Ring of Fire (5 page)

It took Jayden a moment to figure that out, and then he laughed. “That's a good one! I have to tell Mom.”

“Maybe better not. I don't think she or your granny would appreciate it. It's a guy joke.” He was hunting for words to ask about Jayden's father—since the boy had more than once mentioned his mom and granny, but not his dad—when Sally came over.

“Time to mount up and head back,” she said.

Corrie and Mary were walking toward them, too, deep in conversation.

“I like talking to you,” Jayden said, sounding a little wistful.

“I like talking to you, too.” It was true. His life hadn't offered many opportunities to talk to children, and he liked this boy.

“You should come for dinner!” Jayden cried, just as his grandmother stopped in front of them.

Eric bent his prosthetic leg and stood. “Jayden, that's something you should discuss with your family.”

Mary studied Eric. She had a way about her, an impassive expression coupled with bright eyes, that made him suspect a lot was going on in her brain. “You should come for dinner,” she repeated her grandson's invitation. “We'd like to have you.”

Every night since he'd arrived in Caribou Crossing almost three months ago, he'd eaten alone. Mostly at home, cooking simple meals of meat and vegetables or getting takeout. Occasionally, he'd had dinner at a diner or bar. But always alone. When friendly—or nosy—residents spoke to him, he was civil, but he didn't encourage conversation. He was here to heal; that was his mission. His only mission.

And yet . . . He liked the kid. Respected the granny. Was, let's face it, attracted to Lark.

Did he want to sit around a family dinner table? The last time he'd eaten with his parents was several months ago. He'd still been getting used to his high-tech prosthesis. His mom, who'd always been too soft on him, had fussed over him. His dad had told him—
ordered
him, not assured him—that a missing leg wouldn't slow him down for long. Eric knew that; by then he'd realized that his real problem was PTSD. That last dinner at home hadn't exactly been relaxing.

Stalling again, or maybe testing for something, Eric said to Mary, “You sure it'd be okay with Lark and, uh, Jayden's dad?”

“I don't have a dad,” Jayden said in a tone Eric recognized well. It was that “be a brave little soldier” voice that Eric had learned as a child. The voice he had used when he was supposed to pretend that he didn't care if they were moving to yet another place, that he didn't care that he'd be saying good-bye to any friends he'd managed to make. Or that he didn't care that his dad was heading off to the Persian Gulf or the Balkans and Eric would have to be the man of the house again—a task that he had never filled to his father's satisfaction.

He realized that, without conscious intent, he'd leaned down to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder. He also realized that Mary's steady eyes watched every move.

“And Mom may not even be there,” the boy went on. “Sometimes she has to go on callouts, so we put leftovers in the fridge for her.” He didn't sound particularly unhappy about that. His pride in his mom was obvious.

“This is true,” Mary said. “You should come.”

“Thank you. I'd like to.”

Lark wasn't married. Of course that didn't mean she wasn't dating someone.

Quite possibly, she wouldn't even be at dinner.

In some ways, that would make things easier for him. What was the point in being attracted to a strong, beautiful woman when he was such a fucked-up mess?

Chapter Four

Lark was used to entering her house at the end of a workday and smelling something cooking. She was used to the sound of her mom and Jayden chatting in the kitchen. But she sure wasn't used to hearing a deep male voice join in the conversation.

Puzzled, she moved quietly to the kitchen door and glanced into the room. Eric Weaver? Company for dinner was usually kid-sized or another woman. This guest, though, sent warm physical awareness humming through her blood: awareness of her own sensual body, and of Eric's.

He sat at the kitchen table, wearing a black Henley that showcased his buff build. He hadn't noticed her because he was engrossed in watching Jayden demonstrate how to operate the ladder on one of his LEGO fire trucks.

Lark's mom was at the kitchen counter, her back to Lark as she sliced something and said, “Put that away now, Jayden. Your mother will be home for dinner soon, if the creek don't rise and the barn don't burn.”

Lark grinned at their frequently used adaptation of an old expression. “No floods and no fires,” she said, “and your mom's home now.”

Eric jolted when she first spoke—a pronounced startle reaction that went along with his usual air of alertness, both no doubt related to his military service. Now, as the three of them turned to look at her, she said, “I see we have company. Hello, Eric.” She tried to keep the warmth in her voice to a polite level, and not reveal how good it was to see him.

He stood, fluidly enough that she wouldn't have guessed there was a prosthesis under one leg of his jeans. “Hello, Lark. I hope this isn't an imposition.”

She walked over and bent to give Jayden a hug. “Not at all. We're happy to have you.” Then she turned away, facing her mom, and gave her a raised-eyebrows “What's up?” look.

“Jayden invited Eric,” Mary Cantrell said. “I told Eric he should come.”

