A Broken Christmas (4 page)

Knowing Kyle stepped into the heart of danger every time he deployed didn’t bother her nearly as much as
not
knowing the potential risks. Without any information to go on, other than the unreliable media reports, she would have worked herself into a nervous breakdown. Why couldn’t Kyle realize this?

Shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all, she climbed out of the car. Kyle had already let himself inside. She followed, entering the kitchen, where she dropped her car keys on the glass-topped table. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” he answered from the living room.

“Anything in particular?”

“You pick.”

Ugh. Two weeks of this and she’d strangle the man. Annoyed, she stalked to the refrigerator and pulled out last night’s lasagna. “Leftovers then,” she muttered. If he didn’t want to input, she would decide for him.

The tense silence that filled their house as she waited on the oven to warm up disturbed Aimee more than she’d expected it might. While he kept work out of their life for the most part, Kyle didn’t have a problem expressing himself before they’d lost their baby. Laughter, teasing, even arguments had been healthy, and beneath everything she never doubted that love held them together. He was honest to a fault—when he chose to open up. He’d drifted after their personal tragedy, but the man sitting in the other room, not even watching television, was a stranger. Deep down, the Kyle she’d married lurked inside that gloomy shell. If she could just draw him out…

The oven dinged, alerting her it had reached temperature, and she put the lasagna in to warm.

What bothered her most was that the man in the dark living room needed her more than ever. His silence screamed out for attention. If he’d just
talk
to her. Let her in a little. He didn’t have to confide State secrets, didn’t even have to go into detail. Just scratch the surface and give her a general idea. What had made him drift away? Had she somehow failed to provide something he needed?

She shook her head. No, Conner had said more than once that Kyle internalized everything in some ridiculous attempt to protect her. Protect her from what? From the truth about marrying a Delta Force operative? For God’s sake, they’d been married six years. Why, after four, had he suddenly decided he needed to shelter her?

She stole a glance at Kyle’s dark head. Did he really think she couldn’t handle it? That her time in the service didn’t expose her to the reality of what he did—that he killed people? Not just across a sand dune with a long-range machine gun, and not from a bomber high in the sky. More like face-to-face unsuspecting, judging from what little, and extremely summarized, information she could gather at her security clearance level.

Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. What’s happened to us?

Determined not to let him stuff her in a corner and forget about what they’d shared for so long, she pushed away from the cabinets and wandered into the living room. Aimee stopped behind the couch, set her hands on his broad shoulders. Squeezing the tight muscles, she asked, “You want me to pick up a Redbox movie for us after dinner? We can watch, and I can massage your leg.”

Like she’d accused him of being a terrorist himself, Kyle rocketed off the couch. “Goddamn it, Aimee, I don’t need to be coddled! If I want to watch a movie, I can get it myself.” He grabbed his cane, hobbled toward the stairs to their bedroom.

Stung beyond all rational means, Aimee’s composure snapped in half. “What the hell is your problem, Kyle Garland? I’m not coddling you. I wouldn’t
dream
of it. What are you trying to prove? And to who? ’Cause it isn’t working with me.”

He spun at the bottom of the stairs, anger flashing in his jade green eyes. But the quick movement threw him off balance, and the thunderous reply Aimee anticipated vanished as he reached for the hand railing. His right hand grabbed at the smooth wood, but his grip slipped. Kyle toppled to the floor in an awkward heap.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

For a moment, Aimee stood stock still, the truth of Kyle’s injuries settling on her shoulders. He was pissed because she’d come too close to the truth. He did need help. The stubborn fool’s pride just couldn’t accept that. And for Kyle, not being able to do something as simple as walk the stairs would destroy his confidence. His sense of self-worth. He had relied on the strength in his body to accomplish things most men would run from, for way too long. Without it… Kyle didn’t know which foot to put forward first. Literally.

She waited for him to untangle himself before going to his side. When she reached the bottom stair, she merely held out her hand. He stared at her extended fingers, fury blistering behind his eyes. As if he couldn’t decide whether to accept or knock her hand aside.

Aimee held her breath and remained motionless, refusing to allow him to push her away.

After several drawn out minutes, Kyle blew out a hard breath, and the anger in his eyes faded to something she couldn’t define. Regret maybe. Defeat? She couldn’t be certain, but gratitude didn’t lurk in the tight corners of his mouth.

He slapped his hand into hers. She closed her fingers, braced her weight against the railing, and pulled. In a hundred years, Aimee couldn’t have begun to lift Kyle, but somehow, with him using his good leg to push, and her holding steady pressure on his left hand, he made it to his feet.

Kyle pulled his hand away and dusted it on his jeans. He readjusted his cane, turned around more slowly, then trudged back to the couch where he sat with a heavy sigh.

Aimee searched for words. She needed to know just what sorts of injuries he’d suffered and just what kind of rehab he still faced. She was a nurse, for God’s sake, and she couldn’t sit on her hands and watch the man she loved struggle.

Quietly, she asked the most impersonal question she could come up with. “Is it muscle deterioration?”

Kyle’s voice came so quietly she had to strain to hear him. “Nerves.”

Grateful his back was to her, she winced. Nerves took a long time to heal…if they ever did. “And your hand?”

