Part 27 (1/2)

”More upping the ante to make me walk?” Hands falling from the door frame, he reentered their room, one step, two. ”You want to hear all about it? Fine. We were in Rubistan on a mission that looks like one thing but really is about something else. We were stressed. Ready to get the h.e.l.l out and back to our families.”

He paced the room, back to the ultrasound photo. ”We figured we were almost home free once we crossed out over the water. Instead, we took a missile hit that would have sent us into the gulf if anyone other than Scorch had been flying the plane.”

The reality slammed into her as if she'd been hit, too, but she forced herself not to sway, an outward sign that would make him stop.

G.o.d, she still couldn't quite believe he was actually talking after all this time. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or more scared than ever.

”But we made it, landed. Got picked up by some tribal warlords who beat the c.r.a.p out of us, broke Bo's hands.” He glanced sideways at her. ”Bo's great act of resistance? Looking up.”

She blinked down the tears clogging her eyes and throat, air heavy. Heart heavier for the young pilot not much older than her own children. For her husband.

”Lucky for us, the Rubistanians arrived within a couple of hours and shot the h.e.l.l out of our caravan so we could have the marginally better option of being interrogated by them instead.”

She flinched, couldn't hold it in anymore, but stayed silent, her hands digging deeper into the quilt.

”You want more from me?” He stalked, toward her, toe to toe. ”A pound of flesh like in that Shakespearean play? Well, I'll just cut myself wide open for you, babe.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he spun away on his boot heel, stalked, glanced back over his shoulder.

”Scared? h.e.l.l yeah, we were scared. Scared of dying.” His feet took him clear across the room to the window shrouded with lace curtains. ”But most of all, I was scared of what you and the kids would go through when you got that front-door visit.”

His fist met the wall.

Tears burned acid paths from her eyes and down her face. As a counselor, she knew this outpouring was

the right thing for him, pain concealed being far more lethal than pain released. But as a wife, G.o.d, she hurt for him.

Familiar features a.s.sumed a stranger's cast with harsh angles. ”Is this sharing deal working for you? Are

we closer now? Do you feel better about us? I hope someone's happier, because I sure as h.e.l.l am not

feeling at all better.”

A thousand words jumbled through her head, a thousand different ways to try and make this better for him, except what if she chose wrong and hurt him worse? Objectivity wasn't even an option at the moment, but the pain in his eyes was killing her. She had to do something.

Rising, she reached to hold him.

His hands shot up. Backing, he shook his head. ”You want me to make this easy for you? No problem. I can do that just like I did a few months ago.”

Pivoting away, he walked out the door.

Her eyes flooded, and she wanted to run after him and hold him. Not that he would let her.

Which frustrated her all the more and left her itching to throw something. No dishes though. She'd grown

beyond that. Her hand settled on the pillow sham made to match her spread and she allowed herself the outlet of a hefty pitch.

Whoomp.

The pillow thudded against the door frame, slid, plopped, quilted linking rings mocking her from the floor.

d.a.m.n it.

J.T. descended the steps two at a time, boots pounding hardwood and releasing none of the roaring tension kinking every muscle in his body. He shouldn't have lost it.

Duh.

But somehow that woman always knew how to crawl under his skin and peel everything away until his

emotions lay out all raw and exposed for the sunlight to burn. He should have just agreed to her counseling suggestion and made nice with the shrink of her choice.

So why hadn't he?

Hand on the end of the banister, he stopped, truth delivering a h.e.l.luva gut punch. He'd shut her down because he was half-certain a shrink would tell them they didn't have a chance. At least this way, he kept control over the situation.

Control?

Then how had he ended up out in the cold again like after his return from Rubistan? His fingers closed around the wooden k.n.o.b at the end of the banister, light slanting through the hall window like the open load ramp of his plane.

J.T. clanked down the belly of the C-17, the Charleston sunlight blinding through the open hatch. Almost bright enough to wipe away the darkness of days spent in a h.e.l.lhole cell before diplomatic channels cleared for him to come home.

Home.

An efficiency apartment not much bigger than his cell, except he had no one to blame but himself for landing there. He'd let his stupid-a.s.s pride propel him when Rena tossed his c.r.a.p on the lawn. How could he be so proud of her and so freaking p.i.s.sed at the same time over the fact that she didn't need him?

J.T. slowed his steps, not in much of a rush to get out of the plane now, after all. He paused alongside Bo's litter. The flight surgeon, nurse and techs worked the transfer while the kid groused about not being allowed to walk out under his own steam-as if he could anyhow, all drugged up and casted during their layover and a.s.sessment in Germany.

As J.T. waited and watched through the open load ramp, Scorch cleared the load ramp first. Steps steady, the five st.i.tches along his jaw the only visible sign of their ordeal. His sister, brother-in-law and baby niece met him with hugs and crying and a quick hustle off to leave all this behind for a family reunion.

Spike, in civilian clothes now that he was back on base and not in his overseas undercover role anymore, strutted straight into his waiting fiancee's arms. 1st Lieutenant Darcy Renshaw kissed him hard, unmoving and eyes shut tight while tears streaked free and fast down her face.

Happily ever after around this place still came with heartaches along the way. Only the strongest relations.h.i.+ps survived.