had no idea...
“He’s a jerk” was all Declan said. He’d always kept things to himself when it had come to Kravitz. And maybe his own long and ugly history with him was the reason that it rubbed him so wrong to think of Kravitz being interested in Emmy Tate. But it did. It rubbed him really, really wrong...
“I wouldn’t wish Kravitz on anyone,” he grumbled.
“But especially not on Emmy Tate?” his sister probed.
Declan sighed and shook his head. “You know what happens when everybody in your family finds someone and you’re single? They all think they have to pair you up with someone. But let’s just put any idea of me and Emmy Tate to rest once and for all, huh? I don’t know what makes her tick, but I do know that it doesn’t work for me.”
Sure, she was great-looking, there was no doubt about that—even when she was as dirty as a farmhand after a day’s hard work yesterday he’d still seen that. And then she’d cleaned up and...
Okay, yeah, great-looking.
She had the creamiest skin he’d ever seen and a face like some kind of enticing girl next door, with gorgeous, big, doe-brown eyes, a straight little nose, kissably full lips that he’d never had the chance to kiss and dimples—she had the damn sexiest dimples...
Plus she had smooth, shiny reddish-brown hair that turned toward her chin on the bottom, with a long wisp of bangs that sometimes fell like a see-through silk scarf over one eye in a way that was shy and coy and seductive all at once.
And her body?
Yeah, that was great, too. Trim and tight with just enough oomph in all the right places.
So sure, he’d been interested when he’d come across what had seemed like a little breath of fresh air from home in Afghanistan.
And yeah, she’d been intriguing enough for him to drop his guard again with her when she’d warmed up at the wedding reception.
But those cold shoulders she’d thrown his way the rest of the time—including yesterday? That definitely didn’t work for him.
“I’m here because we lost Topher and there are things that have to be taken care of on his behalf,” he said firmly then. “And from here the only place I’m headed for is where I belong—back to the marines and my unit. So don’t go hoping for some kind of romance with anyone while I’m here.”
“It might do you some good,” his sister suggested with a different tone that he also recognized—the worried-about-him-and-his-state-of-mind-since-Topher’s-death look and sound that he’d met from Kinsey and Conor and Liam.
“I’m good enough,” he proclaimed, even if he was finding it hard to be the old Declan. “So all you happy lovebirds can roost here and I’ll go down the road and hope I can do some good there. But don’t be putting some other kind of spin on it because it isn’t gonna happen.”
“Declan...” his sister said, sounding more worried still.
“I’m good, Kinsey,” he cut her off, his tone more reprimand than anything. He knew that wasn’t going to reassure her, but it was still the best he could manage.
And feeling the weight of his sister’s concern heaped on top of what he’d been carrying around since Topher’s death—over Topher’s death—had him thinking that weathering the ups and downs of Topher’s sister-in-law was preferable to hanging around here and weathering concern from all three siblings.
At least he hoped it would be.
But with Emmy Tate?
He couldn’t be sure of anything.
* * *
“The guy whose gorgeous face gave you nightmares, the guy who turned out to be a player, will be moving in with you?” Carla Figarello demanded.
“I don’t know...” Emmy said uncertainly. “It’s my mother’s idea... A really bad one...”
Saturday had been a loss in terms of getting anything done beyond the usual morning chores—water and feed the animals, collect the eggs, milk the cow and the cantankerous goats that gave her fits. Then a babysitter had come in to stay with Trinity and Kit so she could drive her mother to the Billings airport.
The babysitter had had to leave when she got back, so she’d given Trinity lunch, fed the baby and put them both down for naps. And now, while the kids slept and she couldn’t be out of earshot, she was indulging herself with a much-needed phone call to Carla—her best friend since kindergarten, her confidante, the only person she’d talked to about what had begun to happen to her in the aftermath of Afghanistan.
“It’s not a bad idea when you desperately need help and he’s someone who can give it,” Carla hedged. “But it sounds like your mother steamrolled you into agreeing to let the guy move into the basement, and what I want to know is if you’re going to be able to handle being with him.”
Emmy didn’t know.
Since the wedding—and until the hailstorm—she’d been sure she was in control of the emotional backlash from the school collapse. Yes, some things had changed for her, but she’d found ways to manage her anxiety pretty well. A lot of people didn’t like small spaces, so she wasn’t the only one to avoid them, and who wouldn’t be afraid of the idea of being underneath something that might fall on them—like the broken tree limbs in the orchard?
For the most part, though, she’d considered herself perfectly fine until seeing the devastation of the hail damage had brought the fear back. Not a lot of it—she took heart in that. But now seeing Declan Madison again did make her worry that more might break through.
“I didn’t have a panic attack at the first sight of him,” she said, putting as much optimism into her voice as she could.
Panic attacks when she saw him didn’t make any sense to her, but soon after her rescue from the rubble, her reaction to Declan Madison had morphed from deep gratitude into the first of that emotional turmoil.
When the bomb had hit the school in Afghanistan, she’d been alone in a supply closet, packing her cameras and equipment. The explosion had flung her, knocking her unconscious.
When she’d come to—before she had any conception of what had happened or where she was—all she’d known was that both of her feet were trapped under a lot of weight. She’d worked to get them out, and when she had, bricks and mortar had crumbled with the movement, enclosing her even more.
She’d been left with her knees to her chest, in a space about the size of a barrel. There was no room to move—when she tried, more debris fell on her.
It had been pitch-black except for a speck of light that she’d been able to see above her, and that had given her hope that she’d somehow ended up near to the outside.
She’d shouted for help, not knowing if there was aid available or if she’d be rescued by friend or foe.
For four hours she’d been entombed, and all she’d known was that periodically her surroundings would shift, crumble and fall in, closing the space around her even
