Back in the Soldier's Arms (26 page)

Go faster, Danny. Steve’s voice came to him, vibrating with a child’s excitement. C’mon, chicken. Uncle Herman doesn’t need to know. His older cousin could always tease him into being recklesss. Let’s see if we can get some air on this thing.

Dan smiled in the chill morning. Oh, yeah, they got air all right. Only luck had saved them from being hurt. But nothing had saved them from Herman’s wrath when he she Á€†aw the damage to the ATV. They’d spent a week cutting wood for that one.

His vision blurred. He blinked hard.

Two of the five of them dead and, eleven months later, two survivors still in bad shape. Ross was rehabilitating from horrific injuries; Nate had left the service and was roaming the States.

A tooth abscess had saved Dan from the ambush. He’d been at the dentist when the news came through. His gum numb with novocaine, he’d run to join the retrieval team. The pain of a half-drilled tooth kicked in as the anesthetic wore off but he’d welcomed it. Blazing twisted scraps were all that remained of the vehicle. Of Steve.

Lee had been missing and Nate crouched behind meager cover, holding off the enemy with Ross bloody and unconscious at his feet. Later, Dan had to peel a dazed Nate’s fingers from his weapon. He’d seen that look before, knew what it meant. Some experiences took a man past a point he couldn’t go … because if he did, he couldn’t serve.

His knuckles whitened on the ATV’s handles.

Lee had been found the next day … what was left of him. His body had been packed with explosives and detonated in the desert. Unidentifiable except by eyewitness accounts and an engagement ring he’d intended to give his girlfiend on his return.

I should have been there.

Maybe he could have done something … changed something. Though everyone and logic told him otherwise he couldn’t shake these pointless, debilitating thoughts that still shadowed him like buzzards.

Dan had always been robust, whether through a gift of genes or an inborn balance. Whatever it was, psychological tests said he had it. The ability to endure. With an effort, he loosened his grip on the handles, dropped the throttle. The only way through this was holding on to the person who always grounded him. Everything came back to Jo.

HIS MOM’S NISSAN WAS parked by the farmhouse, a mattress on the roof rack. Dan had asked to borrow one until he could go shopping for furniture with Jo.

“Always the optimist, Danny,” Steve used to say to him.

“Damn right.”

He’d refused to sleep even one night on the lumpy double bed his dad had been using. Drawing abreast of the car he saw the mattress was a single and laughed. Well, if she thought a single mattress would stop her baby boy from having sex with his intended, assuming Dan could get Jo there, she was dreaming.

To hell with it. He’d make time to buy a king-size tomorrow.

He found Pat stuck in the doorway wrestling with an armchair as big as she was.

“What are you doing moving that on your own?”

“I can manage,” she insisted, but massaged her lower back after he took the chair off her. Small and slender with a swing of shoulder-length hair only lightly threaded with gray, Pat Jansen bore a close resemblance to Diane Keaton. “I only brought one comfortable chair,” she added, “so make sure you get it.”

Dan maneuvered the wide-bodied chair through the doorway. “Okay, we’re alone. Tell me what’s going on with you and Dad?” There had always been stressful undercurrents in his parents’ marriage but they seemed to have turned inng Á€†to whitewater, at least on Mom’s part. Like his son, Herman kept his troubles to himself.

She caught a falling cushion as he plonked the chair next to the fireplace. “Nothing.” She’d cleaned the house. Lemon polish scented the air and there weren’t as many dust motes in the sunlight streaming through the window. “At least nothing for you to worry about.” A small coffee table sat like an island in the middle of the empty room. The dog slunk out from under it, looking guilty for being caught inside.

“It’s okay, boy.” Dan fondled his ears. “You’re retired now, too, remember?”

He knew Pat was waiting for a follow-up question. It was always this way with Mom. You had to work to find out what was wrong. Except playing chicken with his resistant bride would require nerves of steel. He couldn’t afford to get embroiled in his parents’ marital issues. Anyway, empathy was a girl thing; better Mom phoned one of the twins—Merry in Auckland or Viv in New York. On second thought, not Viv.

Pat gave up waiting and surveyed the sparsely furnished room. “We’ve got to make this place welcoming enough for you to stay. I’ll bring the spare couch next visit.”

“Of course I’m staying. I’m getting married, remember?”

