Carl took a step closer, drawing Chance out of his reverie. The sergeant looked in both directions before lowering his voice.
“What’s going on with you, McKinley? It was hard to ignore how you slipped right past the emotional hell we’ve all been through since coming home from Kunar Province. I know you, so I chalked it up to your uncannily thick skin. But to turn around and volunteer to go back barely six months later? And then to produce a wife out of nowhere and seriously believe she has no ulterior motives? I’m not going to lie to you, Chance. I’m worried.”
The use of his first name indicated the gravity of Carl’s words. Chance stared hard at the toes of his boots, trying to find a response that would be sufficiently honest to respect his friend’s disclosure. He knew it wasn’t easy for Carl to say that kind of thing, and he owed him a genuine reply.
He thought about Tara, the sleepy goodbye she’d offered from the couch as his attempt to leave without waking her proved unsuccessful. Despite all the reservations still nagging at the edges of his mind, his smile came easily.
“I’m fine, Carl. I promise.”
Skepticism passed like a cloud over Carl’s eyes, but the stiffening of his posture announced the end of this conversation.
“I hope I get to meet your wife before you leave.” He angled his body, signaling his departure.
“You will. Definitely. I’ll make sure that happens.”
Carl’s nod was curt. “See you around.”
“Later, Sergeant.”
Carl didn’t wait long enough to shake his head in disbelief—Chance got a clear view.
Yet the strength of his impulse to defend not only Tara but their decision to treat the marriage as legitimate surprised him almost as much as his certainty that he really was fine. He understood the risks and ramifications of every decision he was making, good and bad, and no matter how much he searched the depths of his emotions, he couldn’t find a hint of doubt. If she left him, she left him. At least he’d know he tried—he’d know he gave this unlikely second chance his best shot.
And if he risked a glimpse into the darkest, most shadowed corner of his heart, he’d missed her. He’d never forgotten about her. He’d spent months wondering if walking out on her was the biggest mistake of his life.
He exhaled with the force of his realization. He really wanted her to stay.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened a blank text, then ordered his contacts by the date they were added to find Tara’s number, which he’d entered last night. He raised his other hand to the phone and typed with his thumbs.
Hope you slept OK? Coffee all set up for you, hit green button to brew, should make 2 cups. Mugs in cabinet left of sink. Plenty of milk in fridge.
He hit enter for a line break, took a deep breath, and kept typing.
Thought I’d come home for lunch to see how you’re doing. Will phone when on way but will prob be ~1 PM. Text if you need anything in the meantime. McK
He checked his watch. If he hurried, he still had time to stop into the commissary, buy some flowers and stash them in his car before his shift started. He shoved the phone in his pocket and headed off in that direction, hope quickening his steps.
Tara frowned at her phone, rereading the brief text for the fourth time.
McK? What was this, Top Gun? She supposed Love, Your Doting Husband or Kisses was too much to expect at this stage, but surely she merited the use of his first name at least. Even if it was a stupid one.
She peered over his shoulder as he filled out the marriage application. “I can’t wait to see what your mama came up with for your middle name.”
He wrote the word Harrison in tidy block capitals. “For a long time I figured it was my father’s name. That was pretty much all I knew about him. Then my mom told me I was named after the county where I was conceived. Turns out my dad’s name was Derek.”
She touched the small of his back. “Do you know why she picked your first name?”
Chance shrugged. “Fifth kid, first boy. Maybe she was hoping this time she’d get it right.”
“Did she?”
“Not even close.”
With the memory of his rueful smile hovering behind her eyes, Tara deposited the phone on the counter and planted her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen around her. If she wanted Chance to treat her like a wife, it was time she started acting like one. She had four hours before he’d be home for lunch—more than long enough to clean up the kitchen, cook him something to eat and make herself presentable.
She imagined his delighted grin as she set a heaping plate of food in front of him, the subsequent failure of that homemade meal to hold his attention as his gaze followed her across the room, her secretive smile as she bent over the sink at an unnecessarily deep angle and he licked his lips without even glancing at his lunch.
Yes. She was totally going to make this happen. Just as soon as she’d had a cup of coffee.
Three-and-a-half hours later Tara was darting between the upstairs bathroom, bedroom and spare room, leaving wet footprints on the floorboards as she cursed herself for forgetting to pack her hairdryer.
Her morning hadn’t been quite as productive as she’d hoped. After staring blankly into the refrigerator and failing to puzzle the contents into a viable recipe, she decided to drive to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for the one meal her grandmother taught her to make way back when she was young—meatloaf. Only by the time she drove the twenty minutes into Meridian, spent another twenty finding what she needed and made the journey back did she realized it was already too late to peel, boil and mash the potatoes she’d bought as a side dish. Deciding to steam some of the vegetables in the fridge instead, she searched for 30-minute meatloaf on the Internet and started chopping an onion.
When she finally slid the misshapen, lumpy loaf into the oven it was noon, the kitchen looked like a bombsite, she had egg in her hair and she’d vowed never to cook anything ever again. She stepped out of the shower just in time to see Chance’s text that he was on his way, and she scrambled into her clothes and wrapped a towel around her head while she searched his house for a hairdryer.
“Not that a soldier with a crew cut is likely to need one,” she muttered, yanking open drawer after drawer in his bedroom dresser, rifling through the socks and T-shirts she found inside and then slamming them shut.
She sprinted back to the spare room, belatedly thinking to check the small drawer in what looked like a discarded bedside table. She pulled it out to find a pile of envelopes and folded pieces of paper, and exhaled in frustration. The force with which she shoved the drawer back into place disturbed the pile, and in the second before it closed she caught sight of what looked like a photograph of a woman. She tugged on the handle and scooped up the contents, briefly examining the smiling blonde in the photo before checking the date on the postmark.
Two weeks ago.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, slipped two pieces of notebook paper from the topmost envelope and unfolded them. The handwriting was bubbly, the lines punctuated with hearts and smiley faces.
By the third letter, Tara was gripping the paper so hard she left thumbprints.
And the whole time I was dancing with him I was dreaming it was you, my brave soldier, proudly serving our country and protecting our freedom—
“Tara? You home?”