“Same thing.”

Oh, Kyle.
How she ached to touch him. To run her hands through his hair, kiss his soft mouth, and tell him they’d get through this—
he’d
get through this.

The timer on the oven dinged, diverting her attention. She went into the kitchen, pulled the lasagna out of the oven, and set two plates on the countertop. “What do you want to drink?”

Couch cushions shifted, telling her he had stretched out. “Leave me alone, Aimee.”

Right. Leave him alone. Don’t help. Let him deal with this on his own. Like he’d been doing for the last nine months.

Sighing, Aimee turned away from the food and headed toward the bedroom stairs before the tears that had welled in her eyes could fall.

Chapter Three

Kyle didn’t know how much time had passed since Aimee fled to the bedroom, but footfalls overhead ended some time ago. The house breathed around him, filling his ears with comfortable white noise. He stared at the unlit Christmas tree in the corner, watching the moonlight play on the tinsel as silver filtered through the window. He’d done all he could to avoid coming home before Christmas. Unfortunately, the doctors in Germany refused to grant an extension, and here he was, stuck in the biggest clusterfuck of his life.

He’d been a supreme dick to Aimee. Had realized that even as he was biting her head off. The small part of his soul that faulted her for his survival, however, wouldn’t shut up and give her the peace she deserved. That portion of his guilt couldn’t move beyond the words Walsh had used to justify dragging Kyle’s body out of that hellhole—
Aimee will kick my ass.

That motivator had prompted Walsh to strip the Taliban insurgents of their clothes, dress them both in the filthy rags, and lug him through the desert until sunrise. If it hadn’t been for the inordinate amount of chaos in the village, Walsh’s impromptu plan wouldn’t have worked. But it had. And he’d forced Kyle to face his demons, all the while using Aimee as a guilt trip.

Kyle still didn’t know when Walsh found out about the divorce. He’d been too fucked up to tell him during the ordeal. He hadn’t spoken to his best friend since.

But as much as Kyle wanted to blame Aimee, he couldn’t fault her for anything more than caring just a little too much, and it was that sympathy he didn’t want. Didn’t deserve.

Slowly, he inched his way out of the couch cushions and pushed to his feet. If he didn’t want her empathy, he’d have to show her he didn’t need it. Which meant he and the stairs were going to become intimately familiar with each other. He’d show her he damn well
could
do this alone, and then, maybe, she’d leave.

He struck a determined path to the staircase and glanced at the overhanging loft above. Fifteen treads.

Gritting his teeth, Kyle bent his knee and planted his left foot on the beige carpeting. Slow and steady he hauled his weight up. When he and Aimee had purchased the home, the private master bed, bath, and sitting room had seemed like a lovers’ paradise. Their own little place that even when they had family and friends over, they could retreat to and shut out the world. Even without guests, they’d spent more time in that sun-lit sitting room than they had in the main room downstairs.

They’d modified it into a temporary nursery. Painted over the pastel blue with olive green…after. And then, they’d taken to the family room, abandoning their sanctuary and the memories that had nearly destroyed Aimee.

Kyle looked around him, impressed he’d made it halfway up without so much as a bobble-step. Seven more. If they hadn’t turned their guest room into an office after her mom—their only extended family—had died, he wouldn’t have to worry about the damn stairs.

But they hadn’t, and he had seven more steps to accomplish. He hefted his bad leg up another, feeling the pull in muscles that weren’t used to strain.
Easy does it.
Just like rehab. Slow and steady. He took a deep breath, balanced on his cane, and continued up another.

Light emitted from within their bedroom, the faint glow from the adjoining bathroom. A smile stole across his face. When she slept alone, she always left the light on. Once, she’d told him it was so he could find her if he came home in the middle of the night. When she’d shown him how deep her vulnerabilities ran, he came to realize the light offered security. Like a part of her was still afraid of the monsters in the dark.

He hit the landing and let out a relieved breath. Fifteen steps accomplished. Now, to make it back down.

As he turned to descend, the sound of Aimee murmuring in sleep gave him pause. Instantly aware of her nearness, his skin prickled with anticipation. He approached the open doorway against his better judgment and peeked inside.

She lay tangled in the sheets, one leg exposed, the other hopelessly entwined. Like melted chocolate, her long brown hair streamed across the pillows and one shoulder. His gaze pulled to the sliver of skin beneath her gaping collar, the trace of that gentle slope overpowering. Would it still feel like silk? Did she still wear the lotion that reminded him of angel-food cake?

Kyle’s gut wound in on itself as Aimee restlessly tossed. She mumbled something he couldn’t make out that compounded the weight bearing down on his shoulders. Drawn by a force greater than himself, he approached the edge of the bed and smoothed her hair away from her face. Then, he braced his good arm on the pillow, bent over, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

If he ever stopped loving this woman, it would be a miracle.

Straightening, he gave the sheets a tug and freed her leg. When she mumbled again, he froze. If she woke up and found him here, he would have no choice but to crawl into the bed. And sleeping beside Aimee was simply out of the question. With her warm supple body pressing into his, sleep would be the last thing on his mind. And sex—beyond the fact he couldn’t perform worth a damn—opened all the doors he’d deliberately closed.