Gifts of Honor: Starting from Scratch\Hero's Homecoming (17 page)

Chris signed off the call with the same phrase he used in his emails: “I’m safe, I’m fine, don’t waste any time worrying about me.” Only he added, “I can’t tell you how good it is to hear your voice, Beth. I think about you every day, and I can’t wait to see you at Christmas. I’m counting the days.”

Beth turned over and looked at the empty half of the bed beside her. Christmas was here, and so was Chris, but the two certainly hadn’t come together the way she’d anticipated.

She stiffened as she heard a noise in the hall. The door to the guest bedroom opened and closed. She looked at the clock—just past two. She waited to hear the door to the bathroom, but its familiar squeak never sounded. After another few seconds she heard Chris’s hesitant but unmistakably male footsteps creeping down the hallway toward her room.

Her friends’ suspicions resonated in her mind, and Beth crawled farther under the covers as though that might protect her. Chris seemed so different now—what if everyone was right, and it wasn’t safe to have him in the house? What if he robbed her, or worse? What if he wasn’t really blind at all?

There was a sudden crash in the hall and Beth bolted upright, clutching the duvet to her chest. She heard Chris hiss a curse, followed by the clatter of the oversized, sturdy old vase where she stuck her umbrellas being set to rights. Then the footsteps continued down the hall, and she could just make out the light scrape of his hand against the wall as he found his way to the kitchen. Distantly she heard the refrigerator door open and close, and she sank back down in the bed.

He was just a hungry, newly sightless soldier looking for a midnight snack. She shook her head in disgust at her own negativity.

She looked again at the place where, for those few nights, Chris had filled her bed and her life with his steady, heartening presence. It was hard to believe that the man fumbling around in her kitchen was the same one who had tugged her down onto the mattress beside him, flashing her a rakish grin as he slid his hand beneath the hem of her camisole.

But it
was
still him. She’d seen it tonight, in that brief, unguarded moment when the battle-hardened shell fell away and he drew her to him, burying his face in her shirt. The pressure of his hands, the shape of his shoulders, the scent of his aftershave were all so familiar in that instant that she found herself on the brink of tears, in mourning at what was lost—at what he’d thrown away.

Beth flipped over onto her stomach, wondering what had prompted Chris’s breakup email and how she could find out, when she heard the front door slam.

What was he up to now? She squinted at the clock on her bedside table. The digital face announced that it was seven-thirty—she must’ve fallen asleep after all.

That didn’t necessarily explain what Chris was doing going outside. When she didn’t hear him come back after a few minutes Beth hauled herself out of bed, stifling a yawn as she shuffled down the hall.

She peeked out one of the windows that flanked the front door, but saw nothing except the glare of a snow-covered world outside. Frowning, she continued into the kitchen. Maybe she was out of milk or coffee and he thought he’d go out and get more? He must have forgotten that her house was buried deep in a residential development on the northwest side of town, and that getting to the nearest grocery store involved crossing a major four-lane intersection.

Beth saw the note as soon as she stepped into the room. Unable to see that she’d already started her weekly grocery list on the magnetic pad on the door of the freezer, Chris had written over her tidily printed letters in a cramped, boyish scrawl.

Hi Beth
,

I’m going to catch a ride to Fort Riley and make my way home from there.
Thanks for your hospitality and have a good Christmas.

CW

Beth gaped at the note for a full minute before returning to the front door and taking a second look outside.

The snow was at least a foot and a half deep, the roads hadn’t been cleared and a few errant flakes still floated from the sky. There were no tire tracks on her quiet street, just a set of footprints leading from her house out to the sidewalk—or more accurately, to the snow mounds where the sidewalk should be.

Beth exhaled in hot annoyance. He had no coat, he was carrying a heavy duffel bag and he couldn’t see. How on earth did he think he was going to get all the way out to the fort? Or even to a main road where he could meet a car?

Was being with her really that bad? She swallowed against a sharp, sickening pang at that thought.

