Return to Glory (Hqn) (2 page)

Betsy tried to look away. But try as hard as she could, there was nothing else she could focus on but Jack. Just as it had always been.

CHAPTER TWO

J
ACK WOULD HAVE
known her anywhere.

Betsy Lewis was a lush caricature of the lovely girl he remembered. Her ethereal beauty had become earthier. That pale skin had turned to cream perfection and her rounded curves had become full-on dangerous. A tumble of black hair hung over her shoulder to curl against her cleavage, and she looked every inch a vintage pinup queen, right down to her matte red lips and the matching cherry print on her white dress. Everything about her blared sex, and his body answered, painfully hard, at just the sight of her.

Or maybe it was just because he was a twisted bastard? That was more likely. She was a beautiful, kind woman who deserved better than him imagining her to satisfy himself during the long, lonely nights. He’d thought that part of his life was over, that need. Either the shrapnel or the whiskey had taken it from him, and until now, he hadn’t cared. He didn’t want to look at himself, or touch himself, so he was under no illusions that anyone else would want to.

Especially not her. She couldn’t even look at his face.

He tried to block out the memory of her kiss, that innocent touch of her lips against his, begging him to be her first—and what inevitably came next. His patient, tender refusal. The look in her eyes now when she’d had to turn away was much the same. As if something inside her had been crushed.

What the hell was he thinking anyway? Even if he’d come home whole, he still wasn’t good enough for Betsy Lewis.

God, but he wanted a drink. He wanted to silence the voices in his head, the memories and the pain. He consoled himself that this would be over quickly. The townspeople would get their look at him and then they’d leave him alone.

That’s what this recognition ceremony was all about—they wanted their look to satisfy their curiosity. They’d go home and talk about what a shame it was what happened to Jack McConnell and then they’d leave him in blessed peace.

The mayor continued to drone on and Jack managed to tear his gaze away from Betsy. “And with that, we’d like to present you with this award,” the mayor finished.

Jack stood slowly, his prosthesis working with him and straightening as the rest of his body did. He still couldn’t move too fast or it would throw off his balance.

He was expected to speak, but he had nothing to say.

“It’s an honor, sir,” the mayor said, shaking his hand.

He leaned over the mic and fixed his stare on a point against the far wall. “The honor is mine. Both to have served my country and to be part of this community. Thank you.” Jack accepted the plaque and headed for the exit, trying not to choke on the bile in his throat.

Betsy was suddenly standing in front of him with one of the purple boxes—just like the ones she used to send him. “Hi, Jack.” She thrust the box into his hand and flung herself into his arms.

She clung tightly to him and he couldn’t stop himself from clinging back. The scents of vanilla and sugar washed over him. She smelled so good, so wholesome, and she felt even better with her full breasts against his chest. She fit against him as if she’d been made for this moment—for him. Her hair was so soft against his cheek, like black silk. Jack could have stood there forever simply holding her.

But like all breakable things, he knew every second he touched her was dangerous.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered against his ear.

Her breath was warm on his skin, tingling. The sensation caused him to remember what it felt like to want. To need. Jack couldn’t help himself. He tightened his embrace and crushed her solidly against him. “You smell like cookies.” He hadn’t seen her in five years, and the first thing he said was that she smelled like cookies. Stupid.

What else was there to say?
Don’t tell me it’s good to see me when you can’t even look at me?

She laughed, the sound musical and light, but she made no move to release him and he found he didn’t have to the courage to pull away from her. Right now it was just a hug. They could be Jack and Betsy. When he released her, she’d have to look somewhere and it wouldn’t be his face. He couldn’t blame her.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Instead of letting go, he wanted to touch her more thoroughly. To see if she was really so soft and perfect everywhere. Only being this close to her made his skin feel too tight, itchy. Made him think if he could just scratch deep enough, he could peel off what he’d become, but he knew better. So he pulled back from her, but she stayed in his embrace.

“That’s because I was baking all morning. They’re Nutella cheesecake.”

He looked at her blankly.

“Your favorite.” She had yet to focus on his face.