Why? Lark's mom was a reserved woman and didn't readily trust men. Did she figure it would be good for Jayden to be on friendly terms with his fellow student? Or was she feeling compassion for a wounded soldier who, from what he'd said at the Sunday morning lesson, had no family or friends in town? One thing Lark did know: her mother wasn't matchmaking. She and her mom had long ago agreed that they were better off without men to mess up their lives.

“Of course,” Lark said. It was disconcerting, though. Having a man in their kitchen. Having that particular man, with his extremely masculine body and energy. A man who made Lark's own body tingle with femaleness and sexuality.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” Mary announced. “Jayden, go wash up. Lark, change out of that uniform. Eric, you can set the table.”

When Lark had taken the position as fire chief, she'd had no trouble being in command, organizing tasks, and issuing orders. She'd learned from the best.

Jayden got up awkwardly from his chair and shifted to the walker that sat beside the table. As he left the kitchen, Lark gathered up his truck. She took it to the family room and put it in the wooden chest that held more of his LEGOs.

This rental house was old and on the small side, but it worked for her family. They each had their own bedroom, the kitchen was homey and big enough for a table and chairs, and the family room was reasonably spacious. The rent was quite low because not many people wanted to live beside a fire station and listen to sirens at odd hours of the day and night. Fortunately, that didn't bother Mary, and Jayden had grown up as familiar with sirens as with lullabies.

He wanted to be a firefighter. Sadly, that wasn't likely to happen, given his physical disabilities and his small stature. Still, her boy was getting stronger and more coordinated, his speech kept improving, and he was smart. He'd have lots of career options when the time came.

In her bedroom, Lark opened a dresser drawer and reached for an old gray sweat suit, typical at-home attire. But they had company. Company in a nice Henley, not sweats.

She wanted Eric to find her attractive. Whether it was wise to want that, when he was her son's riding friend, she wasn't sure. But there was no time to worry about it now.

She rushed into the bathroom and showered away the lingering scent of spilled gasoline from an MVA they'd responded to that afternoon. After toweling her short hair, she ran a comb through it. She rarely wore makeup and was grateful for the smooth, medium brown skin and black lashes she'd inherited from her mom—just as she was glad of the tall, strong build that had come from her “gone and good riddance” father. That build put off a lot of guys, especially ones who were shorter than her six feet, but it enabled her to pass the firefighter physical qualifications. She'd also found that even though she'd never been the typical “girly” female, there were still plenty of guys who found her attractive. Was Eric one of them?

Not wanting to look like she was trying too hard, she chose black yoga pants, a cotton tank top the color of rich red wine, and a charcoal zip-front hoodie. Casual clothes, though it just happened that the pants hugged her taut butt and long legs, and the tank—camisole-styled, with a built-in bra—showed off her toned shoulders and arms, not to mention her firm breasts. Depending on how things went, she could leave the hoodie on or take it off.

When she reached the kitchen, Jayden was back in his seat and Eric was carrying a big pan of lasagna from the stove to the table. He smiled at her and she saw male appreciation in his eyes. It seemed he was one of the men who had no issue with her height, strength, and atypical occupation. Maybe that shouldn't delight her, but it did.

“I brought a bottle of red wine,” he said, “though if you're on call . . .”

“I'll certainly have some,” Mary said, adding a bowl of salad and a basket of sliced Italian bread to the table. “Wine's a treat in this house. Lark, are you going to take the night off? You're not the duty officer, are you?”

“No, I'm not.” The offer—of wine, and of not being called away when Eric was here—was tempting.

“Mom, take the night off,” Jayden begged.

Lark and the four other paid personnel who worked regular office hours were, like the volunteers, on call to be paged 24/7. Not everyone responded to every call, of course, and the firefighters also let dispatch know when they were unavailable due to commitments or other circumstances. It was a rule of Lark's that no one responded to a callout if they'd had even one drink. This was Wednesday, not exactly a night that most of the volunteers would be drinking. If there was an emergency, plenty of firefighters would respond. She wouldn't be needed.

“You persuaded me,” she said. “I'd love a glass of wine. Thanks for bringing it, Eric.”

“Least I could do.”

Lark sent a quick message to dispatch to say she wasn't on call. As she did, Mary dug their corkscrew out of the back of a drawer, and handed it to Eric. “Lark,” she said. “Glasses.”

“You're so lucky you have a tall daughter,” Lark commented as she reached above her mom's head to the top shelf, where they put dishes they rarely used. She took down three wineglasses and placed them on the counter for Eric.

He'd shoved the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms. His skin was tanned from all of the outdoor exercise he'd been getting. The black cotton, the dark skin with a scattering of brown hair, the shift of muscles under that skin . . . Oh yeah, though men could mess up a woman's life, they did have some very fine features. She was now a wise enough woman to appreciate the fine parts and avoid the kind of entanglement that seemed, for the Cantrell women, to inevitably lead to pain.

The wine Eric poured was a deep garnet red, similar to the color of her tank top. She was definitely going to have to take off her hoodie before the evening was over. In fact, already she was feeling toasty warm, and it wasn't from the heat of the stove.

