in. Otherwise he might well be dead instead of back home, relatively intact. If he kept to his physical therapy regimen, he’d be in a lot better shape than many.
His mind skittered away from the memory of two funerals, funerals he’d missed because even though he was stateside, he was still in the hospital. He still felt guilty about that, although he’d done what he could when he was released. He had visited each family of his fallen brothers, shared stories of their talks about home and family, and assured them all of the love their lost ones had for them. It was all he could think of to do, but when he left he felt sadly inadequate. He was still alive, and they would never see their sons, brothers and husbands again.
Survivor’s guilt, they’d told him. He supposed it fit. He’d survived, and sometimes he felt damned guilty about it. Guilty enough that while he was in the hospital he’d seriously thought about trying to re-up when his active duty period ended. But then Gramps—
“RPG?”
Quinn Foxworth’s voice came from close enough behind that it startled him. He turned, looked at the man. Saw he was looking not at the smoldering ruin but at his scars. Normally this would have bothered him, but what he saw in that steady gaze told him this man understood.
“IED,” he answered.
“Sucks.”
Tate nodded. “You’ve been in the sandbox.”
“Not lately. Thank God.” He looked at the hole in the wall of the house. “No wonder this got your attention.”
“Rattled my cage, that’s for sure,” he admitted. Somehow it was easier, with someone who knew.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. And that you weren’t injured worse.”
Tate knew it was true. “I wasn’t in there. I sat down on the couch in the living room last night, and that’s the last I remember until it happened.”
“Still bothers me, that tank,” Quinn said. “It’s not just unusual, it’s darned hard to get one of those to blow.”
Tate looked back toward where the dog had led the firefighter to the source of the blast. “Welcome home,” he said, his mouth twisting.
He wasn’t feeling bitter, but knew he could without much effort. More than one of his buddies who’d come back before him warned him about that, that the everyday problems of life back home could seem either petty or insurmountable, making you ignore them and thus they got worse, or turn bitter because you felt like you’d paid enough already and deserved some smooth sailing.
Tate hoped he was tough enough not to go that route. And he had Gramps’s example to follow, the man who had come home from a long, ugly war with a trunk full of medals, citations and commendations, but had put them in the past and built a full, normal life back home.
“You need a place to regroup?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Tate said instantly, and more gruffly than he should have. But he knew that while he’d been shaken by the explosion in the darkness, it wasn’t that bad. He had too many brothers in arms diagnosed with PTSD to compare to, and was more than grateful he wasn’t one of them. Since this last injury, he’d felt only a bit numb to life in general. They told him that would pass. He wasn’t so sure.
“I’ll bunk in the shop for now, until I can get the repairs done,” he said, regretting the sharpness in his first response.
Quinn seemed to understand.
“Keep it in mind. We’re just around the corner a bit. Got a spare room.” The man grinned. “And a dog.”
Tate ignored the wistful longing that crept in at the thought of loyal canine companions. “And some dog he is.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Quinn gave him a solid but not jarring clap on the shoulder as he turned to go.
“Thanks, anyway,” Tate said belatedly, realizing some response was appropriate to the generous offer. His social skills needed some repairs, just like the house.
“Always open,” Quinn said, then left to round up his wife and dog.
Tate went back to surveying the interior damage, calculating what it was going to take to fix it. He wanted it back the way Gramps had built it, the way it had always been. He’d do whatever it took. He knew enough to repair the guts of the wall and the siding outside, but the roof and the drywall patching would take pros. He should probably have a structural check on it, too, the way the roof was damaged.
Then he could handle the paint, and maybe repair the scorched flooring, depending on whether it could be sanded down and refinished, or had to be replaced. He could—
“You’re lucky you hadn’t unpacked yet.”
He nearly jumped. As it was, he whirled too quickly and the cut on his foot, he guessed from the broken bedroom window glass, protested. He supposed he was staring at her, but he was a little stunned that twice now people had come up on him without him being aware. Quinn he could understand. He moved like the fighter he’d been—and still was, Tate guessed—but the girl next door?
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I didn’t realize you’d come in.”
She took a half step back. As if she were offended. Or hurt. He wasn’t sure. He’d gotten out of the habit of reading civilian reactions, especially women’s. But he realized he must have sounded curt when she held up her hands, palms toward him.
“My apologies. I’m afraid I got used to coming in on my own to check on Martin. I didn’t think.”
He didn’t know what to say. His thoughts were careening around, bouncing off each other. He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp. Should he say he was sorry himself? Or never mind? And how could he be irritated at her uninvited intrusion when she’d explained it was a habit from checking on his grandfather? Not when he was glad she had. What was it about women that made them do things like that?
The same thing that made Lori the best medic. And Sunny the most determined to protect. Whatever it was women had...
And his new neighbor was most definitely a woman. The T-shirt and shorts she wore did nothing to hide that fact. A sudden image, an imaginative one very unlike him, shot through his head. Of her curled up asleep, that long, dark hair in a tangle around her head, eyes closed, those soft lips slightly parted... It was more a peaceful image than a sexual one, he told himself. Not that another glance at the soft swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, couldn’t change that in a hurry. For a girl-next-door type, Lacy Steele—she of the oxymoronic name—was having an odd effect on him.
Abruptly he was aware he was still standing around in nothing but the boxers he’d been sleeping in. And if he didn’t derail this train of thought in a hurry, it was going to become obvious.
“Guess I should put on some of the clothes I’m lucky to still have,” he said, looking toward the two duffel bags still unopened on the floor of the living room. Again, it sounded more gruff than he’d intended, but he hadn’t been in a position like this in too long. A long hospital stay tended to make you surrender whatever dignity you thought you still