Jack couldn’t remember what his favorite was, but if she said it was, he’d believe her. He hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash, or remember anything before the char consumed his nose, his mouth and his lungs. She pulled farther away from him slowly, and he let her go.

It occurred to him that she was as beautiful as he was ugly. No, that wasn’t even the right word. She was like the sun, warm and bright, but she would scald him through to the bone if he let himself bask in her rays for too long. He needed to take cover, and in this case, distance and darkness would be his shield.

“Thanks.” He held up the box in his hand. “I guess we should settle up.”

“What do you mean?” She looked at a point past his cheek, not focusing on his face.

“I owe you. For taking care of the house. My parents.” He swallowed hard. “Being there to take the call when I was injured.”

“Oh Jack. You don’t owe me for anything.” She looked down and smoothed her hands on her dress to straighten an imaginary wrinkle. “You came home. That’s all I wanted.”

Before this moment, he hadn’t been able to admit he wanted Betsy to look at him the same way she had done those years ago when he left. She wasn’t that girl anymore and he certainly wasn’t that boy. “My parents left you something in their will. I wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t get it.” That was a damn lie, but it had to be done. After everything she’d done for him, he owed her. Jack was a man who paid his debts.

“Come by tonight after you close the bakery.” It would be dark then and she wouldn’t have to see his face. He didn’t wait for her to respond but abandoned her there by the stage. Jack didn’t want to hear her say no.

Hours later, with a bottle of whiskey in hand, Jack was wishing he’d stayed to hear her refusal. Then he wouldn’t have been sitting there rotten with hope for just one more look at a woman who wasn’t coming.

What the hell had he been thinking anyway? He could have the papers to the account drawn up and have them delivered. Jack didn’t have to be here. He could leave her the house, too. He took a long pull, finding comfort in the fact that oblivion was only a bottle away.

He was almost all the way through the amber bliss when the front bell rang. Jack didn’t jump half out of his skin this time, because he’d reached that plateau where his constant fight-or-flight reaction was a distant discomfort. Jack would’ve just let the bell ring, but there was still the faint hope it could be her.

She smiled at him when he opened the door, another purple box in her hands. “Sorry it’s so late. I’ve got Halloween orders to fill, so I’ve been working late.”

He held the door open to allow her inside. She was wearing a different dress. This one was vintage as well, yellow-checked gingham with pockets in the front and a neckline that had to be illegal.

The sound of an old engine backfiring on the street outside elicited an immediate response:
take cover.
He hit the floor, dragging Betsy with him and shielding her with his body before he could process that it was just another shitty car in a small American town. He wasn’t in Iraq anymore.

A cool hand on his cheek brought him into the present. “It’s okay. We’re safe,” she whispered to him.

Shame, hot and putrid, washed over him. “I’m sorry.”

“You were protecting me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He recoiled from her, pulling himself off her and leaning his back against the wall. “I, uh, what my parents wanted you to have, it’s on the table.”

“Jack,” she began. Her presence was overwhelming, smothering. She seemed to burn up all the oxygen in the room.

“Just take it and go.” He struggled to get up, but he couldn’t get his balance with nothing stationary to which he could anchor himself. The prosthesis bent at an awkward angle and he crashed back to the floor. Jack cursed, more determined than ever to get up now. He had to. She couldn’t see him like this.

At least at the ceremony he’d been upright and in his uniform. Wearing a symbol of something that mattered. Now he was just Jack.

Broken.

Useless.

He tried again to stand but failed. Rage filled him and he didn’t care if he broke the thing, he
would
stand. Jack attempted to claw his way up.

“Jack,” she said again, horror shading her voice.

“I don’t want your damn pity,” he roared.

She reached for the crushed purple box and put it up on a nearby table and then moved next to him, pulling his head down into her lap.

Even as it was happening, Jack knew it was wrong. He wanted to tell her to leave. No, now he was lying to himself. He didn’t
want
to tell her to leave, but he knew he needed to. Her touch was tender and sweet, stroking over the good side of his face. “Pity and empathy are two different things.”

