that mattered. Now he was just Jack.
Broken.
Useless.
He tried again to stand but failed. Rage filled him and he didn’t care if he broke the thing, he would stand. Jack attempted to claw his way up.
“Jack,” she said again, horror shading her voice.
“I don’t want your damn pity,” he roared.
She reached for the crushed purple box and put it up on a nearby table and then moved next to him, pulling his head down into her lap.
Even as it was happening, Jack knew it was wrong. He wanted to tell her to leave. No, now he was lying to himself. He didn’t want to tell her to leave, but he knew he needed to. Her touch was tender and sweet, stroking over the good side of his face. “Pity and empathy are two different things.”
She still smelled so good—of all things sweet and wholesome. While he stank of Old North Bend whiskey.
“You should go, Bets.” His actions betrayed his words because he’d wrapped an arm around her thighs.
“Not a chance. It’s not you who owes me, but the other way around. Did you forget that you saved my life?”
“That was a hundred years ago and another life.”
“Maybe. But men aren’t the only ones allowed to have their honor. I pay my debts, too.”
“There’s no debt. Your life is yours, free and clear.” He didn’t want her to be here because of some imaginary debt.
“I’ll never forget opening my eyes and seeing you leaning over me.” She stroked her fingers through his hair. “The streetlight made a halo around your head and I thought you were some kind of angel.”
“What utter tripe,” he said without conviction.
“I have never been so terrified. When I realized I wasn’t going to make it back up to the surface, I was so angry. I wasn’t ready for my life to be over. Especially not for some stupid childhood prank. I didn’t want to die. And it hurt, it was like my lungs were on fire while being pressed under a million pounds of solid rock.”
He didn’t speak but pulled away from her and the intimacy of the position.
“Then there you were, Jack. While everyone else watched and did nothing, it was you who saved me. You gave me everything I have. So if you think for a minute I wouldn’t do the same for you, you’ve got another think coming.”
“I’m not drowning, Betsy.”
“Yes, you are. You’re drowning yourself in whiskey. I smelled it on you at the ceremony, and your house reeks of it.”
“I’m already dead, sweetheart. It’s a wasted effort. So take what my parents left you and go.”
“Shall we see about that, Jack?” She pulled away from him and stood.
“What?”
“Get up.”
“I can’t.” He might have expected this from someone else, but never Betsy.
“I said get up, soldier. You made me a promise. You said you’d come back, but this isn’t you. This isn’t Jack McConnell.”
“You’re right. I told you, Jack McConnell is dead and I just brought his body back for you to mourn.”
“I don’t accept that. I said get up.”
“How!” he roared again, and it wasn’t a question.
“Ask me to help you.” Her voice was calm and steady.
“I didn’t beg when I was captured in Mosul. I’m not begging for anything here.”
“I don’t want you to beg. I want you to ask. There is no shame in that.” Her voice, while sweet, was braced with steel. “Ask me.”
“No.”
“Unacceptable.” She nudged him with her foot. “Ask and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How could you conceivably do that? I can’t taste the sweets you make, and my dick doesn’t work. So what could you possibly offer me?”
“Right now I’m offering to restrain myself from kicking you. The Jack I used to know would knock your teeth down the back of your throat for talking to me that way.”
He sighed. She was right. “I’m sorry, Betsy. Just go.”
“Not a chance.” Her voice was softer now and she leaned down over him. “I will help you. I’m not leaving until you’re at least in that chair.”
“Fine. Help me.”
Seemingly satisfied she wasn’t going to get any better from him, she helped haul him upright. It was an effort, but she managed. He should’ve expected her strength; she carried around fifty-pound bags of flour all day and kneaded loaf after loaf of fresh bread for hours.
She didn’t try to help him to the chair. Instead he found his back against the wall and Betsy on her tiptoes, her matte red lips pressed against his with no care for the ruined part of his face. She kissed him wholly, completely.
It was as if those years had never passed and they were under the stars again the same as the night he’d left. Pieces of himself he thought long dead sparked and flickered—a bulb in a faulty socket. He tightened his arms around her, pressing her more firmly against him.
She felt so good. It had been so long since anything felt good. She even tasted like vanilla. That had to be his imagination because he hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash since he’d awakened from the burning hell of his nightmares into a real world just as awful.
Jack deepened the kiss, tasting more of her, storing up the memories of vanilla and sugar. Betsy broke the kiss all too soon and pulled away from him, and the new bud of light that had taken root grew dark. He’d have given anything to turn it back on.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack.”
He didn’t respond, only watched her go.
She turned halfway out the door and light from the street lamp pooled around her. “In case you were wondering, everything seems to be working just fine.” She shut the door behind her.
BETSY’S LIPS TINGLED from the passionate kiss. Her body burned with need, and those fireworks she’d been talking about with India had burst to bright and heated life. Even tasting the whiskey on his breath, even scarred as he was, his mouth was still the only thing that had ever lit a blaze so hot. Being pressed against his hard body... Yes, everything was in deliciously proper working order.
Except for the most important spark. The flame that was inside him that made him Jack. There was a darkness in him now that was
