Operation Soldier Next Door. Justine Davis
But in everything else, he was pure McLaughlin, his grandfather had said, usually with a laugh.
“I really liked your grandfather,” she said to him. “We used to eat dinner together some nights. He’d do the meat, and I’d provide the veggies.” She waved a hand toward her garden, where she spent most of her time when she wasn’t at her computer station for her self-created job as an online reading tutor for kids. “I loved hearing his stories about his time in the war.”
He looked at her at last. And although there was nothing in his expression to make her uncomfortable, she was suddenly aware she’d come running over here wearing only the summer shorts and T-shirt she slept in.
Of course, she’d been aware from the beginning that he was out here in much less. Aware in a way that was just the tiniest bit unsettling. It wasn’t just that he had the lean, rangy build she preferred and a nice backside, it was the sleek-looking skin. So much skin...
“He didn’t talk about that much,” he finally said.
“I’m sure he sanitized them for my benefit, and he avoided talking about himself, but it was still fascinating.”
She looked back at the house, where the firefighters were clearing up, apparently satisfied now that there would be no flare-up.
“I miss him,” she said softly. She’d truly enjoyed her time with the feisty old man. She’d never known her own grandfathers, but she liked to think they would have been like Martin McLaughlin.
“You mean that,” he said, sounding not quite amazed, but at least surprised.
“Yes,” she answered simply.
After a long moment he lowered his gaze and said quietly, “Thank you.”
Something crashed and his head snapped toward the house. He winced at his own movement. The medics had bandaged his foot—a minor cut from a sliver rather than a shard of broken glass. His shoulder had a wound on the edge of needing stitches, which he had refused. The medics had suggested they take him to the hospital to be checked for any sort of head injury. He’d refused that, too, saying he’d had a concussion or two in his life and knew the signs.
She hoped he was right, and he’d just moved too quickly.
When his expression cleared she spoke again, hoping to distract him from the fact that the crash had been another chunk of his roof caving in. “He was so very proud of you, and your service.”
His gaze seemed to soften for a moment, but his voice didn’t when he finally said, “He was the only one.”
She blinked. “That’s not true. I didn’t even know you except by name, and I was proud.”
He drew back slightly at that. As if he didn’t like the idea that he’d been a topic of discussion.
“Well, Tate, I’m glad this wasn’t any worse.”
“I’m sure. Could have been big enough to take out a chunk of your place, too.”
Lacy sighed inwardly. Acerbic was one thing, and given what had happened he had the right, but it was the middle of the night, she’d stayed up too late reading and she was tired of working so hard to simply have a civil conversation when she was only trying to help.
“In which case you’d probably be dead, and I’d have missed the sheer pleasure of meeting you.”
His mouth quirked. It wasn’t a smile, not even close, but it was an improvement over the understandably grim expression he’d been wearing.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little...”
That was an improvement, too, she thought. “Of course.”
He nodded. Then he turned and started walking toward Quinn and the uniformed man. Only now, when the sunrise had brightened the sky, did she see the thick, long scar that wrapped around from his spine to his side, just above his waist. A second, thinner scar ran up the back of his left shoulder, his neck and twisted into the hair at the back of his head. Short hair, still almost military short, but long enough that she could see the new hair growth near the scar was coming in a silvery white rather than dark like the rest.
That scar had the reddish tinge that said it was newer rather than old. The thought of the kind of injury that would have left that, that had actually made his hair change color, made her shiver despite the early sun’s warmth. She guessed that was the injury that had sent him home from overseas. Guessed his recovery had been long and hard.
And then to come home to this, on his first night in his grandfather’s house... She’d be on her knees, probably wailing, she thought with a grimace. And he was merely a little cranky.
Martin McLaughlin had said his grandson was smart, tough and brave. She supposed the scars were proof enough of that, if she’d needed any after the medals Martin had shown her.
I think the boy sends them to me because I know what war is.
I think he sends them to you because he loves you and wants you to be proud of him.
She’d forgotten that conversation until now. And again she felt the tug of sadness since she genuinely had liked Martin and truly would miss him.
He’d also said the grandson who shared his birthday had a generous soul, a good heart that had been hurt too often and was a gentleman to the core. She remembered smiling at the word rarely used these days. Those qualities she wasn’t so sure of, but it was hardly fair to judge him under these circumstances.
Martin had definitely been right about one thing. His grandson was a hero. And for that he deserved all the patience she could muster.
She walked over to where the man who had rolled up in the car labeled Battalion Chief was standing with the Foxworths and Tate. She got there just as another man in turnouts walked up. The chief frowned when he saw the dog at the man’s heels. She supposed they were worried about the dog getting in the way, or perhaps messing up whatever investigation they had to do. But the firefighter quickly forestalled his boss.
“Yeah, I know, Chief. But in fact, he probably just saved us a lot of time.”
The frown deepened. “How?”
“We found that propane tank here, right? Well, he just led me right to what’s left of a second five-gallon propane tank a few yards from the house. In really bad shape. Looks like that might have been our explosion.”
The man drew back. And Lacy saw that Quinn Foxworth was frowning, as well—although clearly not surprised that his dog had apparently provided a major clue to the cause of this middle-of-the-night chaos.
“Those things don’t blow up easily,” he said.
The chief nodded. “Not without a leak and some pretty extreme heat.”
“The arson guys and the lab’ll have to figure it out.” The man grimaced. “Maybe in a month, if we’re lucky. They’re pretty backed up.”
“I’ve got some friends with access to the fed’s lab, if that’ll help,” Quinn said, and Lacy guessed his tone was purposefully neutral.
Lacy saw the chief’s gaze shift to Quinn. “Heard about you Foxworth folks. Word is you know what you’re doing and you don’t get in the way.”
“A reputation we’ve worked hard to build,” Quinn answered.
“Brett Dunbar’s a friend of mine,” the man said.
Quinn smiled. Widely. “And of ours. A good friend. As is his girlfriend.”
Both men nodded, connections established. Lacy was pondering the interesting way things worked when something occurred to her.
“I saw someone out here, just after midnight,” she said. “I was up reading, and when I turned out the light I looked outside and saw someone in the yard.” She glanced at Tate. “I thought it must have been you, still getting settled in.”
He