RACHEL LEE

"A storyteller of incandescent brilliance, Rachel Lee makes each and every love story a shattering emotional experience."

—Romantic Times

Rachel Lee wrote her first play in the third grade for a school assembly, and by the age of twelve she was hooked on writing. She's lived all over the United States and now resides in Florida. Having held jobs as a security officer, real estate agent and optician, she uses these, as well as her natural flair for creativity, to write stories that are undeniably romantic. "After all, life is the biggest romantic adventure of all—and if you're open and aware, the most marvelous things are just waiting to be discovered."

THE DREAM MARINE

Rachel Lee

* * *

To the marines in my life who have taught me what it means.

Dear Reader,

"The Dream Marine" turned out to be a long journey of sorts. When I initially agreed to write it, I thought, "Wonderful, a chance to write another Conard County story." And when I wrote the proposal, I had a somewhat different story in mind than the one you'll find here.

Because that was before 9/11.

On September 11, 2001, our world changed forever. Certainly mine did. And when I started to write this story, directly after that horrible day, I found that it was the last place I wanted to go.

My mind shied away from thoughts of war, from thoughts of the men and women who were going forth to battle. I was having enough difficulty coming to grips with the terrible events in New York and Washington, D.C. I couldn't bear to think of all the terrible things that might be about to occur in Afghanistan.

This became a story drawn from the pain and fear in my own heart, and built on my belief in the supreme importance of love.

In the end, only love matters. As Sister Joan Chittister has so beautifully said, "Love is not for our own sakes. Love frees us to see others as God sees them."

Sincerely yours,

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 1

Joe Yates came home to Conard County, Wyoming, a changed man. Sitting in Mahoney's Bar with his green marine tunic and the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his tie hanging loose, he sipped a whiskey and told himself he wasn't going to do anything as clichéd as turn into a drunk over this.

But he still felt a huge hole at the very center of himself, and he couldn't figure out how to fill it. Or if he even wanted to. At the moment he didn't even want to go out to the ranch and see his sister and her family. He didn't want to see anyone who might touch that gaping hole and make it hurt.

He sipped more whiskey, and told himself not to be an ass. The words didn't help. Kara was gone and it was all his fault, and to hell with the USMC anyway.

Joe was a young man, only in his middle twenties, but he looked a lot older. Wind and weather had aged him, but so had events of the last months, especially the last week. The lines were cut deeply in his lean face now, a face that was ever so slightly exotic, hinting of his Shoshone ancestry.

After a troubled youth, he'd left Conard County nine years ago, an eighteen-year-old boy proud that he'd been accepted by the Marine Corps, and looking forward to a life of adventure. He'd come home now sickened by it all.

Any innocence he had once possessed was gone, left in the dusty, rugged mountains north of a country he wasn't allowed to name. Home didn't even feel familiar anymore. It felt as if he'd stepped out of reality into the pages of a fantasy. Nothing real could be as peaceful as Mahoney's Bar on a Wednesday night.

It offended him.

But Kara's death had been the last straw. Especially since she was there only by accident. She was a United Nations health worker from Amsterdam who'd been sentenced to die by the repressive regime for the crime of wearing a cross around her neck. She'd escaped and had been taken in by insurgents.

Joe and his unit had found her hiding in a cave with some friendlies. They'd planned to take her out after they finished their operation, but instead they had carried out her body. And Joe, recuperating from a wound of his own, had accompanied her remains home to Amsterdam.

It was enough. It was more than enough. He was done, finished, fed up, worn-out, and dead inside. It was one thing when he and his buddies risked their nocks; hell, they'd volunteered for the job. It was another when innocent civilians died. He'd seen too much of that, and Kara, lovely sweet Kara who had glowed with life even in a cave where she had almost nothing to eat, was the final straw.

He looked down at the whiskey glass between his hands and almost sneered. It was a picture out of a bad movie, he thought: marine in rumpled uniform drowning his sorrows in a dark bar. The amber liquid at the bottom of the glass didn't hold any answers, and as an anesthetic it didn't come close to silencing the empty gnawing inside him. All it did was sting on the way down and remind him that he was still alive.

He didn't think he wanted to be dead. He just didn't know how to get through this. How to handle this. That was something they hadn't covered in training. Paris Island didn't prepare anybody for this.

He looked at his hands, splaying his fingers, wondering why they looked like ordinary human hands. These were killer's hands. They looked strange, though, because for the first time in months they were free of grime. He wished the memory of that place would wash away as easily.

He wished he didn't have to go back.

"You're out of uniform, Marine."

The female voice was smoky, something out of a man's most wistful dreams. It didn't seem to go with the words it spoke, though. Unfortunately, Joe wasn't drunk enough to ignore them. A spike of anger jabbed him. "Get lost."

"Look at me, Marine."

So he looked. It was probably a measure of the amount of alcohol he'd consumed that he noticed first that she was beautiful. Beautiful in a quiet way, with short dark hair, a neat figure and the tiniest waist. Legs... He wished he could see them better.

But then he registered her uniform and her rank. And the name on the badge over her breast. Gunnery Sergeant Mathison. Well, hell, wasn't it just his luck to run into another marine a thousand miles from the nearest water? And a nipped-and-tucked one, too. She couldn't have been any neater if she'd stepped off a recruiting poster.

"Go away," he said, even though she outranked him. Hell, she wasn't in his chain of command, anyway.

"No. I won't have you embarrassing the Corps in public like this."

He pushed back his stool and stood, facing off with her. "You wanna fight, Gunny? 'Cause I'm a damn good fighter. Had plenty of practice the last few months."

Her eyes narrowed, and he found himself wishing, oddly enough, that he could tell what color they were. But the bar was too dimly lit. At least they weren't blue like Kara's.

"Hey," said Mahoney, coining up behind him. "Joey, cool it. I don't want a couple of jarheads tearing up my place. Take it outside if you wanna fight."

The gunny spoke. "I don't fight with drunks, Mr. Mahoney. It's too easy."

Oh, a spitfire. Joe had no doubt he could show her a thing or two. Or three, but he wasn't going to do it here. And come to think of it, he wasn't going to fight, either. Certainly not with a woman. Anyway, he was sick of fighting. Turning, he tossed some bills on the bar to cover his tab. "I'm outta here."

He should have guessed she would follow him. He should have known she wasn't going to have the sense to let it lie. Hell, no, she was a marine, and a marine never backed down. Except that he had, in a way, so why the hell didn't she get the message?

Out on the street, he saw the night was cool and a bit misty, unusual for an ordinarily dry climate. Fog seemed to swirl around the streetlights, creating a fuzziness that added to Joe's sense of unreality. He turned, prepared to ignore the woman who was on his heels, and walk back to the Lazy Rest Motel, where he seemed to recall having booked a room by phone before leaving the airport and catching the bus down here.

But Her Mightiness, guardian of the Corps' proper public appearance, wasn't prepared to let him go.

"You know," she said, catching up with him, "if you want to slop around, you could wear civvies."

"True," he agreed, wishing he could just bat her away like an irritating fly.

"In the meantime," she said sharply, "straighten yourself up, Marine."

That was one time too many. The volcano that had apparently been building in the vicinity of the empty hole inside him suddenly erupted.

"Look," he said, rounding on her, "I don't give a damn who you are or what your beef is. If you want to worry about creases and starch, pay attention to your own. But get the hell off my case!"

Even in the dim, fog-dampened light from the streetlamps, he could see the fire in her eyes. Well, of course, she was a marine.

"The way you wear your uniform represents me," she said.

Amazingly, she didn't say it hotly, as he anticipated, but rather calmly, almost as if commenting on the weather. The change in tack surprised him, and he found himself looking even more closely at her. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Gunnery Sergeant Bethany Mathison," she answered. "I'm the recruiter here."

The light went on. A drunken marine, in rumpled uniform, wasn't exactly an invitation to join the Corps. Although, at the moment, he'd have told anyone who was even considering the idea of enlisting to run, not walk, in the other direction as fast as their legs could carry them.

But he figured if he said so, she'd either try to knock his block off, or she'd write him up. He didn't feel like fighting with anyone anymore, and as for getting written up—well, it didn't scare him, but who needed the hassle?

And finally he realized that he wasn't making sense, even to himself. His thoughts were all over the place, as were such feelings as he was capable of having. It was as if he were casting around for something he could fixate on so he could ignore the emptiness inside. As if his thoughts were splintered and he couldn't gather them together.

Facing his own irrationality was uncomfortable. With a muffled oath, he started buttoning his shirt, straightening his tie and buttoning his coat. It wasn't as if anyone was likely to see him at this hour, in the dark, but what the hell. Why make this woman miserable just because he was?

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome, Gunny." He couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Then, with a smart click of his polished heels, he turned away, heading toward the motel.

"Where are you going, Sergeant?" she called after him.

"To the motel."

"Wait. I'll drive you."

The urge to tell her which plank to walk off grew in him again, but he battled it down. What was with this woman? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? All he wanted was to be left alone.

"Thanks," he managed to say shortly, "but I can walk."

"I'm sure you can," she answered. "But you don't have to."

"What's with you?" he demanded, turning to her again. "Just get out of my face."

She didn't even flinch, just looked him straight in the eye. A good marine, he found himself thinking irrelevantly. She wasn't at all bothered by the fact that he was eight inches taller and eighty pounds heavier.

Then she utterly astonished him. "I'm being a good buddy," she said. "A good buddy gives a fellow marine a ride home."

"The walk will clear my head," he grumped, although a clear head was the last thing he wanted.

"Fine. I'll walk with you."

He didn't have an idea in hell what this woman was doing wandering the streets of Conard City at eleven at night in full uniform when she should have been home watching TV or something. Or why she seemed to have walked in on him at Mahoney's as if she were on a mission.

Nor did he care. But even in his whiskey-fogged state, he knew that if she walked with him to the motel, she was going to have to walk back alone, past the railroad tracks and stockyard, through the worst part of town.

The fact that she was probably as capable of de-fending herself as any other marine didn't make any difference. He couldn't allow that.

"Where the hell is your car?" he growled.

She cocked her head to the right. "Just over there."

He followed her, telling himself that this was the easiest and quickest way to get rid of her. She'd dump him at the motel, and that would be that. And man, didn't those hips of hers have a nice bit of sway to them?

He yanked his eyes away from her nether regions and forced himself to focus on the back of her head. In his present state, he wasn't sure he could trust himself.

In fact, he knew damn well he couldn't. He'd been living a barbarian existence for too long to slip easily back into the constraints of civilization.

She drove a small, economical car, and he had to squeeze his large frame into the passenger seat. In the confined space, he could suddenly smell the alcohol on his breath. He reeked. And he wasn't proud of it.

She started the car and pulled away from the curb. "You're staying at the Lazy Rest?"

As if there was another motel in this two-bit, godforsaken ink spot on the map. "Yeah." He felt her glance at him, but he refused to look back. He didn't want to think about anything except the way the beams of the headlights looked on the road. Or the way the stockyards looked ghostly and dark, a frozen tableau.

Anything but faces. He didn't want to see faces anymore. Seeing faces meant you got to know people. And then you got to see their faces when they died.

It was a relief when she pulled up in front of the motel at last. Saying nothing except thanks, he climbed out and headed for his room.

And never once did he look at her face again.

Gunnery Sergeant Bethany Mathison drove away from the Lazy Rest Motel torn between conflicting feelings. On the one hand, she'd felt bound to step in because the Yates guy had been creating a bad impression for the Corps, and given that there weren't a whole lot of examples to be had in this small town, she felt she had an obligation to uphold the best image of the marines.

On the other hand, what she had seen in the guy's eyes had spoken volumes to her. It had touched a carefully buried place deep within herself. It had reminded her of things better forgotten.

And she didn't like that.

She probably shouldn't have intervened at all. It had been unfortunate that she'd missed dinner getting ready for her evening presentation at the high school, and even more unfortunate that it had run on so late because students had wanted to talk to her afterward. She had decided to stop by Mahoney's and get a sandwich to take home with her after the last, lingering student—a young woman who saw becoming a marine as a gateway to adventures she would never find in this ranching community—had departed.

