her gaze, Swish poked a finger at the little pile of maple-roasted wannabe nuts on the napkin in front of her. The music and laughter and thunk of beanbags hitting targets faded. The strings of lights blurred as her thoughts narrowed, turned inward, and summoned the image of a face she knew as well as her own.
Her husband had looked at her like Ben did his wife. Back when she’d had a husband.
She played with the wannabe nuts as the memories crept in. Of she and Gabe growing up together in the same small Oklahoma town. Of how they’d progressed from fifth-grade puppy love to high school sweethearts to being an inseparable couple through all four years at the University of Oklahoma.
They’d married the day after graduation. The same day they’d been commissioned as Air Force second lieutenants. Then spent the next five years juggling short-notice deployments, assignments to separate bases and increasingly strained long-distance communications. Their divorce had become final three years ago, on their sixth wedding anniversary.
The hole in Swish’s heart was still there but shrinking a little more each day. That’s what she told herself, anyway, until Ben—who’d known them both, had been friends with them both—took advantage of the band’s break between numbers to share a quiet confidence.
“I talked to Gabe last week.”
“Yeah? He call you or did you call him?”
Dammit! She wished the words back as soon as they were out of her mouth. What difference did it make who initiated the conversation? Divorce was hard enough without expecting your friends to take sides and remain loyal to just one of the injured parties.
“He called me.” Ben circled his beer on The Culinary Dropout’s distinctive coaster. When he looked up at her again, his blue eyes were shaded. “To tell me he’s thinking about getting married again.”
Swish swallowed. Deep and hard. Then forced a shrug that felt as though it ripped the cartilage from her shoulder blades. “It’s been three years.”
She dug deeper and managed a smile. “I’m surprised he’s held out this long. Last time I talked to my mom, she said every unattached female under sixty in our hometown was after him. Did Gabe mention which one snagged the prize?”
“No.”
“Oh, well. No matter, I guess.”
Unless it’s Alicia Johnson.
The nasty thought plowed into her head like a runaway troop carrier. Gritting her teeth, Swish jammed on the mental brakes. She had no right to question Gabe’s choice for a second trip down the aisle. Absolutely none! Even if Alicia was a pert, bubbly pain in the ass.
“He called from California,” Ben was saying.
“California? What’s he’s doing out there?”
“Someone died. A great aunt, I think he said. He had to go out to settle her estate.”
“Aunt Pat? Oh, no!”
The regret was sharp, instant, and so, so painful. She’d lost more than Gabe in the divorce. She’d lost his family, as well. They’d sided with him, of course, after the ugly details surfaced. She didn’t blame them, but she’d missed his folks and his sisters and their families. And his feisty old aunt, who could spout the most incredibly imaginative oaths when the spirit moved her.
“He’s driving back to Oklahoma from San Diego,” Ben related. “If the timing’s right, he might stop in Albuquerque to meet Alex and Maria. I told him we’d be home late tomorrow afternoon.” He paused, his eyes holding hers. “Unless something unexpected came up.”
“Like me throwing a world class hissy fit about you consorting with the enemy?”
“Is he? The enemy?”
Her breath left on a sigh. “No, of course not. Gabe’s your friend, too. You don’t have to take sides or choose between us.” She hesitated several painful beats. “Did he, uh, ask about me?”
“No.”
Disgusted by the hurt that generated, Swish gave herself a swift, mental kick. For God’s sake! She was a captain in the United States Air Force. A combat engineer with two rotations to Iraq and one to Afghanistan under her belt. She’d built or blown up everything from runways to bridges. Yet here she was, moping like a schoolgirl who hadn’t been asked to the dance because her ex chose to get on with his life.
“Well,” she said briskly, “if you and Gabe do connect in Albuquerque tomorrow, tell him I wish him the best.”
“Will do.”
“Great. Now why don’t we see how Dingo’s doing blindfolded and backward?”
* * *
As one of the organizers of this year’s Bash, Swish was among the last to leave when The Culinary Dropout finally closed its doors at 2:00 a.m. Even then, she provided taxi service to one of her buddies who’d flown in for the occasion.
She hung with him at his hotel room for a while, sharing black coffee and memories of the legendary Special Ops colonel who’d spawned their annual Badger Bash. She’d worked for Colonel Dolan only once, when she was a brand-new second lieutenant. The colonel could blister the paint off you with a single glance and did not suffer fools gladly. But Swish had learned more about leadership and taking care of her troops from him than from any of her bosses since.
Dawn was starting to streak the sky above the Superstition Mountains when she strolled out of the hotel and clicked the locks of the Thunderbird soft-top convertible she’d treated herself to when she got promoted to captain. She stood beside the merlot-colored sports car for a moment, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle and piñon while debating whether to put down the top.
The fact that she was wearing the traditional Badger Bash “uniform of the day” decided her. The generally accepted attire included boots, jeans and T-shirts sporting whatever quirky message the attendees wanted to impart. Swish had opted for a black, body-sculpting tank with a whiskered, green-eyed tiger draped over one shoulder. It had been designed and handcrafted by Ben’s wife, who insisted the tiger’s eyes were the exact same jungle-green as Swish’s. The matching ball cap sported the same glittering black-and-gold-tiger stripes and caught her shoulder-length blond hair back into a ponytail. The perfect ensemble for tooling through a soft Arizona dawn, she decided.
Mere moments later she had the top down and the T-bird aimed for the on-ramp to I-10. Luke AFB was a good thirty miles west of Scottsdale. The prospect of a long drive didn’t faze her. Having learned her lesson from previous Bashes, she’d arranged to have the rest of the weekend off. She could cruise through the dim, still-cool dawn, hit her condo, shower off the residue of the night and crash.
But first, she realized after only about fifteen miles, she had to make a pit stop. She shouldn’t have downed that last cup of coffee, dammit. For another few miles she tried the bladder control exercises she’d resorted to while operating at remote sites with only the most primitive facilities.
But when she spotted a sign indicating a McDonald’s at the next exit, she gave up the struggle. Flipping on the directional signal, she took the ramp for Exit 134. The iconic golden arches gleamed a little more than a block from where