Hastily Beth shoved her feet into her snow boots, pulled her coat on over her pajamas and snatched the blue chenille blanket from the sofa in the sitting room.

“Idiot,” she muttered as she threw open the front door and plunged out into the snow, not entirely sure which one of them she meant.

Chapter Four

She found him at the intersection at the end of the block, his brow furrowed as he seemed to be listening intently, one hand propped on the pole of a street sign.

Beth called his name from a few feet away so he’d know who was approaching, and when she reached him she threw the blanket over his shoulders.

“Are you insane?” she demanded, taking his hand to lead him back toward the house. “It’s below freezing and you’re out here in sneakers and a shirt. Are you actually meeting someone or were you hoping someone would magically cruise by and offer to drive you out to the fort on uncleared roads the morning after a blizzard?”

“Someone would’ve come by eventually.” He didn’t sound totally convinced. “I thought I’d be able to hear the traffic out on Seth Child,” he explained, naming the large road nearby. “But it’s so quiet, I wasn’t sure which way to go.”

“That’s because all the intelligent, rational citizens of Manhattan, Kansas, are tucked up in bed at home,” she grumbled, gripping his forearm as they stumbled through the snow to her front walk.

Chris dropped his bags just inside the front door and Beth tugged him into the kitchen, pushing him down onto a chair. She pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and squeezed his big hands in her own.

“Your hands are freezing.” She sighed in exasperation. “I’ll make coffee.”

“I’m not cold,” he protested as she crossed to the coffeemaker. “I don’t need it.”

“I do,” she shot back. “What were you thinking, running off like that?”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child.”

“Then don’t act like one. I understand that you don’t want to be patronized, Chris, but you have to be reasonable. You wouldn’t go charging out into the snow without a coat if you weren’t blind, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” His tone was unyielding and rising in volume. “I would rent a car and drive up to Marshall County myself, or I would be out there shoveling your driveway. In fact, I take that back—I wouldn’t even be here because I wouldn’t have let you talk me out of switching hotels in the first place.”

Beth slammed her heavy ceramic mug down on the table. “You want to go to a hotel? The second they clear the road, I’ll happily drive you to one.”

“I don’t want you to drive me anywhere,” he shouted, leaping to his feet so quickly the chair rattled on its legs. “I don’t want anyone to do
anything
for me. I’m sick to death of having my hand held, of having to relearn things I already know how to do and of always having to rely on someone else.”

He pivoted toward near where he thought she stood, but from her vantage point it looked like his clouded eyes were focused on the toaster at her elbow.

“Don’t you get it?” He threw up his hands. “I can’t go for a run, I can’t read a book, I can’t ride a bike, I can’t take my dad’s horse out and I sure as hell can’t shoot the service weapon I’ve carried for eight years. I can’t even storm out on this conversation because I can’t see the door.” He dropped back into the chair, his sagging shoulders and weary expression broadcasting a defeat so profound that Beth’s throat constricted with sadness.

“Do you have any idea how many taxpayers’ dollars went into airlifting me out of a war zone, patching me up and then teaching me how to shave without accidentally cutting my throat?” He shook his head ruefully. “Waste of damn money.”

“Don’t say that,” Beth whispered, surprised by the force of the fear and grief that overtook her. She’d been so focused on her own feelings of anger and inadequacy that she hadn’t fully realized how close Chris had come to death. She should be grateful he was here to get annoyed with and not shut up in a flag-draped coffin. Even though she couldn’t forgive him for ending their relationship like it never mattered, just the thought of a world without him in it made her feel like the floor was about to drop out from under her feet.

“Forget it,” he muttered, rising from his chair. “Do me a favor and try not to watch me shuffle out of here like a pathetic old man.”

“Chris,” she began, but he held up his hand to silence her. Against his wishes, she stared at him as he felt his way along the wall, clearly uninterested in the white cane that he’d tossed on the floor beside his duffel bag. He disappeared down the hall, and after a few moments Beth heard the slam of the door to the guest bedroom.