It had been unfortunate that she had ran into Sergeant Yates. Another time she might just have ignored him. But after spending five hours talking proudly about the Corps, and about marine life, all the while walking a tightrope so as not to blind the students to reality by giving them stars in their eyes, she was exhausted and somewhat irritable.

And then she had walked into Mahoney's and seen the worst stereotype of a marine.

Damn. She shook her head at her own behavior and turned the corner toward the snug little house that she was renting. The Corps was serious about wanting "a few good men" and women. They wanted the pick of the litter, the few who really had what it took to be a marine. Consequently she had to always be on guard against signing up young people who didn't have what it took, or who had mistaken ideas about what was involved. At the same time, she was being measured by her recruitment numbers. She wouldn't last long if she recruited too many people who couldn't make it through boot camp, but she wouldn't last long, either, if she failed to sign enough recruits.

Anyway, she'd walked into Mahoney's and seen Yates looking like every mother's worst nightmare, and she'd snapped at him.

Dumb. Especially after looking into his eyes. She'd seen that thousand-yard stare too many times in guys fresh out of combat. She should have just left him alone.

She certainly wished she had when he'd buttoned his tunic and she'd seen the purple heart with cluster, not to mention the other medals. He'd been wounded twice. Twice! And she'd called him on his uniform.

Right now she felt about two inches tall.

And she hoped she never set eyes on him again.

Chapter 2

Morning came too soon. It always did. Joe sat up on the edge of his bed, robbing his eyes, trying to ignore the hammer and chisel that were working on his brain.

Night was his friend. Night was the best time to move safely through enemy territory. He'd gotten so used to living the life of a cave bat that morning seemed like an offense.

Especially when it revealed that he really was in a fantasy world of clean sheets, running water, and hot food right across the street.

There was even a coffeepot on the bathroom counter, with a packet of coffee beside it and two mugs. He could just walk in there and make a fresh pot of drip-brewed. No grounds in it, sitting at the bottom of a tin pot. He could drink it in comfort, leaning back against pillows instead of sitting on a hard boulder, or cross-legged on the ground.

It still didn't feel real.

He took a shower first. If that hot water wasn't real, he didn't want to know it. Head bowed, he stood under the pounding spray and soaked up the heat, feeling muscles let go as they hadn't been able to let go in many months now. Feeling tension seep out of him and run down the drain with the water. The scar on his arm was healing nicely, little more than a bullet nick. The other scars, more serious, were old enough now that he didn't think about them anymore.

Under the stinging spray, he worked his arm so the scar tissue wouldn't tighten up, and tried not to think about anything at all. A blank mind was a man's best friend.

But his mind refused to stay blank for long.

He needed to go out to the ranch and visit his sister and her family, but he didn't want to. In fact, he now wondered why he'd even come back to Conard County. Habit? Because going home was what you were supposed to do when you took leave?

Because home was the last place he wanted to go. It was beginning to occur to him that yanking a man out of combat and returning him to the civilian world in a matter of hours was a form of mental cruelty. The transition wasn't that easy to make. The wind-down was almost impossible. Since he'd left the Middle East three days ago, he hadn't really connected with anything around him. He'd been moving through a fog that had been punctuated only by the grief-stricken faces of Kara's family.

He braced his arms against the tile wall behind the showerhead and bent forward, letting the hot stream hammer on his neck and shoulders. The pleasure seemed almost sinful by comparison with what he'd left behind. Hell, even on shipboard, where the life of a marine was at its almost-best, you couldn't stand freely under a shower like this.

The temptation to stay just like that kept him still for a long time. Maybe the hammering of the spray could ease his transition into this strange new world. Maybe he could wash away the soul-deep grime and stain of the past months.

Eventually, though, he made himself get out and dry off. Civvies today. New jeans and a Western shirt he'd bought before boarding the bus in Casper. Jogging shoes because he didn't own a pair of cowboy boots anymore. A ball cap because his cowboy hats were at his sister's house, and he wasn't ready to face that scene yet.

Breakfast at the truck stop across the highway. Just him and a handful of long-haul truckers who didn't know him from Adam. The anonymity was comforting somehow. The only real people in his world anymore were the buddies he'd left behind, marines and some of the insurgents they were working with.

Joe sat at the counter, enjoying real fried eggs, pork sausage and hash browns with another cup of steaming, grounds-free coffee. Hot food was a blessing, and food without grit in it was nothing short of a miracle. As it began to fill his stomach, he started to feel a bit better. Enough so that he decided he was going to have to apologize to Gunnery Sergeant Mathison for his conduct last night.

He noticed the waitress behind the counter was smiling at him. After a couple of seconds, he realized she was a girl he'd gone to high school with. What was her name...Millie? Something like that. Some remnant of manners left from his life before war caused him to faintly smile back and nod at her.

And naturally, that brought her right over to him.

"Hi, Joey," she said almost shyly, using his nickname from high school. "I'm Millie Pestre, remember?"

He nodded, his face feeling brittle. "I remember."

"It's been a long time since you've been around. Where've you been?"

Well, he couldn't tell her the truth. I've been to war, and have been fighting and killing people in the name of something I've almost forgotten.... "I'm in the military," he said after a noticeable pause. "The marines."

"Oh!" Her eyes widened and said she was impressed. If only she knew. "Are you home for long?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." That much was true. For all he knew, he'd be on the road again tomorrow and spend his entire leave just bouncing from town to town.

Or maybe he'd get his head out of his butt and stop feeling sorry for himself. Because, God knew, in the last few days he'd started to get tired of himself.

"Well..." Millie said, letting the word dangle.

He didn't take the implied invitation. Getting close to anybody, even casually, was begging trouble. He was better off alone.

Millie's smile grew a little forced. "If you need anything, just holler," she said finally, and drifted away.

He returned to his food, thinking that he'd become a nasty son of a bitch somewhere along the way. He could at least have found something polite to say.

Sopping up egg yolk with a piece of rye toast, feeling guilty about every single delicious mouthful he was savoring, he thought that maybe running off to join the marines at the age of barely eighteen wasn't the smartest way to grow up. He could maneuver well within his world, maintaining good relations soldier-to-soldier, but it was becoming apparent he no longer knew how to behave in the world at large.

In fact, his sister, Sara, would have given him a stem talking-to for being so unfriendly to Millie. "Joey," she would have said, "this is a small town and we depend on each other. You be polite, hear?"

Sort of like the way it was in his unit. Bonds formed by interdependency were stronger than steel. This town was that way, he seemed to recall. Even a good feud didn't keep neighbors from coming together in a pinch. But this was different, he told himself. He hadn't been rude to Millie, exactly. He just hadn't wanted to express anything she might misinterpret.

So he was becoming a reclusive boor. The town would just have to deal with it. And wouldn't Sara laugh her head off to know her troublesome younger brother, who'd hated English classes as if they were torture, had picked up the word boor?

Thinking about Sara laughing caused him a twinge, and he wasn't ready to feel those tugs and twinges. He didn't want to think about the niece and nephew he hadn't seen in a couple of years now. Kids who surely must be growing up to a more interesting age than the last time he'd seen them. Or about his grandfather, who was getting old and might not be around next time he came home.

Grandfather would want to give him a sweat. Get him to sit in a small lodge with hot stones and steam. Grandfather believed a good sweat would drive out all the evils that plagued a man. Joe had never been quite sure he believed all that Indian stuff, but his brother-in-law, Gideon, had sure taken to it.

So if he went up there, he'd have to do a sweat, and that would mean that he'd spend hours steaming with nothing to think about except the things he didn't want to think about. No thanks.

Throwing ten bucks on the counter, which included an extra-large tip, he left the diner without glancing Millie's way.

He walked back into town, past the stockyards and the auto repair shop, and didn't look either right or left because he didn't want to see anyone he recognized. Not yet, anyway. He supposed if he didn't get out of here by sundown, people were going to start noticing him and wanting to talk to him. He'd changed a lot in nine years, but he hadn't changed that much.

He had one goal: the recruiting office on the corner of Main and Elm. The same place where he'd signed his life away more than nine years ago, headed for adventures he couldn't really begin to imagine. Back then the recruiter had been Bill Ebsen, a barrel of a guy with a no-nonsense attitude, a gruff voice and the instincts of a father. Joe wondered why Bill had been replaced with a woman.

Not that Joe had any particular problem with women in the Corps. Nothing like that. It just seemed like an odd choice for a recruiter in this area, where there was only one recruiter, not a team.

Of course, given what Gunnery Sergeant Mathison looked like, chances were the marines were getting a lot of interest from those "few good men" the Corps claimed to want.

The thought almost made Joe laugh, the first real humor he'd felt in a while. It fit well with the brisk autumn day, and he decided he could do with more of it. Laughter, after all, even at the darkest of humor, was the best way to cope with most things, including the dissociation he was feeling right now. As long as you could laugh, you were still breathing. And surviving.

That was as much reassurance as he seemed able to give himself now.

Joe didn't get anywhere near the recruiting station until almost lunchtime. Somehow he spent some long hours sitting on a park bench in the courthouse square, only vaguely aware of the comings and goings around him. The bucolic peace of the day still seemed like a dream to him, something almost remote from his own reality. And thus the minutes had slipped away, lost in some never-never land between past and present.

He was startled when he glanced at his battered watch and realized it was past noon. Maybe, he thought with a sense of self-betrayal, he'd lost this time on purpose, because he didn't want to face the Mathison woman. And he didn't. He hated having to apologize for his misdeeds, especially to someone who didn't seem to have an ounce of understanding in her body. On the other hand, his sister and grandfather had raised him better than that. He owed the woman an apology, and he was damn well going to give it to her.

Besides, he didn't like his mind playing tricks on him. The mere notion made him feel uneasy. His mind, after all, was the only thing in the world he had to rely on.

Giving himself a mental shake, he rose from the bench and headed toward the recruiting station. Maybe she was still there. If she wasn't, he'd just have to come back later.

But she was there, looking as breathtakingly beautiful as his drunken mind last night had thought. Maybe more beautiful. This afternoon she wasn't wearing a hat, and the highlights in her dark hair were almost fiery. Her uniform was tightly tailored to a perfect figure, a figure that stood ramrod straight as he entered the small storefront.

As the door opened, she started to smile, but the smile vanished moments later as she recognized him. Those dark eyes of hers were a warm, sherry brown, warm even as her face grew rigid.

That warmth appealed to him somehow, like a fire on a cold night. He sensed that it was a deep-rooted part of her, not just the accident of a pair of eyes. But her posture was stiff, and her attitude as prickly as a porcupine on alert. He supposed he deserved that.

It also made him feel as awkward as a schoolboy. She waited, saying nothing, refusing even to greet him as the door swung shut behind him, closing out the rest of the world.

"Look," he said finally, resisting an urge to scuff his foot, "I came to say I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" A stiff, unyielding word, offering him no quarter.

The image of Joan of Arc leading troops into battle floated into his mind's eye. "Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry. I was out of line last night."

"Yes, you were."

Hmm. Maybe he was mistaken about those eyes. Maybe that warmth was a sheer trick of light. Well, he'd done what he'd come to do, and he didn't have to beg for her forgiveness.

Turning, he started to open the door.

"Marine."

He paused, hand on the knob, wondering if he should just keep going. Instead he turned slowly to face her again.

"Let me buy you lunch," she said. "I was just on my way to the diner."

He wanted to refuse, being close to another human being right now was about as comfortable as having his skin sanded off. But he knew it was her way of accepting his apology, and he knew better than to refuse an olive branch.

"Sure," he said, the word feeling like lead in his mouth.

She bent, pulling her regulation shoulder bag out of a desk drawer. He held the door open for her, letting her pass through into the sunlight, which seemed glaringly bright this afternoon. As she put her key in the lock and turned it, he watched, focusing on the small and inconsequential because it was more comfortable than looking at the larger picture. In silence they went around the corner to the City Diner, commonly known as Maude's.