“Honey, I have bad news.” If it was bad, why did she sound so relieved? “Come look at this.” In the kitchen, Pat pointed to a quarter-page ad in the Chronicle. “Jo Swann and Dan Jansen are not getting married. It was a joke, people! ☺”

Dan grinned at the smilie emoticon.

“You’re taking this very well,” his mother said uneasily. She knew that grin.

He took out his cell, checking the paper’s index for the direct line to sales.

“Hi … Delwyn, it’s Dan. Yeah, well, don’t be sorry. No, my feelings aren’t hurt. Listen, how much is an ad in your paper, same size?” As he told the rep what he wanted, his mother started unpacking the cutlery from a cardboard box on the kitchen counter. Dan had to raise his voice above the clatter to finish the call. “I’m happy to pay a premium for the front page … See you later, then.”

When he’d rung off, he leaned against the counter top. “Okay, Mom, spit it out. Why don’t you approve?”

His mother had always been ambivalent about Jo, often reading his friend’s assertiveness as aggression and her frankness as rudeness. She didn’t understand that her son found these qualities refreshing precisely because he’d been brought up by Jo’s opposite.

Tight-lipped martyrdom and “guess what I’m feeling”—these were things to cower men, not a woman comfortable asking for what she wanted.

“It’s not about whether I approve.” Opening the oven, Pat pulled out a bacon-and-egg pie. On the bottom shelf Dan saw a batch of rising scones. “Though I think your approach is all wrong.”

“There’s method in my madness.”

Pat frowned.

Damn, wrong word. She already had doubts about his mental health.

“She can be so … forceful, Danny. I’m worried she’ll try and run your life.*ssÁ€†01D;

Dan hid a smile. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. His mom had wanted him to be a lawyer, something civilized. But Jo had always understood his need to test himself. Like he understood hers. And unlike every other female in his life, his best friend never asked for more than he was prepared to give. “I’ve made up my mind, Mom.”

“Fine, let’s change the subject.” Sighing, Pat began slicing the pie. “I talked to Ellie this morning.” Steve’s mother.

Turning away, Dan plugged in the kettle.

“She’s hoping you’ll find time to visit when you’ve settled in.” Steve’s parents lived an hour south.

Herman understood no-go zones but his mother was a different story. “It’s on my list.”

“They’re all worried about Lewis,” she persisted.

His godson? Dan looked over. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s getting stomachaches … off school a lot. The doctor can’t find anything wrong with him. Says it’s growing pains.”

His own gut knotted, as it always did thinking about his cousin’s widow, Claire, and their son. She’d insisted there was nothing he could do for her and turned down money when Dan, Ross and Nate offered it. “He is thirteen.”

“Ellie says he’s withdrawn and only wants to sit on the PlayStation all day.”

That wasn’t the kid Dan remembered. The kid who wanted to be outside doing boy stuff with his dad. He said gruffly, “He lost his father this year, Mom. It’s going to take time to adjust.”

“Well, have you phoned Claire lately?” Taking some mugs off the draining board, Dan considered his reply. Since the funeral, he’d made a point of calling Claire every month. But the conversations were stilted. Both of them pretending to be doing better than they were. Lately, he’d spun the calls out to every six weeks.

“I’m about due,” he admitted. The kettle boiled and switched off. His mother pulled a silver teapot out of one of the boxes in the kitchen. He felt himself suddenly suffocating. “Mom, I don’t need all this stuff.”

“Teabags in mugs is for camping.”

Dan wished he were back in the wilderness. “Sit down,” he said. “Let me wait on you for a change.” He parked her in a chair, then finished making the tea, plating up pie and buttering scones. He’d missed her cooking, if not her concern.

“And you haven’t sent Steve’s parents or Claire invitations to your wedding. That must mean you’re not sure about marrying Jo.”

That wasn’t the reason, but Dan wasn’t prepared to discuss it. He gave in to the inevitable. “I’ll post them tomorrow.”

Pat cleared her throat. “Danny, did you see anyone … afterward? A psychologist or grief counselor …” “It’s sorted.” The SAS looked after its own. “Are you sleeping yet?”

“Enough.” The second night he’d stayed in his parents’ new house. A mistake. Mom had caught him pacing at two in the morning. Only later did he wonder what caused her insomnia.

“Danny, I’m worried about you.”

He flashed her a smile, a good one. “You like worrying, Mom.”

“I brought some books with me that might be helpful.”