She still smelled so good—of all things sweet and wholesome. While he stank of Old North Bend whiskey.

“You should go, Bets.” His actions betrayed his words because he’d wrapped an arm around her thighs.

“Not a chance. It’s not you who owes me, but the other way around. Did you forget that you saved my life?”

“That was a hundred years ago and another life.”

“Maybe. But men aren’t the only ones allowed to have their honor. I pay my debts, too.”

“There’s no debt. Your life is yours, free and clear.” He didn’t want her to be here because of some imaginary debt.

“I’ll never forget opening my eyes and seeing you leaning over me.” She stroked her fingers through his hair. “The streetlight made a halo around your head and I thought you were some kind of angel.”

“What utter tripe,” he said without conviction.

“I have never been so terrified. When I realized I wasn’t going to make it back up to the surface, I was so angry. I wasn’t ready for my life to be over. Especially not for some stupid childhood prank. I didn’t want to die. And it hurt, it was like my lungs were on fire while being pressed under a million pounds of solid rock.”

He didn’t speak but pulled away from her and the intimacy of the position.

“Then there you were, Jack. While everyone else watched and did nothing, it was you who saved me. You gave me everything I have. So if you think for a minute I wouldn’t do the same for you, you’ve got another think coming.”

“I’m not drowning, Betsy.”

“Yes, you are. You’re drowning yourself in whiskey. I smelled it on you at the ceremony, and your house reeks of it.”

“I’m already dead, sweetheart. It’s a wasted effort. So take what my parents left you and go.”

“Shall we see about that, Jack?” She pulled away from him and stood.

“What?”

“Get up.”

“I can’t.” He might have expected this from someone else, but never Betsy.

“I said get up, soldier. You made me a promise. You said you’d come back, but this isn’t you. This isn’t Jack McConnell.”

“You’re right. I told you, Jack McConnell is dead and I just brought his body back for you to mourn.”

“I don’t accept that. I said get up.”

“How!” he roared again, and it wasn’t a question.

“Ask me to help you.” Her voice was calm and steady.

“I didn’t beg when I was captured in Mosul. I’m not begging for anything here.”

“I don’t want you to beg. I want you to ask. There is no shame in that.” Her voice, while sweet, was braced with steel. “Ask me.”

“No.”

“Unacceptable.” She nudged him with her foot. “Ask and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How could you conceivably do that? I can’t taste the sweets you make, and my dick doesn’t work. So what could you possibly offer me?”

“Right now I’m offering to restrain myself from kicking you. The Jack I used to know would knock your teeth down the back of your throat for talking to me that way.”

He sighed. She was right. “I’m sorry, Betsy. Just go.”

“Not a chance.” Her voice was softer now and she leaned down over him. “I
will
help you. I’m not leaving until you’re at least in that chair.”

“Fine. Help me.”

Seemingly satisfied she wasn’t going to get any better from him, she helped haul him upright. It was an effort, but she managed. He should’ve expected her strength; she carried around fifty-pound bags of flour all day and kneaded loaf after loaf of fresh bread for hours.

She didn’t try to help him to the chair. Instead he found his back against the wall and Betsy on her tiptoes, her matte red lips pressed against his with no care for the ruined part of his face. She kissed him wholly, completely.

It was as if those years had never passed and they were under the stars again the same as the night he’d left. Pieces of himself he thought long dead sparked and flickered—a bulb in a faulty socket. He tightened his arms around her, pressing her more firmly against him.

She felt so good. It had been so long since anything felt good. She even tasted like vanilla. That had to be his imagination because he hadn’t been able to taste anything but ash since he’d awakened from the burning hell of his nightmares into a real world just as awful.

Jack deepened the kiss, tasting more of her, storing up the memories of vanilla and sugar. Betsy broke the kiss all too soon and pulled away from him, and the new bud of light that had taken root grew dark. He’d have given anything to turn it back on.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack.”

He didn’t respond, only watched her go.

She turned halfway out the door and light from the street lamp pooled around her. “In case you were wondering,
everything
seems to be working just fine.” She shut the door behind her.