The place was both familiar and unfamiliar to Joe. It hadn't changed one whit that he could see, but it felt different now. The same regulars, looking older, filled most of the tables, but nobody he had to do more than nod to. There was nobody from school, nobody who'd once been a close friend. The relief was almost overwhelming. Joe wasn't ready to face the questions that would come from those who knew him well, questions like, "Where you been? What was it like?"

Well, except for Maude. Either she'd ask the questions, or she'd act as if he hadn't been gone a day, and was still a skinny eighteen-year-old who put away her burgers and fries as if he had two hollow legs.

There was a booth near the back, and hardly realizing he was doing it, Joe guided Gunny Mathison back there. He didn't want to sit near the windows, where someone might recognize him. He didn't want to be exposed.

She took the urging without comment and, much to his relief, let him sit on the bench that was backed up against the wall, giving him a full view of the diner.

"When I was a little kid," he said, needing to fill the silence, needing to keep her from asking the questions he didn't want to answer, "there used to be a grill over there against that wall. Maude and her husband used to stand there from five in the morning until ten at night, cooking an endless stream of food." He shook his head. "It was some show. I think half the people ate here just to watch the two of them."

"What happened to it?"

Joe shrugged one shoulder. "About the time I was nine or ten, they decided they needed to expand. So they took the space next door and built a kitchen." He managed a crooked smile. "God knows what goes on back there. I suspect she has an army of gnomes cooking for her, but the food is just as good as it always was."

Mathison nodded and reached for one of the plastic-covered menus that were tucked behind the napkin dispenser and ketchup bottle. The diner hadn't yet graduated to steak sauce, and it was rumored the mayor carried a bottle of his own favorite when he came here. If Maude had ever taken note of that heresy, no one knew. Which was unusual for Maude.

Mathison spoke pleasantly enough. "She certainly hasn't heard about the rules for healthy eating."

"No. Rib-sticking is her style."

Those sherry-brown eyes lifted from the menu, and for the first time he got a true inkling of her smile. It didn't reach her mouth, but the humor was there around her eyes. "I'll run it off tonight."

"Yeah." He supposed he needed to start doing that again, too, now that he wasn't running up and down mountains like a goat.

One thing sure hadn't changed: it was Maude herself who came to the table to take their order.

"Gunny," Maude said, with a nod to her. The years hadn't been kind to Maude. Her face looked like heavily lined old parchment, and she'd lost some weight, leaving her skin sagging in folds around her mouth and on her arms. But her eyes were as sharp as ever as they settled on Joe. As sharp and malicious as always.

"Joey Yates," she said, her tone hardly welcoming. "Are you still eating enough to feed a crowd?"

"No, ma'am," he said automatically, the way his sister had always made him address older women.

"Been up to see your sister yet?"

A black feeling filled him, not far removed from rage. Who was this old woman to ask him such a thing? It wasn't as if she were a friend of the family.

"Better get up there," Maude said flatly. "Poor girl has been wasting away from worry over you. What'll you have?"

Joe ignored the unwanted commentary and ordered a steak he didn't think he'd be able to eat. Breakfast, even though it had been hours ago, was still sitting heavily in his stomach. But it would be a shame to pass up one of Maude's steaks. Gunny Mathison ordered one of Maude's steak sandwiches.

When Maude stomped away into her lair, Mathison looked at him. "My first name's Bethany," she said. "Beth."

"I'm Joseph Yates. Just Joe."

She extended her hand across the table and they shook. Cessation of hostilities. Good. The sooner he could forget about this woman and her disturbing eyes, the better.

"Well, Just Joe," she said with a small smile, "we got off to a bad start. I should know better than to come between a marine and his brew And sometimes I'm a little too, um, stiff."

He liked that she was willing to acknowledge her own faults. Not many people were big enough to do that. Even in the Corps, where utter honesty was expected of everyone.

"It's okay," he said. In all his years in the Marines, he'd never been hassled for having a few drinks when he was off duty. As long as he didn't create a disturbance. But... "I can see your point of view. Let's just forget it."

"Fair enough. It's just that this is such a small town...." She shrugged.

"I know." He looked past her, out the window, unconsciously taking an assessment of dangers, routes of escape and all the rest of it, as if he were in a den of enemy soldiers. The tension between his shoulder blades had been with him for so long now he wasn't even aware of it anymore. Truly relaxing, without the aid of booze, was beyond him, and he didn't even really know it.

Beth spoke. "You have a thousand-yard stare."

The sound of her voice jolted him back into the here and now. Once again he was sitting in a familiar diner in Conard City. "Uh, yeah. I guess." He knew what she meant. He'd first noticed it years ago just after boot camp, when he'd met his first combat veterans. Some of them never learned to relax that stare.

Her next question was simple, and not the one he expected. "Are you going back?"

"I suppose so." Which was the truth. He didn't know for sure, but his unit was still over there. He braced himself for the questions about how long he'd been overseas, and what he had done and seen, but those questions never came. She merely nodded her head.

"I was over there for a while," she offered. "I never got off the ship, though."

Something in her face told him that experience had been bad enough. He knew how it was. Even a ship couldn't keep you safe sometimes.

"When?" he asked finally. Crossing the barrier.

"I was aboard the Hartridge when that suicide bomber struck."

He paused, something inside him growing very quiet. "That was bad."

"Not one of the best weeks of my life. I'm sure you heard all about it. We lost twenty-six sailors, and had sixty-four wounded." Her face grew shadowed.

He didn't reply. When words didn't fit, he didn't speak them, and there were no words for what she had probably seen. What could he say, anyway? That he was sorry? No point in it. It was part of being a marine.

"Yeah," he said after a bit. "That was bad."

"I'm sure you've seen worse." She didn't act as if she expected an answer, and he didn't offer one.

"So," she said after Maude delivered their meals and drinks, "you have family around here?"

"Yeah." The answer sounded short, even to him. "My sister's family and my grandfather."

"Are you going to see them?"

"I don't know."

She didn't seem to find that response strange. Nor did she press for any more.

"How long have you been the recruiter here?"

"Nine months." Again the hint of that smile, pushing the shadows away. "A long nine months."

"I can imagine. I used to dream about getting out of here. There's not a whole lot to do."

"I suppose it's great for a family, but..." She shrugged and gave a little laugh. "I'm getting awfully tired of television and movies."

"Oh, you need to take up bowling."

"I got tired of that, too."

He laughed. The sound surprised him. "I hear you. Not exactly the adventure you signed on for."

"It's not that bad, really. It's almost like being on an extended vacation. I don't have a whole lot to do. And most of the time I don't have anyone breathing down my neck. So there are advantages. In the winter I manage to get in some skiing, and in the summer I hike in the mountains. It's a good thing I'm not a party girl."

"Have you made any friends?" He couldn't say why that suddenly seemed important. There was no ring on her finger, which said a lot, but...he wasn't interested in that, was he?

"Oh, sure. Sheriff Tate practically took me under his wing. I've met some really nice people at church and at the high school. It's not that I don't have a life."

Of course not. And in her position she'd get to know a lot of people. She'd have to. But he could still hear the hint of wistfulness underlying her pleasant tone.

It was sad in a way, he thought. The Corps was a tight-knit group, and your unit became your best friends. To take a marine and put her out here in the middle of nowhere like this was to cut her off from the support structure she'd been relying on for years. He felt a twinge of sympathy. In her own way, she must be feeling as much like a fish out of water as he was.

He spoke. "All my buddies are back...there." He caught himself before he spoke the place-name he wasn't allowed to speak.

She looked down at her plate, as if she'd noticed the food for the first time. "I know," she said.

And somehow he figured she did. For a while, they ate in silence, neither of them seeming especially hungry. Maude, he thought, was going to be all over them like white on rice if they didn't finish their meals.

Suddenly Beth looked up. "Wanna go to a movie tonight?"

Chapter 3

Joe wasn't sure why he had agreed. He didn't especially want to see a movie, any movie, especially not one that was billed as "heartwarming and uplifting." Even less did he want to go to a movie with someone else, especially a female someone else.

But he had said yes, probably because she was a marine, too, and marines kinda hung out together, and she had no one else in this town and...

And all the excuses didn't add up to a reason. He'd said yes, and he was damned if he knew why, but since he'd agreed, he would go. At least she'd said she'd meet him at the theater. That felt casual enough. Like friends. The kind of thing he would do with one of the guys.

Which was undoubtedly how she meant it. Marine to marine. Yeah.

He still needed his head examined.

He spent the afternoon wandering around town, checking out old haunts in an effort to bring himself into the present. It was amazing how remote the days of his youth seemed now. Places he'd remembered so fondly now looked strange, different. So far away in time that they might have been someone else's memories. The feeling unsettled him, as he realized that it was true, you couldn't go home again.

Worse, you not only couldn't go home again, but if you tried, you were going to demolish all those happy memories.

Maybe that was part of the reason he was so afraid to go see his sister. Maybe he was afraid that wouldn't feel like home anymore, either. He didn't know if he could handle that. Home, after all, was a place you cherished when you were far away and in danger. It was a place you couldn't afford to lose.

Of course, in the last nine years he'd come home a few times, and nothing had gone amiss before. But this time was different. This time he had brought home a whole new pack of memories. Ugly memories.

And maybe he feared they'd somehow pollute the past, too.

These thoughts, and even darker ones, somehow brought him to the parking lot of the movie theater on the edge of town. He was a little early, but that was all right.

Standing there, he remembered the times he'd come here with his high school friends. All the good times they'd had, all the popcorn they'd packed away. All the good and not-so-good movies they'd seen.

A flicker of curiosity stirred in him as he wondered about his old friends for the first time in a long time. Were they married? What jobs did they have? Children?

He'd lost touch with most of them a long time ago. As far as he knew, none of the ones who had been his really good buddies still lived around here.

Another thing you could never get back: old friendships too long neglected.

Maybe realizing that was part of dealing with his present and recent past. He didn't know. He just knew that he was feeling hollow in a way he couldn't describe. Not depressed. Not whiney. Just hollow. And the dance of his thoughts was probably an attempt to avoid thinking about why he was so empty.

He hadn't felt empty even when Kara had died. Upset, yes. So enraged he could barely see. Deeply saddened. But not empty. He hadn't felt empty until he came home.

Maybe he was just adjusting to the huge changes in himself. He'd be a fool to think combat hadn't changed him at his very essence.

"Hi."

He turned and saw Bethany striding toward him, a smile on her face. "Hi." He managed a smile of his own.

She'd abandoned her uniform for jeans, a lavender Western shirt and cowboy boots. Her jeans and shirt cradled her curves in an eye-catching but not insistent way. At the moment, she looked Conard County born and bred, and nothing like a marine at all.

A ripple of something passed through him, something at once erotic and wistful. For those moments, everything else faded away.

He felt he should buy her ticket, but she insisted on buying her own. Just new friends catching a movie. That was okay.

What the film was about, he couldn't remember by the time they emerged from the darkened theater. What he was aware of, all he was aware of, was her perfume, a subtle, spicy sent, and the sound of her laughter.

"Well," she said with a bright smile when they stepped out into the parking lot, "that was fun. Thanks for keeping me company."

Just like that she was going to be gone. Poof. Vanished. And just like that he knew he couldn't stand it.

"How about getting a drink or a sandwich?" he suggested.

She hesitated, and after the way she'd seen him last night, he could understand why. But then she smiled and nodded. "Sure. Mahoney's?"

"They make a great sandwich."

"Okay. Um...do you have a car?"

He shook his head. "I came into town on the bus."

"Then hitch a ride with me."

As easy as that. And somewhere deep inside, he knew he'd taken an irrevocable step.

Bethany couldn't imagine why she'd invited Joe Yates to join her for a movie. She'd put it down as an instinctive act of charity. But when she agreed to go to Mahoney's with him, she knew something more was going on.

She found him attractive. Absolutely. There was no denying that. A healthy woman with healthy urges, she looked at the tall, muscled, weather-hardened marine with the faintly exotic face and she felt electricity. Parts of herself that she had been ignoring for years seemed to wake up and take notice. And while she wasn't the kind who wanted a quick fling, she actually thought about having one with Joe.