Oh, God. He didn’t need to look at the collection she dragged out of her bag to know the titles would contain words like healing, inner child and transformational. She devoured self-help manuals, chiefly for inspiration on how to change his father.

“Thanks.” A glance out the window gave him an escape route. “Looks like some showers are coming. I’ll go get the bed off the roof-rack.” He paused at the doorway. “How did you get it up there?”

“A neighbor helped. Of course it would have been easier if your father was around,” she added tartly. “Dan, please don’t encourage Herman to think he’s got all the time in the world to do this changeover. It’s time your father made good on his word.”

He touched hand to heart. “I promise to stay a neutral party.”

His mother didn’t take the hint. “I mean, is it so bad traveling Europe for three months and spending quality time with your wife?”

Dan tried again. “Talk to Herman, Mom.”

“You think I haven’t?” she snapped, then collected herself and gave him a tremulous smile. “No, you’re right. It’s not fair to make you take sides.”

Sides? Alarmed, Dan headed for the door. “I’ll get that bed.”

AT ELEVEN THURSDAY MORNING a courier delivered CommLink’s final offer. Kevin raced into her office with it, closing the door and pulling the blinds like a conspirator. Jo wished she hadn’t told him. He was taking it all so seriously, even though she’d assured him she could handle it.

The poor guy had had his faith in her shaken over the past year. “Think of it as a team-building exercise,” she’d told him. “Close your eyes, fall back and I’ll catch you.”

He wasn’t amused. “This is no time for jokes. I’ve been researching CommLink over the last couple of days. They’ve got a history of picking up financially distressed companies—”

“We’re not distressed, merely uncomfortable.”

“And setting up competitive newspapers.”

Perusing the contract, Jo didn’t answer. “What do you know,” she said, “it’s actually fair. Grant must have squeezed Chris. Offer expires on May 18.”

“That’s only two weeks. We’ve got no time to rebuild advertising for a prolonged siege.”

“Relax. It will take them months to set up a paper—if they’re serious.”

“I made a few calls. They can set up within weeks of a final no.”

“I made a few calls, too. They’ve been sitting on their hands for eighteen months. And Grant implied the economic downturn has affected them as much as us.”

Kev looked hopeful. “You thin&#Á€†nk they’re bluffing.”

“My instincts are pretty good about these things.”

He looked at her oddly.

“What?”

“Didn’t you say that about Dan?” This morning’s edition of the Chronicle lay unread on her desk. Kevin unfolded it and laid it flat. Jo’s eyes settled on the strip ad along the bottom of the front page. And widened. Bridal nerves have settled. Wedding back on. ☺ For a moment she gawked at it, then pushed to her feet and headed to the sales department. “Who accepted this?”

Delwyn’s gaze darted to the paper clenched in Jo’s fist, then around the room like a panicked swallow fluttering for an exit. Bingo. Jo dropped the paper on the sales rep’s desk.

“He paid the most expensive rate. And you told us to take anything in the current economy.” Seeing Jo wasn’t buying it, Delwyn whimpered. “Okay, I’m a sucker for romance.”

“This isn’t romance, it’s a declaration of war. And you’re on my side.” Her voice rose. “Hear that, people? My side. The only advertisement you accept from Dan Jansen is a retraction. Am. I. Clear?” Heads nodded vigorously. “Once and for all—we are not getting married.”

Delwyn waved for Jo’s attention. “Does that mean not helping him outside work, too?”

Her headache started coming back. “What do you mean?”

“We met for coffee yesterday and I gave him details of the florist, baker and photographer I’m using for my wedding.” Delwyn waved a sheet of pink notepaper. “He was doing the rounds this morning.”

“Is that the list?” Jo snatched it away from her. “I’m on my cell if anyone needs me.”

At the baker’s she learned that Dan was torn between angel food cake and traditional fruitcake; at the florist’s that he couldn’t decide between white roses and ivy or red roses and baby’s breath. The photographer said she’d just missed her fiancé, but she’d catch him at Baxter’s Department Store. “He’s setting up a gift registry.”

She hoped Dan wasn’t anywhere near blenders, knives or glassware. She finally tracked him down in the furniture section where he was testing a king-size bed.

“Great timing,” he approved. “I need a second opinion. I’m thinking too bouncy.”

Jo picked up a pillow and hurled it at him. “Quit making a spectacle of us.”