She stared down at the empty mug still clutched in her hands, numb with the strange mixture of gratitude and fury that threatened to overwhelm her.

* * *

Chris swore as he banged his shins on the bed frame, then carefully lowered himself onto the mattress. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number of the house where he’d been born, his thumb easily finding the right sequence of buttons on the pad.

His younger brother answered, and Chris rubbed his forehead in irritation.

“Joe, it’s Chris. Is Mom there?”

“Chris!” he exclaimed. “Are you okay? We’re all so worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Chris told him tersely. “They haven’t cleared the roads in Manhattan yet. Is there still a lot of snow up your way?”

“Is that girl taking good care of you? You know the therapist said it was bad for you to get too stressed out.”

Chris gritted his teeth. Joe was a twenty-seven-year-old college dropout who lived at home and worked four nights a week kicking drunks out of the only bar in the two-stoplight town where they’d grown up. He was also deeply resentful of his older brother and, although he would never admit it, Chris suspected Joe was secretly pleased that he might be permanently disabled.

“I said everything’s fine. Can you get Mom or Dad, please?”

“This is the K-State professor, right? The one you met at the end of R & R? How’s she handling the whole blind thing? Has she said anything? You hadn’t told her before yesterday, right?”

“I don’t have time to talk now,” Chris said brusquely. “Do y’all think you’ll be able to drive down today or not?”

Joe let out a long, low whistle. “I hate to say this to you, bro, but I don’t think so. We’ll be lucky if we can get off the ranch, never mind all the way out to the highway. Dad’s flipping out, talking about getting Jim from over on Elm Creek Road to come down and help get the plow on the pickup. I can only lift the one end, and with Dad’s back he can’t do a whole lot. You know how Mom and Dad rely on you for an extra pair of hands at this time of year, but I guess they’ll just have to learn to make do without you. I mean, even if you were here, it’s not like—”

“I have to go,” Chris cut him off, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. “Tell Mom I called, okay?”

“I will, and you—”

Chris pressed the button to end the call, then flung the phone onto the bed beside him. After Christmas he’d go back to San Antonio for another couple of weeks of rehab, and after that was finished he’d have to move in with his parents. How was he going to survive, stuck out on that ranch in the middle of nowhere, with his brother in his face all the time?

He curled his hand into a fist and pressed it between his brows, as if he could somehow shove the sight back into his eyes.

First he’d had the desperate, harebrained idea to hitchhike to the fort, figuring his colleagues’ pity was probably more bearable than Beth’s after all. Then he had to be rescued from his disoriented wandering by the woman who, only months earlier, he would’ve done anything to seduce and impress. And then, when she’d been understandably pissed off, he’d completely lost his temper and ranted at her like she’d done something wrong, when in fact she’d shown him kindness after kindness despite his repeated efforts to push her away.

She was such a good woman. He thought he might be the worst thing that ever happened to her.

Chris sighed heavily, feeling as if at least half of last night’s snow was sitting on his shoulders. His life was in pieces, and he had no idea what to do.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen. His mouth watered and his stomach twisted eagerly. Back in Afghanistan he was used to downing so many cups of coffee of varying strengths and qualities out of sheer necessity that he’d completely forgotten how good a hot mug of richly brewed java could taste on a cold winter morning.

The scent of the coffee seemed to represent everything Beth was to him, whether he liked it or not. She was all the goodness that he fought to protect, that he willingly put his life on the line for and that he’d let fall to the wayside in his selfish, self-obsessed bitterness.

His sense of obligation to Beth, to do right by her, to repair all the pain he’d caused her and make sure he never hurt her again struck him with renewed intensity. He had to stop screwing her around with his moods and tantrums. He had to be polite and courteous until he could leave, and then say a firm goodbye like the gentleman he once was.

First he would apologize. That would be a good start.

He made his way back to the kitchen, trailing his hand along the wall. The route was becoming easier each time, although it occurred to him that he might be getting fingerprints all over the paint. He reached the doorway wearing a sheepish expression.