Hmm.

Her hands shook a little on the steering wheel as she realized what she was thinking and where she might be heading. No way. That was a recipe for disaster.

But her insides still quivered, anyway. And being this close to him, she was acutely aware of his scent, of the way his strength seemed barely bottled up by the requirements of civilization. Oh, hell, she'd always been attracted to dangerous men. Hadn't she learned?

Apparently not.

His quietness was making her edgy, too. It wasn't that she need to be gabbing all the time, but so far he really hadn't volunteered much of himself, nor seemed all that interested in getting to know her. So maybe he wasn't interested, and she'd be safe from her own urges.

Somehow the thought didn't cheer her at all.

She drove slowly to Mahoney's as if she dreaded it, when in fact she needed to be far more frightened of being alone in the car with Joe.

But fear didn't come easily to her, not anymore. Boot camp and the years since had taught her that she could handle just about anything. Oh, she might carry a scar or two afterward, but she could handle it. Standing up to her neck in swamp water, feeling like a smorgasbord for mosquitoes and snakes in muggy temperatures that made it almost impossible to breathe, had taught her a lot about her ability to endure. So had later events, events that had nothing to do with mosquitoes and everything to do with guilt.

So she could handle Joe Yates and her feelings for him. She could even handle whatever stupid decisions she might make in the coming hours. And she could handle the consequences. Oh, yes. She was good at handling consequences.

But sometimes she wished she didn't have to handle things. It was a furtive, barely acknowledged wish. One she would never admit to herself. Being a strong, independent woman, especially in a macho outfit like the Corps, demanded that she handle things. All things.

Ruck Up, Suck Up And Press On. The Corps' oft-spoken, never written motto. Something you imbibed with the heat, the stench and the fetid swamps of Paris Island.

She pulled into the lot behind Mahoney's and got out of the car before Joe could do anything as stupid as try to come open her car door for her. It was all part of establishing herself as an equal, something that had become part of her nature since joining the Corps. It hadn't taken her long to figure out that if you let them, these guys would put a woman in her place. So she carved out her own place with every breath she took.

Inside, Mahoney's was quiet. Well, it was Thursday night, and it was getting late. She would have headed for the bar, but Joe slid into a booth, giving her little choice but to sit across from him. The high backs on the benches made it seem like a private cocoon, holding the few other patrons at bay.

A waitress with eyes too old for her young face came to take their orders.

"Club soda with lime for me," Bethany said.

Joe smiled faintly. "The designated driver."

"That's me."

"Anything to eat?" the girl asked.

Bethany hesitated. She'd already gone overboard with lunch at Maude's. "Just some pretzels, thanks."

"I want a club sandwich," Joe said. "And a cola."

Bethany was relieved he'd decided not to drink. She didn't want to see him the way she'd seen him last night. It wasn't the drunkenness that bothered her, although she didn't especially care for it. She'd seen plenty of people drunk over the years. What she didn't want to see was the edge it uncovered in Joe, an edge she hadn't seen once in him today.

"I decided to reform," he remarked, as if he knew the direction of her thoughts.

"Reform?" She pretended not to understand.

"Yeah. I'm not going to become a cliché."

She smiled, this time with real amusement. "That's an unusual way to put it."

He shrugged one shoulder. "It's the truth. Marine returns from hell, drowns his sorrows in booze, et cetera. How many times have you seen that one in the movies? "

"Too many."

"Exactly. It doesn't do any good, anyway. The memories are worse with a hangover."

"What memories?" As soon as she asked the question, she knew she shouldn't have, even before his face darkened.

"Let's not go there, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed swiftly. "Stupid question." But she still wanted to get to know him better, so she headed for something that seemed safer. "You grew up around here?"

"Oh, yeah. In another lifetime."

She knew what he meant. Some things changed you so much that it was like there was a permanent marker in your life, a defining line between the person you had been and the one you were now.

He looked down at the wooden table between them and moved a cardboard coaster around aimlessly. "I'm not sure I know how to have a civilized conversation anymore."

"Sure you do," she said bracingly. "The idea is to talk about all the things that don't matter, like the weather, and the football scores, and who's going to win at Wimbledon or something."

That surprised a laugh out of him, and his dark eyes lifted to her face. "Okay, okay. How about those Packers?"

And suddenly they were smiling at each other with a kind of understanding that, if Bethany hadn't been so mesmerized by how the expression transformed Joe's face, might have scared her, marine or not.

The too-close moment was shattered as their glasses thudded onto the table in front of them. A bowl of pretzels followed.

"Back in a sec with the sandwich," the waitress said.

"Thanks." Joe glanced up at the young woman for a second, watching her walk away. "I have the feeling she was a few years behind me in school."

"That's a possibility."

"But I can't place her." He shook his head.

"Maybe she's younger than she looks."

"Maybe."

"She didn't seem to recognize you, either."

He moved his glass of cola to one side. "I don't look the same."

"Few of us do."

Slowly his gaze returned to her. It was odd, she thought, this feeling that she was having that he kept slipping away from her into someplace in the past. As if he weren't really here with her now. "Have you been home long?"

"A few days."

That might explain it. She remembered her own return, and how out of place she had felt for a while. It was probably even harder for him. She remembered what Maude had said earlier at the diner. "And you haven't visited your family yet?"

"Not yet." Again his gaze drifted away, the thousand-yard stare returning.

"Is there a problem there?"

His attention snapped back to her. "No. Why?"

"I just wondered. Usually when people come home, they visit their families."

"I'm not ready yet, is all."

"I see." But she wasn't certain she really did. Her family was the first thing she had wanted after the bombing, which she still thought of, in her own mind, as The Incident. "Are you afraid?"

It was a good thing she didn't really expect an answer to that question, because she didn't get one. He studied his cola as if the rising bubbles held the answers to the secret of life, and didn't say a thing, even when the waitress put his sandwich in front of him.

Bethany tried to mend the rift, wondering why she'd asked something that was none of her business anyway. "That sandwich looks good. Maybe I'll get one."

"You can have mine."

He started to push his plate across the table, but she stopped him by reaching out and touching his wrist. The electricity that shot through her as her fingertips touched his warm skin was almost enough to make her gasp. But she retained enough presence of mind to say, "No, Joe. You need to eat. You look too thin."

After a moment, he nodded and picked up one triangular piece of the thick sandwich. But he didn't immediately raise it to his mouth.

Feeling as if she were somehow out of place, Bethany forced herself to look around the bar and not at Joe while she nibbled on a pretzel, waiting for the sound of him finally taking a bite.

But the sound that reached her was his voice.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She immediately looked at him. "What for?"

"I'm lousy company. I'm acting like a jerk."

"I was out of line."

"No." His eyes burned into her. "You're trying to be friendly. I'm trying to stop you. I'm being rude."

"Why don't you want me to be friendly?" She almost held her breath, awaiting his answer. She wasn't exactly used to being rejected by men, but it happened sometimes.

He surprised her. "Because I'm still feeling raw. That's why I don't want to visit my family yet. That's why I'm being a jerk I feel raw."

"I understand." And she did, although more with her emotions than with her head.

"I'm...afraid," he added, as if every word were painful to speak, "that I might...let go."

Then she did understand, fully and completely. During and after The Incident, she had often felt she was barely hanging on to her self-control by her bloody fingertips. Trying not to freak out, when freaking out was the only emotional response left in her. She could only imagine that his burden was even greater than hers, and that much harder to hang on to his control.

"Maybe you need to let go," she said quietly.

"Nobody needs to hear this crap. Nobody."

"Maybe not. But maybe you need to spill it."

"It wouldn't do a damn bit of good," he said stonily. "Not a damn bit of good. Anyway, I was doing just fine."

Just fine when? she wondered. Before he'd come home? Before he'd had to face the world away from the battlefield? Before he'd had to remember that once it had been possible to sleep soundly, to eat well, to live a day without being constantly aware you were one split second from death?

Turning, she wagged her hand at the waitress. The girl came over immediately. "Two whiskeys," Bethany told her. "And a club sandwich for me, please."

Joe's expression might have been amused if he hadn't looked so empty. "You're the designated driver."

"I can walk home if necessary."

"I refuse to be a cliché."

"One drink isn't a cliché. And damn it, will you start eating that sandwich?"

"Yes, Gunny." He took a large bite and chewed mechanically. The whiskeys appeared before them. Joe ignored his, for the moment at least. Bethany didn't really want hers, but she lifted the shot glass and tossed it down. It burned all the way, reminding her of a more foolish age when she'd gotten drunk once. Just once. That's all it had taken to cure her of the desire. Her stomach wanted to rebel, but she quelled it with a pretzel.

"Okay," she said, when Joe was working on the second quarter of his sandwich, his mouth safely full of food, "you obviously need to talk to somebody. And you don't want it to be your family. So it can be me. Or it can be a shrink. But you have to talk."

He shook his head and swallowed. "It won't do a damn bit of good. I'm going back."

Something in her stilled, growing quiet and cold. "Why?"

"My unit's over there."

Dumb question, she thought. Of course his unit was over there. Of course he was going back. Why had she even asked? "You still need to dump before you go back to it. You have to dump it or you're going to snap."

"Who made you an authority?"

She bristled. "I realize I never did what you're doing, but I have had a little experience, if you remember?"

He didn't say anything, but reached instead for the whiskey. He sipped it, surprising her. Finally he asked, "Where did you dump?"

"All over the shoulder of a psychiatrist. He listened, I talked, and it didn't go into my service jacket because I hunted up a civilian guy and paid for it myself."

A faint curve lifted one corner of Joe's hard mouth. "Smart."

"I'm not stupid. And dumping it was better than kicking the dog, you know?"

"I know." Again that distant look came to his eyes. Then he sighed, took another sip of whiskey and swallowed another mouthful of sandwich. "There was a girl," he said after a moment. "A woman, actually. A United Nations aid worker who was there to supervise the distribution of food. The ruling government arrested her for wearing a cross, but she managed to get away. I met her when she was hiding with the insurgents."

Bethany nodded encouragingly.

"She was something else, Bethany," he said after a few minutes. "A bundle of fire and determination. Mother Theresa in jeans and a cammie jacket."

Bethany's heart almost stopped. Somehow she thought that if this was about a lost love, she was going to hurt in ways she didn't want to hurt ever again.

But once again he surprised her. "She was like a sister to me. To all of us. Tough but kind. There isn't much kindness out there. Life's too hard. But she managed to be kind through it all, even when she was starving and cold and whupped. And then she got killed. We were supposed to be protecting her while we carried out our mission and got her to safety, but she got killed."

He shook his head and looked down. Bethany wanted to touch him, to offer comfort, but she didn't dare.

"Anyway," he said, "I got wounded, too. Nothing major. But I escorted her body back to her family in Amsterdam, then came home."

"That must have been rough."

His silence was his answer. He was drifting away again, but this time she didn't have to call him back. He came back all on his own. "Sorry," he said. "My body is here, but the rest of me is having trouble catching up."

"It's okay. It can be jarring to make such a big, sudden change."

His expression suddenly spoke volumes to her, as if he was relieved to know he wasn't just crazy, that what he was experiencing was normal. Nobody, Bethany thought, ever prepared them for these kinds of transitions. And given the he-man mentality of the Corps, it was hardly likely that anyone was going to complain about a readjustment problem.

But she remembered her own readjustment problem, even though she had had weeks at sea to shift mental gears from the death and mayhem that had struck her ship m the Middle East to the normalcy of life at home. How much worse it must be for Joe, who had spent months at war, only to find himself home in a matter of a couple of days.

"The mind," she said carefully, "needs time to absorb things."

"Yeah." He didn't offer any more, and she didn't press him All she could do was let him know she was willing to listen if he decided to talk.

But talking was evidently not what he wanted to do now. He took another sip of his whiskey, then another bite of his sandwich. Hers arrived, and while she really didn't feel hungry, she knew she had to eat to balance the whiskey she'd just drank.

