an oath, disliking the treasonable reaction of her body, the sudden warmth that crept up her spine. She could ignore him, but doing so would give him power. She knew all about that kind of thing.
Stephanie had worked too hard to let anyone knowingly or unknowingly dictate what she would or would not do.
She picked up the phone. “Mr. Morgan.”
“Clint,” he insisted. “Surely, my adventure with Isobel elevates me above the ‘Mr.’ status.”
She couldn’t resist his self-deprecating charm, dang it. “Clint, then.”
“Next time, too,” he teased. “No more Mr. Morgan. I don’t answer to that.” Then his tone changed. “I hope I didn’t wake you, but I left my laptop in your truck, and right now, it’s my world. I figured a veterinarian would be up early.”
He’d figured right. In fact, she’d been up at six after a restless night. She couldn’t get him out of her mind. She’d gone over the afternoon a dozen times trying to find something out of kilter, something wrong, some sign of a major character flaw.
Maybe he was a stalker. She hadn’t given him her number.
But she certainly owed him a few minutes of time this morning. Beth would arrive at 8:30 a.m. Her first appointment was at nine. It would take her maybe fifteen minutes to deliver the laptop.
“Where is the laptop?” she asked.
“I left it down the side of the seat,” he said.
She had little choice. She owed him. She had practically thrown him out of her van yesterday.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up before he could answer.
She looked at her clothes. Jeans and a blue shirt. Good enough.
She thought about lipstick, but discarded the idea. She hadn’t had time to refresh it yesterday before picking him up and if she wore some today, he might think it was for him.
Why on God’s earth was she even thinking about him? She finished feeding the boarders and found her keys. Her dogs, Sherry and her brother, Stryker, looked at her anxiously.
“Okay,” she said. “You both can go.”
Their entire bodies wagged with delight as they followed her out the back door, then through the fence gate to the driveway where she parked the van. The dogs jumped inside, Sherry taking the passenger seat and Stryker edging behind the seat. She found the laptop lodged tightly between the seats. No wonder she hadn’t noticed it.
For a moment, she wondered whether he left it there on purpose, but why would he? He certainly had reasons to be distracted. Injured vet. New town. New home. Bruised foot. She pictured him again in her head. He was maybe in his midthirties, possibly a year or two younger than she. She had no idea—Josh had been as reticent about Clint Morgan as he had been about himself.
She didn’t need to know more. She wasn’t interested. She had Sherry, a trained search-and-rescue dog, and Stryker, a rescue dog in training. She had a horse stabled at Eve and Josh’s ranch and loved riding on Sunday mornings and whenever else she had time. She had a satisfying practice that paid the bills.
Living quarters? She lived in the apartment above the practice. It was spacious, practical and cheap, and she didn’t need more. It was good to have someone in residence while boarding other people’s pets. Her fenced backyard served as an adventure land for dogs with an agility track, balls and pull toys.
Life on the whole was good. More than good. She had no intention of changing it.
Why did she think this newcomer could change it? He was nothing more than a passing stranger. She had learned hard lessons, and she damned well wasn’t going to forget them. Still, she had slept terribly last night. Clint’s warm dark eyes constantly interrupted it.
She drove slowly, so slowly it took her more than the ten minutes she’d promised. It seemed strange to drive to the cabin that Josh Manning had made his own. She remembered the first time she had met Amos, Josh’s ex-military dog with a bad case of PTSD. It was seeing Josh with the dog that convinced her most of the rest of town was wrong about him...
She grabbed the laptop and stepped out of the truck. Sherry and Stryker waited until she gave them permission