It was way too long since she'd had sex. Which was a particularly weird thought to be having now, with her mom and son in the same room. It was a good reminder that she had never—at least since Jayden's father ran out on them when the boy was less than a year old—thought it a good idea to mix her sex life with her home life.

If she was horny, she should find some other guy.

But the one in the Henley was the guy she was hot for.

* * *

Eric found it difficult to be with civilians, people whose lives didn't revolve around the military. He didn't do well with social chat; it was one of the reasons he kept to himself. But sitting around the kitchen table at the Cantrell house reminded him of family dinners when he was a kid, the ones when it was just his mom, his sister, and him. The times that his dad had been at the table, there'd been a certain tension. A sense of expectations that needed to be met. When his dad was away, his mom was more relaxed, and so were Eric and his sister, Quinn.

It wasn't that his mother didn't require the kids to use proper manners and be respectful, the way Lark and Mary did with Jayden, just that there was more sense of acceptance. As there was around this dinner table. Eric sat opposite Jayden. The boy's mom and grandmother were on either side of the boy, and they lent him an occasional hand, like dishing out lasagna and salad for him, but mostly Jayden ate and drank reasonably competently by himself. Eric had never paid much attention to people with disabilities before, since they tended not to make it into the Forces, but he found himself curious about Jayden's condition.

Eric had researched it a little, and found out that a cerebral palsy diagnosis indicated a one-time brain injury resulting in neurological damage that affected motor development. He'd read that the symptoms varied a lot, depending on the location and extent of the damage. His research had left him with more questions than answers. Had Jayden been born with CP, as Jayden referred to it, or had an accident caused the damage? What had the kid needed to overcome to reach his current level and how much further could he reasonably be expected to go?

Eric had heard what Lark said, that Jayden was sensitive about questions regarding his illness. He got that, totally. He'd as soon never talk about his missing leg, or the explosion that caused it. He wasn't going to butt into the boy's business. Jayden was a good kid. His mom and grandmother were good people. Eric found himself wanting positive outcomes for all of them.

Also, to his surprise, he was having the best time he'd had since before his world exploded in Afghanistan.

Mostly, he kept quiet, enjoying Mary Cantrell's delicious food and listening to the others talk. Lark had asked about the morning's riding lesson, and Jayden had chattered happily away, with Mary providing supplementary information.

Now, Lark, who was seated to Eric's left, turned to him. “And what did you think?”

“It was okay. It was interesting learning how to get the horses ready, and then take off the tack after the ride. I enjoyed meeting Ben Traynor.”

“What about the trail ride? Did you enjoy that?”

He wasn't about to say that he'd rather Sally had picked up the pace, not when it was Lark's son that had held them back. “It's pretty country.”

“Did you find it relaxing and fun,” she asked, “or were you—if you'll pardon the horsy expression—chafing at the bit?”

He grimaced ruefully. “Patience isn't my long suit. I've been in rehab for months now. I'm a soldier and I want to get back to doing my job.” He sipped some of the merlot the woman at the liquor store had recommended. Maybe he'd had too much of it already, or maybe the atmosphere was just too damned comfortable, but more words slipped out of his mouth. “I know therapeutic riding has helped Jayden, but I don't really see that it's helping me.” He clamped his mouth shut before he said anything else that might suggest his injuries weren't solely physical.

Jayden gazed at Eric with a puzzled expression. “But don't you love horses?”

Eric frowned, stumped by the question. Riding was supposed to help him conquer PTSD. A horse was like an exercise bike or a rock climbing wall. Just another therapeutic tool to help him achieve a goal. “I guess I never really thought about that,” he admitted.

“They're so cool! They're brave and loyal and smart.”

“Like dogs?” His family had never had pets. His mom had always said that, with their on-the-move lifestyle, two kids were enough for her to cope with. As a soldier, though, he'd met some pretty amazing military working dogs.

Jayden nodded vigorously. “But bigger and stronger, and you get to ride them.”

“Give it more time,” Lark advised Eric. “If there's one thing we've learned with Jayden, it's that sometimes we don't see results for a while. Or maybe the progress is so slow we don't notice. But suddenly, one day, he can do something he couldn't do before.”

Jayden nodded vigorously. “Like eat by myself. I used to spill food all over the place. I like beingselfsuf—” He stopped and then spoke again, more slowly and clearly. “I like being self-suf-fi-cient. I don't like it when people always have to help me do things.”

“I'm with you on that,” Eric said. That had been the worst thing about his injury, the way he'd needed others to tend to his every need in the beginning. When a guy couldn't take a piss or a dump by himself, he'd sunk pretty damned low. He gazed at Jayden, realizing that dependence had likely been his life story. And yet, even though the boy might never have known what true independence felt like, he still wanted it and worked toward it. There was something pretty cool—to use Jayden's favorite word—about this kid.

“Self-sufficiency is admirable,” Mary said. “So is being able to recognize when you need help, and accept it graciously.”