And why had she done that, anyway? To loosen him up? Because she hated the stuff herself, hated the fuzzy way it made her brain feel. So many people talked about getting "a buzz " as if it was a fun thing. If it was, she evidently lacked the equipment to enjoy it.

For a while they ate quietly When he finished his sandwich, Joe ordered another one. It hardly surprised her; he was a big man, and right now he looked a bit gaunt. After his seconds arrived, he started talking.

"I grew up on a ranch," he said. "In the foothills west of here. We were always on the edge of losing everything from the time I can remember. My sister had to take a job as a cop to keep the place."

"That's your sister? Sara Ironheart?"

"Yeah." He looked at her. "You know her?"

"I've met her. She's the only woman deputy here, and once we met at a church social and got to talking about what it was like to be women in men's outfits."

A smile lifted his face. "Yeah. It's not easy. When she first went for the job, the sheriff was okay with it, but some of the guys gave her a really hard time. Funny thing was, Sara was still there when the rest of them were gone."

"Well, she's still there. Part-time now, working as a crime scene investigator with that Dalton guy." Suddenly Bethany blushed. "But you know that."

"That's okay. She's got two little ones she wants to spend time with, and since she and Gideon married, he's turned the ranch around enough that she says she only keeps her finger in so she has something to talk about besides kids."

Bethany laughed. "Well, I can testify to the fact that she has a lot to talk about. I wish I saw more of her."

"Yeah. She's a good egg. For a sister."

Beth caught the teasing note in his voice and realized that Joe Yates was an even more attractive man when he wasn't looking haunted.

"Anyway," he continued, "Gideon turned the place around by boarding and training horses. He's got a spooky way with them. My granddad calls him a horse whisperer. Gideon says all he does is listen to the horse. Whatever it is, it's like magic. So he trains show horses and cow ponies. Quite a combination." He shook his head. "I swear he could get a wild mustang to stand on its hind legs and whistle Dixie."

"I'd like to see that sometime."

"What, the whistling Dixie?"

She laughed again. "No, the training part."

"Sure." He kind of shrugged the idea away, but didn't exactly say no. "Anyway, you look at the place now and you can't tell what it was like when I was a kid. We were barely holding it together. Sara had to rent out most of the good pasture to a neighbor for his cattle, and my grandfather had this thing about rescuing mustangs, which meant they had to be fed through the cold months, and Sara worked her butt off. I got a job when I turned sixteen, and started helping out."

Bethany nodded encouragement.

"I thought we were poor. We didn't have much. But you know what? I never went without a meal. I might have worn clothes from Goodwill when things got tight, but I never went hungry or cold."

He sighed. "Then I saw the people in...over there. God, I've never seen such poverty. Or at least such widespread poverty. These folks have nothing at all. Nothing. Not a roof, not a bit of land, just the clothes on their backs and maybe a pot for holding water, or cooking, if they managed to find something to eat. It made me think how lucky I was. And now I'm sitting here eating two sandwiches." He started to push the plate away.

"Don't waste it," she said gently. "Throwing that away won't help them. So what did you do? Give them your rations?"

"As much as we could. But the winter..." He shook his head. "I don't know what's worse, the starvation or the war."

"The U.N. is trying to help. And the Red Cross."

"It isn't enough. It's hard to get food to people in outlying areas because there aren't any roads. There are air drops of food, but it's still not enough. God, they need everything. Blankets. Firewood. Shelter. Clothes. Shoes. Food."

"And your friend was trying to help with that."

"Kara? Yeah. It blows my mind that the pigs arrested her."

"Well," said Bethany, feeling almost hesitant, "it's easier to keep people down when they're too hungry to move."

"Actually, it just makes them more desperate. Desperate enough to do something. But the rulers didn't want any food getting to anyone except through them. They wanted it to look like they were the ones who were providing it. Bastards."

Bethany waited a minute or so, to see if he would continue. When he didn't, she said, "You need to eat. Get your strength back up."

Then he asked the most painful question she'd ever heard: "Why?"

Chapter 4

Well, she didn't have an answer for that one, Bethany thought after she drove Joe back to his motel. It was clear he didn't want to go back over there, but it was equally clear he felt guilty as hell about being here.

But she didn't know what she could do to make him feel any better about any of it. There were no magic wands for this one.

On impulse, she turned her car west, and headed out to where she thought the Ironheart Ranch was. She'd never been out that way, but from a few things that Sara and others had mentioned in passing, she thought she knew which county road to take.

The night was already cool, but as she climbed higher into the foothills, it grew even chillier. Here and there she thought she caught sight of patches of snow, sheltered from melting in the daytime sun by the shadows of rocks and trees.

It was awfully late to be paying a call, and more than once she considered turning around, but she pressed forward anyway. She wasn't a marine for nothing.

Then, just as she was beginning to conclude that she'd gone too far and was probably on the wrong road, her headlights picked out a sign: Horse Training and Boarding.

It wasn't much of a sign—although it was fresh and neat—designed not to catch the attention of mere pas-sersby, but to point the way to those who were already looking for the place. Apparently this business relied on word of mouth.

She turned off onto a ranch road that showed signs of a recent grading to wipe out the effects of the winter. Barbed-wire fence lined both sides of it, not the freshly painted white wood of fancier horse ranches. Already she had the feeling this was a no-nonsense place.

When she pulled into the wide gravel circle between house and barn, she was relieved to see lights on in the downstairs windows of the two-story house, and even a light from the barn. Somebody was still awake. At least she wouldn't scare folks out of their wits by rousing them.

She put the car in Park and turned off the engine. Just before she slammed her car door shut, the side door of the house opened, and a large man was silhouetted against golden light.

"You lost?" he called.

"I hope not. I'm looking for Sara Ironheart."

"You've come to the right place. Come on in."

Sometimes it didn't pay to rash in where fools dared to tread, and this might be one of those times. Joe might hate her forever for not minding her own business. And she liked Joe. She wanted to see him again. But...she'd also seen how he was hurting, and she didn't think avoiding his family was helping him any.

So she marched forward with squared shoulders until she was standing in the kitchen with the broad-shouldered man whose long black hair was caught in a thong at the nape of his neck, and whose face was stamped with his Native American ancestry. A powerful-looking man who seemed to be at peace with life and unafraid of anything. He, she thought, might be good for Joe. She wondered why she hadn't seen him around town.

"I'm Gideon Ironheart," he said, offering a hand. "Sara's husband."

"I'm Bethany Mathison, the Marine Corps recruiter."

He lifted his eyebrows. "My kids are too young. Don't tell me Sara's taken a wild hair."

"No." She felt herself smile. "I'm here to see her about her brother." At once Bethany realized what that sounded like, and before surprise could change to horror on Gideon's face, she rushed to say, "He's okay. He's not hurt." No physically, anyway. But she didn't want to say more until Sara was here, or at least until she knew this big man would stay calm when he heard what his brother-in-law was going through.

"Well," Gideon said, absorbing the news with barely a change in expression, "have a seat at the table. I was just making some coffee. Sara had to go out on a job tonight, but she called a little while ago. She was probably following you right up the county road."

Bethany accepted his offer, taking a seat at a table that looked as if it had seen generations of wear and absorbed countless conversations, quarrels and good times. She'd never had anything that old in her life, and the age of the piece attracted her. She ran her hand over it, feeling the mars and scars, and the patina of its long life.

"I'm sorry to come so late," she said as he poured them both mugs of steaming coffee, then sat across from her.

"It's not all that late," he said reassuringly. "I'm going to be up most of the night, anyway. I have a mare in foal. And obviously Sara's not in bed yet, and won't be for some time. She always comes in wound up from these things."

"I can imagine. Thanks for being so kind."

"So you know Joey?"

"I met him recently."

"Ah." Gideon's obsidian eyes searched her face, but he didn't question her further. Somewhere this man had learned the gift of patience, and Bethany was beginning to wish she could ask him for a dose of it Everything she was doing tonight seemed reckless, and she'd sworn never to be reckless again, not after her last mistake. By the book, that's what she'd sworn to be, and the book said you didn't make impulsive calls on people you didn't know late at night, mixing up in something that was really none of your business.

But here she was, and so as not to scare this family to death, she had to remain. If she left now, they'd wonder what she was hiding. They'd worry.

"I hear you're a horse whisperer," she said, to fill a silence she was beginning to find awkward, even though he seemed comfortable with it.

He smiled. "So it's rumored."

"You don't think you are?"

He shrugged. "I just pay attention to the horses. You have to learn their language. Animals aren't verbal, but they say a whole hell of a lot with their bodies and behavior. There's nothing magical about it, despite what people say. Have you ever had a dog?"

"No, I never had a pet."

"Too bad. People with dogs and cats learn to read them the same way, if they pay attention. What I do is no different."

"Except that you're very good at it?"

He chuckled. "It keeps me in food."

She felt a great liking for this man, and wondered if Joe might ever have been a little like him, before war had affected him. And yet she got the feeling that Gideon's patience and calm arose not from an easy life, but rather from surviving a hard one. There was something in his face that was etched so deep, something hard and painful, that even his calm gaze and friendly smile couldn't wipe it away entirely. That pain was etched on Joe's face now, too, but Joe's gaze wasn't calm. It was nearly empty, sometimes.

That frightened her, she realized. She had only just met Joe Yates, yet she was already coming to care about what happened to him. Maybe caring too much, if she judged by her presence here.

Gideon spoke. "So how did you get to be a recruiter?"

"Well..." She hesitated and smiled wryly. "You have to be gung-ho, you have to look really good, and then the Corps gods have to pick you out of all the applicants."

He laughed. "A by-the-book marine?"

"Of course."

"I guess Joe will never be a recruiter then. He's never been a by-the-book type. I'm surprised he hasn't busted out of the Corps yet, to tell you the truth."

"He seems to be doing pretty well, actually," she mused, remembering the medals that had been on Joe's chest last night.

"Well, maybe they need a mustang from time to time."

She liked that analogy. "I wouldn't have thought of him as a mustang."

"I supposed in military-speak that means something else. But I'm talking about an unbroken horse."

"I knew you were. It kind of goes with what you do for a living."

Again he smiled, but her thoughts were drifting back to Joe, wondering if the mustang had at last been broken. Because to her, Joe seemed perilously close to an edge he might never be able to return from.

"Actually," she said, admitting something she'd never told anyone, "I suspect they made me a recruiter because I'm a martinet. A pain-in-the-butt, by-the-book marine."

Gideon's dark brows lifted. "Why do you say that?"

"It's a long story, but I learned that the rules matter. Even the ones that seem dumb."

"A surprising number of rules are there for a reason," he said. "Even the ones that seem stupid. Maybe Joe finally figured that out."

"Maybe." But she remembered him last night, drunk and wild and ready to fight with her because she'd said he was out of uniform. Now she felt almost embarrassed by the way she had acted, thinking only of the impression he might create in this town where she worked so hard to make the marines always look good. But after getting to know him a bit, she didn't think the man she'd met last night was the real Joe Yates. The one she'd met today had been milder, more reasonable.

And so, so sad and troubled.

She sighed and looked toward the darkened window. The curtains were still open, as if to be inviting to anyone outside.

"There's Sara," Gideon said, rising.

Bethany strained, but couldn't hear anything. "Really? You hear her?"

His eyes glinted. "No, I feel her."

Spooky, she thought. Or crazy. But when she looked at Gideon Ironheart, she didn't think he was crazy at all. She wondered what it would be like to be so close to someone you could feel her presence long before you could hear or see her.

Then she heard the growl of an engine. Moments later, headlights pierced the night and bounced off the dark glass.

Gideon went out to greet his wife, leaving Bethany alone in the kitchen. She waited patiently, sipping her coffee, figuring the couple needed a few minutes alone together. Hoping that Joe wouldn't hate her forever for sticking her nose into his business.

Then the Ironhearts came through the door, hands linked. Sara was a quietly pretty woman, a little taller than average, with dark hair caught up on the back of her head. She was wearing the local uniform of Western shirt and boots, but on her belt hung a badge.