“Just tell me if you’d rather I didn’t run my hands on the walls,” he began without preamble. “I don’t want to mess up the paint.”

There was an incredulous pause, and then Beth’s voice came from the direction of the table.

“The wall is the least of my concerns.”

Chris groped in the darkness, trying to measure his steps to the counter and stopping short when his fingers brushed the edge. He swept his hand along the smooth surface, hoping to find the coffee machine.

“Careful, that’s hot,” she cautioned, and then she was beside him, the soft swell of her breast brushing his arm as she stretched past him to slide a mug across the counter. He couldn’t see her clothes, but he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. He swallowed hard as a bolt of red-hot desire shot through him like an arrow, and he clutched the edge of the counter like a lifeline as she moved around him.

He heard coffee splash into a mug, felt the steam rising from the hot liquid. Then she brought his fingers to the mug’s handle, and he took a long, savoring sip.

“I assumed you still drink it black. Afghanistan seems like an unlikely place to pick up a milk and sugar habit.”

He nodded, replacing the mug on the counter. Beth’s coffee was bold and delicious. It tasted like normalcy. It tasted like home.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said quietly. “You’re right, trying to walk to the road was a stupid idea. And I’m sorry for yelling. Sometimes I get so frustrated that I lose my temper. I’m working on that.”

He sensed her hesitation as she considered her reply. “And what you said about surviving—that it was a waste. You didn’t mean that, did you?”

He grimaced. She had a way of cutting right to the heart of things. As challenging as that was, he admired it about her.

“I won’t lie to you. Sometimes, when things are difficult, it’s hard to feel grateful. Sometimes I do think it would’ve been better if I hadn’t made it. Lots of other guys didn’t—what makes me so special?”

Beth inhaled sharply. Chris couldn’t stop himself—he reached out to touch her, compelled by an irrepressible need to feel her skin against his. She caught his hand and held it between her own.

Only dimly aware of what he was doing, he drew in his hand until she took a step forward, and then he scooped her into his chest. His arms came around her small frame and her cheek nestled just below his collarbone. Her body was so slender, so delicate beneath his hands that as he tightened his grip he felt big and solid in comparison. He felt like he could keep her safe. For the first time in months, he felt like a man.

“I know you decided that I’m not the person you wanted to come home to,” she said softly, her face pressed into his shirt. “And although I’m still fuming about the way you handled it, I can deal with that. But I’m not sure what I would have done it if you hadn’t come home at all.”

A rush of guilt shattered the moment like a stone hurled at a pane of glass, and he thrust Beth away from him, holding her at arm’s length.

“Why?” he asked, all too aware that his frustration was audible in his tone. “Why do you care about someone who left you flat? Why not just move on and forget about it?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Beth replied, sounding more astonished than annoyed. “Whether you like it or not, you were a big part of my life—you still are, in many ways. That doesn’t just go away like this.” She snapped her fingers. “And no matter how we ended things, I think you’re an amazing guy who will be an incredible husband and a great father, and I would never begrudge another woman that happiness.”

His jaw was slack as he absorbed her words. “You still think I could be those things? Honestly? Even though—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted more sharply than he expected, and jerked out of his grasp. “You’re the one who changed your mind, not me. Being blind isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. Don’t console yourself that I was any less hurt when I found out you were wounded.”

Chris gripped the edge of the counter as he struggled to understand the significance of what Beth was saying. There was no pity in her statement—just the opposite. She didn’t seem to think that his disability had any impact on the standard of behavior to which she held him.

What would it take for her to understand how taxing it would be to live with him? How boring and tedious it would become to constantly have to help him with the most basic tasks? That he wasn’t his old self and might never be again—that he was a warrior who couldn’t fight, a soldier who couldn’t defend, an impotent, helpless shell of himself.

He was about to say as much when the mortar exploded outside. Instinctively he bundled Beth to his chest, covered her head with his hand and hit the deck.