"Hi," she said, striding toward Beth and offering her hand for a shake. "Good to see you again, Bethany. Gideon said you're here about my brother?" She pulled out a chair and sat near her, while Gideon got her a steaming mug of coffee.

"Yes," Bethany said slowly. "He's probably going to be furious with me for coming here but...he's in town. I gather he arrived yesterday."

Sara smiled up at Gideon as she accepted the mug of coffee from him. "Thanks, hon." But her smile was gone when she returned her attention to Bethany. "And he didn't tell me he's home. I imagine that's why you're here."

Bethany nodded, feeling that she had made a big mistake. Sara was probably going to tell her that Joe was a big boy now and could make his own decisions. Which was true, and she shouldn't need anyone else to tell her so.

But Sara didn't say that. Instead, she nodded slowly. "What's wrong?"

"He's...well, he's been through a bad time. A very bad time. I think he's trying to avoid...well...I've spent quite a bit of time with him today. We had lunch together, then went to a movie tonight, and afterward had a sandwich at Mahoney's. But he keeps pulling away into himself. As if.. .I don't know how to explain it. As if he's not really here."

Sara nodded, her gaze flickering to Gideon. "Maybe he needs some time by himself."

"Maybe." She had made a mistake by coming here. Sara didn't seem worried that her brother didn't want to see her. Bethany began to feel small and stupid.

"How'd you meet?" Sara asked.

"Last night at Mahoney's. I went in to get a sandwich and he was there." She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "He was drinking heavily, and I...well, I called him on his appearance and we almost got into a fight."

"Now that sounds Eke Joe," Gideon mused. "Always ready for a tussle."

"But not the drinking," Sara said, frowning. "He knows better than that." She looked at Bethany. "Joey's half Native American. Booze is poison to us."

Bethany nodded, flushing when she remembered how she had ordered whiskeys for them tonight. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Joe always avoided it," Sara continued. "We made a point of it while he was growing up." Again her gaze flickered toward Gideon. "I hope he isn't making a habit of that."

"I didn't get that impression," Bethany hastened to say, remembering how Joe had barely touched the whiskey she'd bought for him. She hoped she was right.

Sara's gaze settled on her again. "But you're worried about him."

"Yes, I am," Bethany confessed. "I think he needs emotional support, but doesn't want to reach out for it."

"Maybe," Gideon said slowly, "he's just not ready for the whole fam-damily. Maybe you should go see him alone, Sara. It may be he's just not ready for me and the kids. Or for Grandfather."

"Grandfather," Sara said with a nod. "He can be too damn insightful at times."

"Yeah." Gideon almost smiled. "And he's getting worse with every passing year. Hell, we can't even have a little spat without him making us both feel like idiots."

Sara laughed at that, but it was a quiet, short laugh. "I'll go see him. I can just sort of run into him somewhere. Is he staying at the motel?"

"The Lazy Rest, yes."

"Okay, that's what I'll do. I'll hang out at the truck stop in the morning and ran into him."

"Thanks." Bethany rose. "I know I'm being a busybody but..." She trailed off, uncertain what to say.

Sara reached out and squeezed her hand. "Thank you," Sara said. "Joey's always had a tendency to bolt inside himself when he's hurting. And it's usually the worst thing to do."

Remembering her own experience after the bombing of her ship, Bethany nodded. She wouldn't have made it through that awful time without her friends.

She said good-night, then drove off into the dark chilly night, hoping she'd done the right thing.

Chapter 5

When Joe walked into the truck stop diner in the morning, the first person he noticed was his sister. And not for an instant did he think this was an accident. Somebody had told her he was in town, and he had a good idea who that somebody was.

For an instant, he considered turning and walking out. But that would hurt Sara, and it would only postpone the inevitable, anyway. Sooner or later, he was going to have to see her.

At least she didn't race toward him and try to hug him the way she usually did when he came home. Ordinarily he wouldn't have minded that kind of greeting, but right now he didn't think he could stand to be touched.

She was sitting at the counter wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt, and a light jacket against the morning chill. She smiled when she saw him and waved him over, the way she might have done with a friend she saw all the time.

That made it easier for him to approach.

"Hi, Joe," she said. "Wanna get a booth?"

"Sure." At least he wouldn't have to wonder who was behind him. He picked the corner booth, backed himself up against the wall. She faced him, setting her mug of coffee on the table before her. He was aware of her searching his face as he scanned the plastic menu card and ordered bacon, eggs, toast and coffee.

Then he couldn't hide behind the menu any longer, and he had to look at her. And looking at her almost seemed to tear his heart out.

"Joe?" she said after a moment.

"Yeah." His voice sounded thick even to him.

"What's wrong?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yeah, actually I do. And you aren't going to shock me. Remember what I do for a living?"

But he was tired of the story, tired of himself, tired of the endless circle of his own thoughts. "How's Gideon? How are the kids?"

"Gideon's doing really well," she said, her face softening. "And so are the children. Tim is growing like a weed and I'm beginning to think he's going to be a basketball player. Dawn is...well, she's four, you know? She loves to play dress-up, and sometimes I'm convinced she was a princess in a past life. Very imperious."

Joe started to smile. "I can just imagine it."

"Well, if you get around to coming up to visit us, she'll probably treat you like her personal lackey."

His smile deepened, and for some crazy reason he felt his heart lift a little. "You used to be imperious."

She laughed. "No, never. I was just, urn, a tomboy. There's a difference."

"So everything is going okay?"

"Better than okay. But you know. I've been writing to you."

She had. And at some point he'd stopped answering. Guilt flickered through him. "Micah and Faith are okay?" Micah was Gideon's brother.

"Oh yeah, they're doing great. Five kids now. And every one of them is the spitting image of Micah, except for Sally." Sally was Faith's child by her first marriage, to an abuser. "Sally looks just like her mom."

"Wow." Joe shook his head, trying to imagine a bunch of Micah clones. Micah was always a silent type, massively controlled. Gideon was more open, more...well, human, than his older brother, who, if Joe were to resort to the beliefs of his ancestors, was probably born to be a shaman.

"And Grandfather?" he asked after a moment.

"Getting on, but still active. I swear that man can see right through me."

"He always could." Which was one of the reasons Joe was avoiding his family. He didn't know if he was up to his grandfather's all-knowing gaze. "How's life at the sheriff's department?"

"Good. Troubling at times. I'm working on a pretty ugly case right now."

He knew better than to ask her to discuss it. Sara was more silent than a clam when it came to her cases. "And Nate Tate?"

"The same as always. I think he stopped aging ten years ago."

Joe nodded. He and the sheriff had had their run-ins when he was in high school, but he regarded the man with a lot of respect.

His breakfast was served, grease-laden and delicious, but he didn't feel hungry anymore. Maybe because he knew what was coming.

"What about you, Joe," Sara asked quietly. "What about you?"

He sighed and picked up his fork, shoving bacon around his plate to avoid answering. He really didn't want to get into this with Sara. He really didn't. "I'll be okay. I think...I think I'm just having trouble switching mental gears from there to here."

"Mmm." Her expression was understanding. "Have you considered getting out?"

"And do what? I'm a soldier, Sara. I don't know anything else." And he didn't want to have this discussion with her. He knew she wanted him to go to college, find a profession. Or even come home and work on the ranch with Gideon. After all, he shared title to it.

But the ranch was Sara's in a way that he couldn't quite explain, and he didn't think he was the type for the bucolic life, anyway. He'd always had a taste for excitement.

Well, until lately. Lately he'd begun to think he might have had enough excitement for a lifetime.

"Okay," Sara said, easily enough. "It's your life and your decision, and I'll shut up. It's just that... Joey, I'm worried about you. I worry about you all the time. Ever since this war started over there, I've been having nightmares." She looked away, and he could see her swallowing back tears.

Cripes, he didn't need this now. His own head was already too messed up. The thought was such a selfish one, though, that shame silenced it almost before it was born. He wanted to hang his head with self-disgust, and at the same time leave town and never come back. This had been a mistake.

But this woman had raised him after their father died. Except for her, he'd have been thrust into a foster home. Instead, she had worked full-time as a deputy, putting her life on the line, and straggling to keep their inheritance intact. He owed her a debt he could never repay.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said finally. "I'm sorry."

She reached across the table and covered his left hand with hers. On the plate in front of him, eggs and grease were congealing unnoticed.

"It's okay. We all do what we need to. I just wish..."

She looked down and bit her lower lip.

"Wish what?" he asked, deciding he might as well get it all on the chin at once.

"I just wish," she said finally, raising liquid eyes to his, "that you could figure out how to be happy."

Well, she might as well have hit him between the eyes with a sledgehammer, he thought later when she'd finally driven away, leaving him to wander the small confines of Conard City as if walking could exorcize his demons.

She wished he could figure out how to be happy?

The worst of it was, he had thought he was happy, at least until lately. But when she'd said that, he had realized she was right. He'd never been happy. Never.

At least not since he'd hit adolescence. He was one of the world's great perpetual malcontents, always chafing to be elsewhere doing some other thing. Even in the Corps. But with the Corps, they kept you too damn busy to do much ruminating, and you didn't have any choice but to do what you were told.

Sure, it had given him a measure of pride and confidence he would never have had otherwise. But...he wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy. He'd been putting one foot in front of the other because there had been no other choice. He was proud of being a marine. But he wasn't sure he liked it. And even if he did like it, it didn't seem to be making him happy.

Hell.

Maybe it was time he got his head out of his butt and figured out just what would make Joe Yates happy. If anything.

Alternatively, he could just end his leave early and rejoin his unit, where he'd be too busy surviving and fighting to think about all this junk.

But some small voice inside him stilled the thought, then rejected it. It was time, it seemed, for Joe Yates to do some thinking.

Finding a bench in the courthouse square, he ignored the chilly air and watched some old men playing checkers on a board placed between them on their bench.

And it occurred to him that someday he wanted to be one of those old men, playing checkers in the sunshine.

Nothing prepared Bethany Mathison for the explosion that burst in on her that evening in her tiny little house toward the edge of town. When she opened her door in answer to the bell, she found Joe Yates standing there, looking like a severe thunderstorm.

"Joe!" she said, taken aback by his appearance as much as his unexpected arrival.

"Where the hell do you get off telling my family I'm in town?"

She looked at him for a moment, feeling her heart sink as she realized she'd gone and screwed up again. Again! By not following the basic rules. Hadn't she learned a damn thing?

"Come in," she said finally, stepping back and opening the door wide. "The neighbors don't need to hear this."

"Damn the neighbors." But he strode in anyway, and she closed the door behind him.

Then she waited, watching a variety of emotions work their way across his face, expecting that at any moment he was going to give her the dressing down she so richly deserved.

Hadn't she learned anything at all? Rules were there for a reason, and there was a basic social rule that you didn't stick your nose in someone else's business. You didn't carry news that wasn't yours to carry. You didn't mix in things in which you had no legitimate part.

And if you didn't follow the rules, you paid for it— or someone else did. And for some reason Joe was looking as if he'd paid for her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, when he didn't say any more. "I was worried about you."

"Yeah, everybody's worried about me," he said, his voice as hard as steel. "The point was, I didn't want my sister worrying. And now you've shot off your mouth and made her worry. Damn you, Bethany, what gave you the right?"

"Nothing." Nothing except her heart, which cared for him more than it ought to, considering how short a time she had known him.

"You're damn right, nothing," he thundered. "I'm screwed up, I admit it. But nobody needs to know that except me I've been over there fighting a filthy war that doesn't have any rules, a war where even the good guys do bad things In a place where, if you try to follow the rules, you wind up dead!"

Her heart jolted. "Your friend?"

"Yeah. Her and hundreds of other people. Do you know what her crime was, Bethany? Sitting here in your insulated world of polished brash and military creases and starch, do you have any idea what can get you killed over there? Her crime, her crime, was stepping in to prevent a man from beating his wife to death because her veil fell off in public. That was her crime. You see, she didn't follow the rules."

Bethany's heart jolted again. Why all this talk of rules? It was almost as if he'd been hearing the echoes of her own thoughts. And worse, he didn't seem to be making any sense. He was saying on the one hand that following the rules over there could get you killed, but on the other that his friend had gotten into trouble by not following them. Where was this going?

But did it really matter? All she knew was that her heart was squeezing so hard it hurt, and her chest was so tight she couldn't breathe. Tears, which she loathed, were stinging her eyes She didn't want Joe to be mad at her. She couldn't stand it.

He threw up a hand, a gesture so sudden and angry that she almost stepped back. But he wasn't striking at her.

"You're damned if you do and damned if you don't," he continued, his voice hard with fury. "Yeah, living like that screws you up. It screws you up good. But my sister doesn't need to be worrying about it. She didn't need to know I was around until I was ready to tell her. Now she's asking questions I don't want to answer, and she's stewing about me, and it's all your fault."

Beth couldn't deny that. Drawing a painful breath, she said, "I was trying to help!"

"Just how was that supposed to help?"

"You need support!"

"I don't need anything I gotta deal with this on my own. Nobody else can fix your head, Bethany. Nobody."

"Maybe not. But understanding can help."

"What would you know about it?"

That's when she snapped. "All right," she said, "maybe you don't like what I did. So what? How dare you tell me I don't know anything about it. I know plenty about it. You think I haven't lost friends? I lost three good friends in the attack on my ship! Three of them. And it's my fault they're dead, because if I'd dogged those hatches instead of sending them in to find the wounded, they wouldn't be dead now. I didn't follow the rules, I knew I didn't follow the rules, and they're dead. And you know what I got for it? I got a damn medal! I should have been court-martialed."

Something in his face was changing as she spoke, but she was too wound up to heed it.

"You're not the only person on this planet who's been through hell, Joe Yates. Not by a long sight. You didn't send your people in and then have to kill them. Yes, kill them! Because I finally had to order the hatches behind them dogged so the whole damn ship wouldn't go down. I waited as long as I could. I waited. And I kept anyone else from going in after them. Do you know how hard that was? When the damn bomb hit our quarters, it was early morning. We had eight people who didn't get out of there, and I sent more in!"

"Bethany..."

"Oh, just shut up. I've had enough of your self-aggrandizing angst. I haven't broken a single rule or regulation since then, except for this time. And you know what? I'm sick of caring so much about people that I do things I shouldn't. I was worried about you. Worried. And this is what I get for it. I should know better."

She pivoted sharply, turning her back on him, wishing he'd vanish into some dark hole and just get the hell out of her life.

"Bethany..." His hands were on her shoulders, gentle, warm. They squeezed lightly. "Bethany..."

"We were above the waterline at first," she continued woodenly. "That's what they said. That's why I didn't get court-martialed, even though those hatches are supposed to be closed. Even though I should have closed them right away. But then we started to list from the water we were taking on below, and water started to come into our compartments, and we had to dog those hatches. We had to. And nobody came out. Nobody ever came out."

He turned her toward him, and the next thing she knew she was wrapped in his arms, and her tears were falling, falling, spilling like water too long dammed, her throat so tight it felt as if she were being garroted. Her eyes burned and her head pounded and her heart hammered...and the tears continued to flow. It had been a long time since she'd cried over this, and only in these minutes did she realize how heavy the burden had continued to be.

Eventually she became aware that Joe was rocking her gently, murmuring softly, nonsense mostly, things like, "It's okay...." It would never be okay. Never, ever. But some things just had to be lived with because there was no other alternative.

As her tears slowed and began to dry, she began to feel a bit surprised that he could be so gentle and kind. Kindness, in particular, was something she hadn't seen in his makeup, hadn't guessed was there.

Maybe, she thought, she'd been hypnotized by the marine illusion, the illusion of being tough enough to handle anything, no matter how painful. Can Do was another oft-spoken, unofficial motto. The Ruck Up, Suck Up and Press On mentality you met with if you evinced any emotional weakness.

And it was even worse for women, because women were always suspected of not being tough enough no matter what they did. Any tears she had spilled had been shed out of the sight and hearing of others, shed with shame for her weakness.

A thought occurred to her, and she lifted her face, looking up at Joe, feeling such a sudden and intense longing that it was difficult to speak. "We're not weak," she said. "We're human."

For a second he looked perplexed, then understanding dawned. "You're right."

"You're damn straight, I'm right. We have the right to grieve, just like anybody else. And when we're grieving, we have the right to lean. I just leaned on you. You can lean on me if you want. Or your sister. But you don't have to be ashamed of it."

He nodded slowly, then he drew her to the battered old sofa she'd bought second-hand because in her job you didn't accumulate furniture unless you had a family, and you certainly didn't get paid enough to buy new furniture, anyway.

It was comfortable, although it did tend to sag a bit in the middle, and it sagged now, easing them together. Bethany started to pull away instinctively, even though she didn't want to, but Joe's arm wrapped around her shoulders, keeping her close.

Never, not once in her life, had she felt such a sense of peace as pervaded her when he held her. It was like coming home after a long journey.

After a moment, her head nestled on his shoulder, and she gave herself up to the moment.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You're right, it's self-aggrandizing angst."

"That was harsh of me," she apologized. "I had no right to say that."

"But you were right about it, anyway. I was getting sick of myself days ago."

"Sick of what? You have a right to grieve."

"I was doing more than grieving. I was sinking into self-pity."

"Hmm." She snuggled closer, hardly aware of what she was doing. "So now it's ruck up, suck up and press on, as if nothing ever happened?"

She felt him move, maybe to look down at her. "Do I detect a note of sarcasm? "

"Maybe three or four notes of sarcasm," she admitted. "I mean...we may be marines. We may have jobs to do, and we may have to do them under unthinkable circumstances. But it's playing a psychological game of ostrich to think those things never hurt us. It's one thing to be tough and keep going. It's another to be emotionally self-destructive."

He didn't answer immediately, but that didn't surprise her. She swallowed a sigh, figuring at any moment he would turn on her again, accusing her of not being a good marine, or the equivalent.

But then he surprised her. "That may be true."

She wanted to look up at him, but didn't dare. "It is true. It took me until right now to figure it out, but now that I have it's as clear as a bell. There's just so much emotional pressure you can hold inside before something has to give. Either you go nuts, or you bury it so well that you become less than human. It's like amputating entire parts of your personality."

She felt his arm tighten around her shoulders, a comforting squeeze. Comforting, she hoped, for both of them.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Now she did look up at him. "Why should you be sorry?"

"Sorry for what you went through. You know, under pressure like that, we make the best decisions we can. I think I would have done the same thing you did. In fact, I'm sure of it."

She'd heard the bit about being under pressure before. It was the first thing her CO. had said to her. But nobody else had said he or she would have done the same thing. Nobody else.

"That's nice of you to say, but—"

"No, it's not nice. It's the truth. The first thing you think of is saving your buddies. I know. I've been in similar situations. Everything else can go to hell, but you gotta save your buddies. You did the right thing. The best thing. You had no way of knowing those marines wouldn't come out."

"I should have gone in myself!" And that was the biggest part of the wound, the part she had been trying to deal with ever since. A fresh wave of tears began to spill down her cheeks silently.

"No." Joe shook his head. "You had a responsibility to your unit. You had to stay with the rest of them. You had to keep them in order and be there to take care of them if something else happened. What you didn't do, Gunny, was abandon your post."

She closed her eyes, letting the pain take her, allowing herself to feel every aching bit of it. The grief was almost crushing, but she didn't push it away. Some part of her understood that she had to feel it.

"I sent three people to their deaths."

"That's command responsibility, Bethany. That's the hell of it."

She nodded slowly, accepting the truth of it. It still hurt, it would always hurt, but when you started to move up the ranks, that was part of the responsibility you took on.

"It doesn't feel any better," she said, her voice broken.

"No, it doesn't." He sighed, and she opened her eyes in time to see him rub his hand over his face. "It sucks, it stinks, it's hell. But it's the reality of what we do."

He turned his head a little and looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry, as if he wanted to weep but couldn't. Then he shook his head and looked away again.

They sat like that for a long time, each of them lost in thoughts—thoughts that were probably very similar. Certainly Bethany didn't feel as if she was miles away from Joe. The silence was somehow comforting, soothing, as if understanding linked them at some deep level.

And gradually, something different began to grow in her. Something heavy and achy. Something that wanted to affirm life even as they were grieving their losses.

Something she tried to tell herself was utterly out of place.

Until his finger caught her chin and tipped her face up. Until his mouth latched on to hers as if he was desperate to drink the vitality of her.

Something wild and long forgotten rose up in her, answering him with all that she was.

Some wounds couldn't be healed. But they could be salved.

♥ Scanned by Coral ♥

Chapter 6

To Bethany, it seemed as if the hunger between them had a life of its own. It grew and raged so fast it was an almost instantaneous conflagration. The ache in her mushroomed until it filled every cell of her body, until her nerve endings felt as if they could bear no more.

She'd thought she'd left hunger and passion of this degree behind her years ago, but now she realized she had never truly plumbed the depths of desire. It was as if some great tidal wave had crashed over her, carrying her away, tossing her wildly with its power so that she no longer knew what was up or down. Robbing her breath from her until she was gasping.

Joe bore her down until she felt the couch beneath her back. Some part of her was loving the fact that he was carried away, too; some part was wondering at the almost animal intensity of her response.

Then thought vanished completely and she became a barely restrained bundle of needs she couldn't deny. Buttons popped; she didn't know whose. Her breasts spilled free with a suddenness that was magical. The bare skin of his chest and back was inexplicably available to her palms, and she soaked up the wondrous sensation.

Not time for thought. Time only to lift her hips to allow him to ease her pants and undies down, a brief tug as her socks disappeared, a glimpse of his incredibly hard body, and then he was on her and in her so deep that she cried out with sheer amazement.

And just as quickly, they tumbled over the precipice together, with deep groans and a stiffening that drew them taut.

Then, of course, there was reality.

Lying beneath him, listening to his panting and hers, feeling his sweat beneath her palms, she momentarily considered digging a deep hole and hiding herself in it. Never, ever had she behaved this way. Never. It was as if something so raw it was scarcely human had burst out of her in a wild explosion.

Keeping her eyes closed, she considered all the ways she could escape. She was embarrassed. What would he think of her now? Oh, God, she couldn't believe how she had behaved. She wanted to crawl away in embarrassment at the way she had utterly lost control.

Oh, God, he was sliding away now. He would look at her, and she would die. How could she have given way like this?

Keeping her eyes closed, so she wouldn't have to read disgust in his face, wouldn't have to see him looking at her sprawled nakedness, she was startled when she felt his arms slip beneath her.

"Where's the bedroom?" he asked, his voice husky.

Her eyes snapped open as he lifted her from the couch. She felt as if she weighed nothing at all. The feeling, which once would have annoyed her, made her feel oddly comforted.

"Straight down the hall on the right," she answered, her voice muffled.

He carried her as if she were precious, his grip gentle yet strong. Turning sideways, he sidled down the hall so he didn't bang her against anything.

Then, carefully, he set her on her feet beside the bed, keeping one steadying arm around her waist as he pulled back the comforter and top sheet.

Then again she was lifted, as easily as eiderdown, and placed on her bed. The covers fell over her, warming her. Hiding her. Then, to both her relief and amazement, he slid beneath the covers with her and drew her close.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That came out of nowhere. I usually show a lot more...uh, finesse."

That was when she realized she hadn't wanted his finesse. That if he had lingered and coaxed her, something precious would have been lost, some barriers never would have crumbled.

She felt more vulnerable and open than she had ever felt in her life. But somehow, lying curled up in his arms, she felt as if that was just how it should be.

Lifting a finger, she laid it across his lips. "It's okay," she whispered.

He kissed her finger and smiled then, and the expression tugged at her heart. He had such a beautiful smile, such a rare smile. It seemed to warm her all the way to her toes.

His hands started to slide over her again, gentle strokes that, much to her amazement, were stoking the fire yet again. But slowly, more gently this time. As if there were all the time in the world, and every second was going to be savored. The ticking of the clock on her bedside table seemed to keep time with her heart.

Then his hand passed over her right shoulder blade. It paused. She knew what he felt, and closed her eyes tight, even though the room was dark. Ugliness.

He moved suddenly, pulling away, and the light flipped on. Then he was back, turning her gently, his fingers tracing the ragged line of the scar. "What happened?"

"When the bomb hit, I was thrown from my berth. I hit the corner of a footlocker." She didn't want to think about that now, but his fingers stroked the ugly line, as if they could erase it.

"How many stitches?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Whew. Anything broken?"

"I cracked my shoulder blade."

"Aw, Bethany..." Then he did something amazing. Bending, he kissed the ugly scar. "You're a hero. You did all that while you were bleeding, with a broken shoulder. You're incredible."

Although she wasn't quite ready to hear that, it was still as if some crevice in her heart healed just a bit.

"I've got matchies," he said gruffly.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him, suddenly no longer afraid of the light. "On your shoulder?"

He pulled the blanket down and showed her his lower left back, a two-inch scar. "Knife."

"How?" she asked. Close combat was rare.

He chuckled. "Mortars were coming in and I dove behind a tree. Stabbed myself with my own damn k-bar. Fortunately, it missed all the vitals."

Moved, she bent and kissed it. "Thank God," she agreed. Then she saw another scar, this one in his side, long, ugly and jagged. "What's that?"

"Bullet graze." This time his face darkened. "Too dumb to duck. I was going to be the hero. Four of my men got killed that day."

Her heart seemed to stop. Twice; he'd come so close to death twice. But of course. What did she think that purple heart with clusters meant, anyway? "Oh, Joe," she said, and kissed him there, too, dropping kisses along every inch of the mark.

"That one hurt like hell," he admitted. "Well, they both did, like being pounded with a hammer. But that one...sheesh. Broke a rib, and like an idiot I kept charging. I should've called in artillery. Instead, I just kept running until I was in the enemy hole. Then I started shooting. They took four of mine. I got...well, some of theirs. At the time it seemed like the right thing to do."

"I can imagine." Her eyes felt hot, as if tears wanted to start again. "And your shoulder?" There was another jagged scar there, in the hollow of his left shoulder, a fresh mark.

"Shrapnel. That was the day Kara was killed."

Bethany sucked in a sharp breath and looked at him. There was no mistaking the grief in his gaze, but he didn't have the hollow look she'd seen before.

Forgetting herself entirely, she pulled the covers back and looked him over. "What about your shin?"

He paused for a moment, as if pulling back from his memories, then laughed. "That, believe it or not, was trying to get into bed on a dark night. I misjudged the end of the bed and walked right into it."

She laughed and turned to kiss the angry red scar, and felt her breasts drifting over his manhood. Felt the hardness of him. A delightful shiver passed through her.

Slowly she turned her head, looking up at him. "Any other scars?" she asked huskily.

"Oh yeah. Every square inch of me is a scar."

There was probably an element of emotional truth in that for both of them, but a breathless little giggle escaped her, and she took him at his word.

Moving downward, she kissed the arch of his foot and felt him shiver. Encouraged, she dragged her tongue lightly over the sensitive flesh, and felt another shiver pass through him. A kiss for each toe—ten, just light little kisses then a lick for each instep. Another for the inside of each ankle, more lingering, more suggestive, until a heavy sigh escaped him.

With the lightest of touches, she dragged her tongue over his shins and the insides of his calves, feeling the tension in his legs until he said, "God, that tickles!"

Another giggle escaped her, but she didn't stop. Knees—sturdy knees—and a quick dart of her tongue around the inside to that exquisitely sensitive place not quite behind. He jerked, and a little laugh escaped her as a sense of delicious power filled her.

She truly had him at her mercy, and she loved it.

When she started to kiss his thighs, he gripped the sheet with both hands and groaned. Not yet, she thought. Not yet.

She bypassed his sex in favor of the hollows of his hips on either side. His muscles quivered beneath her mouth, and another groan escaped him. This time he writhed, as if trying to bring his manhood closer. But she eased away, denying him. Her way, her time.

The heat was filling her, too, but instead of weakening her, it seemed to be making her stronger. More wicked. A shower of kisses across his abdomen promised, but didn't deliver.

"Bethany..."

She almost laughed, but somehow she seemed to have lost the breath for that. Higher, teasing, approaching his small erect nipples, then backing away. He writhed and groaned her name again, and this time she did the most teasing thing of all.

She backed away, and started on his hand.

"You tease!" he groaned, but she could hear how he loved it.

The heavy musk of lovemaking filled the air around them as she sucked each of his fingers slowly, taking her time. His palm was sensitive to the touch of her tongue, and the inside of his wrist. As soon as she released his hand, he was gripping the sheet again, fingers digging into the mattress as if he desperately needed to hang on.

The inside of his elbow drew a low moan from him, and she dallied there awhile before moving up his biceps, then on to his neck.

The cords there proved sensitive, too, drawing shudders from him as she kissed, then nipped him gently. And finally, finally, she closed her mouth over one nipple.

He jerked as if electrified, mumbled something about "you witch," as she nipped him, then her world turned topsy-turvy as he rolled her onto her back.

"Your turn," he said, and his dark eyes promised no quarter.

He straddled her, pinning her arms at her sides, and began to tease and torment her with his lips and tongue, giving kiss for kiss. Heavenly kisses, starting behind her ears, causing wonderful shivers to pass through her. Then down to her neck, grazing along the curve of her collarbone, soft dabs with the tip of his tongue in the hollow of her throat, wispy touches of lips taking her pulse. She arched her head back, baring her neck to him, open to her very core.

Now his teeth followed where his lips and tongue had gone, hard little nips that made her wince and growl and moan. Down over her shoulders, breasts, nipples, belly, until his eager mouth found and then avoided her molten, pulsing sex in a way that drew a shuddering cry from the back of her throat. On down her thighs to the backs of her knees, her calves, ankles and feet, his teeth maddening as they dragged across her soles.

"Take me," she demanded. "Take me now!"

"Or?" he asked playfully.

"Or I'll make you think Paris Island was paradise."

"Is that a threat, Gunny?"

"It damn sure is, Staff Sergeant. And a direct order. Take me now!"

He smiled. "I always follow orders, ma'am."

And with that he crawled up between her legs and used his lips and tongue to drive her to the precipice of bliss and beyond, until her entire world spun and shimmered and exploded in a thousand colors and lights. Her ragged breaths seemed to propel him onward, milking her climax until she felt as if her entire womb must have wrung itself out on his dancing tongue.

"Your turn, Marine," she said, and grabbed his hair, pulling his body upward until once again he plunged deep within her, then wrapping her legs tight around him, so tight he couldn't thrust, but could only accept the pulsing of her inner muscles. She clenched and released, again and again, her thighs still pinning him, until finally he cried out in frustration, an instant before she felt his own pulses explode through her.

As they lay together, gasping, clinging, their skin silky slick with each breath, she reached up and bit his earlobe hard, then whispered, "You do follow orders, Marine."

And somehow it seemed so unbearably right that they both started to laugh breathlessly.

Chapter 7

Laughing with almost carefree abandon, wrapped in blankets against the night chill, they went to the kitchen for a snack. Bethany had lots of snacks on hand, largely because she hated to cook for one. Soon, bags of chips, mounds of chocolate-covered peanuts and a couple of granola bars sat on the table next to a loaf of rye bread and cold cuts, along with other sandwich fixings.

Joe dug in as if he were starved, building a sandwich of epic proportions. Bethany settled for a piece of chocolate.

"You know," he said, "we've got a problem."

Her heart nearly stopped. He was going to tell her this had been a big mistake, and she didn't know if she could bear to hear that now. Not now. Not when she felt as if she couldn't bear to let him go. "What's that?" she finally asked, feeling as if she had to squeeze the words out.

"It's tough for two marines to be married. Different duty stations, long separations...."

"What?" She couldn't believe what he'd just said. "What?" she repeated, sure she had imagined it.

He looked up from his massive sandwich and smiled almost wryly at her. "Maybe I'm jumping the gun."

"Which gun?" She seemed to be growing more confused by the minute.

"The marriage gun."

Marriage. She hadn't imagined it. He'd actually spoken the word. "Umm...you hardly know me."

"True. But I know you enough to know what I feel." His sandwich appeared to lose his interest, and he shoved it aside. "Okay, this is fast. I was never a believer in love at first sight. Until now."

"Love?" At some level she knew she was sounding like a stupid parrot, but she couldn't help it. A deep self-protective urge was refusing to accept that he could mean what he was saying.

"I know it's fast," he said. "But what the hell. I've always leaped in where angels fear to tread. So how about this—I know I'm madly in love with you. But I'll wait six months or a year, until you can figure out if you feel the same. Assuming, of course, that we get to see each other during that six months or a year, which is the problem I'm talking about."

Her heart was fluttering like a frightened bird as she stared at him, filling her eyes with him, filling her heart with him. But even as she wanted to leap along with him, she knew he was right.

"It's a problem," she agreed.

"Hell yeah." He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. She waited while he chewed and swallowed, almost afraid to start thinking of solutions when the moment seemed so tenuous. Reality said he'd go back to his unit, he'd forget about her and that would be that. Her heart wanted to draw a whole different picture.

He put his sandwich back on its plate and pushed it aside again. "I'm not hungry. I'm too nervous. I'm having a fight-or-flight response right now, and everything is telling me to fight for you, Bethany. Fight as hard as I have to."

"You, uh, don't have to fight," she admitted. "It's just that...we have a problem."

"Yeah. A big one. I mean..." He looked at her, and surprise dawned on his face, as if he'd just understood her. "You love me, too?"

Tension began to ease out of her, and she knew she was going to take another one of her leaps, but this time she was going to risk everything in order to get what she most wanted in the world. "I love you, Joe."

He was up and around the table in an instant, kneeling by her chair and drawing her into his embrace until they were as tightly knit as one. "God, I love you," he said. "I love you. We can work all the other stuff out. We can learn each other and make it together if we just have that. If we're willing to try."

She sighed, happiness beginning to run through her veins, and pressed her cheek to the top of his head. "I love you," she said again, and this time saying it filled her heart with joy. Profound joy.

He moved, looking up at her, and she looked at him.

"So, Mathison, we have a problem," he said. "How do you want to deal with it?"

"The way other couples in our shoes deal with it. We deal with it. We live with it. And we apply for joint assignments until we get one."

He nodded. "I'm willing. It won't be easy but... Bethany, what about kids?"

Kids. Children. Babies. It had been so long since she'd allowed herself to think about that that she'd begun to envision herself as childless for life. A shiver of pure pleasure ran through her. Only in that instant did she realize just how much she wanted children.

"I'd like to have kids," she admitted.

"Me, too. But we can't both be globe-trotting if we have children. Listen, I'll apply for a position as an instructor. Maybe I can get stateside and stay stateside."

"I...could resign." Her heart fluttered again. What a choice to have to make.

He shook his head. "No. Not unless you really want to. This is your career, too, Gunny. I'm not about to forget that."

He tipped his head forward, resting it on her shoulder, and sighed. "I'm sick unto death of making war."

"We don't have to decide about that immediately," she said, stroking his hair and kissing his temple. "There's no rush to start a family. We can see how things go, first. Maybe something will pan out. All I know, Joe, is I don't think I can live without you."

He lifted his head and kissed her, then he started laughing exuberantly. "I love you, Bethany. I love you, love you, love you...."

Sometimes the demons still haunted them, but they were married in December. Snow fell like magic dust as they exited the church arm in arm beneath a glistening arch of swords. Both of them had chosen to wear their dress blues for the occasion, a true marine marriage.

The gods of war had chosen to smile on them, for a little while at least. Joe's unit had been pulled out of the Middle East, and after a month's leave, they would both begin their new assignments, at Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington, D.C.

Somehow they knew they would handle whatever came their way, because they believed in each other.

And they had both found their dream marines.

ISBN 0-373-48466-6

THE HEART'S COMMAND

Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Books S.A.

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

THE DREAM MARINE

Copyright © 2002 by Susan Civil-Brown

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