The Way Home (2 page)

The dad dug into his breast pocket and checked his camping permit. “Blue Fin Bay.”

“Ah. Then there’s a pretty good chance you might spot one.”

The boy’s eyes grew as big as bobbers.

She couldn’t help but laugh as she continued ringing up their sale. “Make sure to police your campsite every day, and store your food in the bear-proof lockers the Park Service provides. You’ll be fine.”

The bell above the door rang again, and Jess glanced up
from the cash register in time to see broad shoulders and the back of a baseball cap disappear down the center aisle toward the live-bait tanks.

It was a sight she saw dozens of times a day during the summer season. Another fisherman burning with fishing fever, hoping to get lucky and needing some bait. Since she was on her own until Kayla Burke, her mainstay summer help, got back from a bank run, she let the newcomer figure out what he wanted while she finished ringing up twenty gallons of gas, a mocha cappuccino, a root beer, and the rest of the groceries for the campers. She gave them directions to Wooden Frog Landing, where they could put their boat in, and wished them good luck as they headed out the door.

Coming out from behind the counter to check on Mr. Ball Cap, she nearly tripped over Bear, her twelve-week-old Labrador pup. All glossy black fur, big clumsy feet, and happily thumping tail, Bear had “assumed the position” and napped soundly by her feet.

“No, don’t get up.” She grinned at the oblivious dog and headed down a row of shelves stocked neatly with everything from canned goods to marshmallows to fishing lures, toward the place where she’d seen the top of the ball cap disappear.

“Sorry for the wait. What can I get you?” she called.

“Not sure. What do I need to catch the big ones?”

The voice stopped her cold. And routine, mundane, and comfortable shifted to excitement and chaos in one heartbeat. Although the stocked shelves hid him from view, she knew exactly who was back there.

Tyler Brown.

Holy, holy cow.

It had been a year ago February since she’d met this man
and exchanged a very few words with him. No way should she have remembered the timber and the pitch of his voice so clearly after . . . eighteen months? Yet she was one-hundred-percent certain it was him before she hesitantly turned the corner to face him.

“Surprise.” He smiled, hopeful and expectant and even a little shy. Coupled with his very large, very striking, and very unexpected presence, it set off a handspring of emotions in her stomach.

“Yeah,” she finally managed, along with a return smile that felt as forced as it felt necessary. “You could definitely say this is a surprise. Hello, Ty.”

She started to extend her hand, thought better of it, and stuffed it into the back pocket of her shorts. “Wow. You’re a long way from home.”

A very long way. And not just from Florida but a long way from his life. A
heck
of a long way from the cold winter night when he’d swooped in and out of her life like the storm he’d blown in on.

And now here he was, back again. One of the men who’d been part of a dangerous rescue. A man who had made enough of an impression on her that she’d opened up her gun safe to him and three other virtual strangers based on his word alone.

Unable to stop herself, she stared at Tyler Brown. Although he looked nothing like J.R., she suspected he was like him in every other way. Every way but one. Ty Brown was alive. J.R. wasn’t. Her husband had died thousands of miles from home, fighting a war she’d never quite understood, hadn’t truly sanctioned, and hadn’t been able to keep him from fighting. Looking at Ty—who’d made her think of J.R. the first time she’d seen him—unsettled her as much as it confused her. And, unfortunately, excited her.

Yup. Her day had gone from mundane to totally bonkers to the tune of a bell above the door.

“So.” He looked expectant when she just stood there. She guessed he’d finally decided one of them needed to say something, and since he’d brought this game into play, she was fine with it being him. “Thought I’d do some fishing.”

Florida is no longer surrounded by an ocean full of fish?

Because he had this little “If you buy that, I’ve got some farm land in the Sahara desert I’d love to sell you” smile, she avoided the obvious questions, such as: What was he
really
doing here? And the most damaging one, Why did it seem to matter so much?

“Early July’s not the best time of year.” Two could play this game. “But I’m told fishing started to pick up a bit this week.” She pasted on her shopkeeper smile and pretended her world hadn’t been tipped on end. “You want live bait?”

He grinned, looking both thoughtful and amused, as if he knew that she knew he hadn’t come all this way to fish but was willing to play it that way until she got used to the idea. “Live bait. Yeah, sure. Why not? Live bait would be good.”

She moved behind the bubbling minnow tanks, hoping she didn’t appear as off-balance as she felt. “Got a sale on flathead chubs.”

That spurred a soft chuckle. “My lucky day.”

She couldn’t look at him because, for God’s sake, live bait had not brought him back to Kabetogama. Neither had fishing, but she wasn’t ready to process that yet. Head down, she started scooping up minnows. “Couple dozen do you?”

“I don’t know.
Will
a couple dozen do me?”

He was laughing at her now . . . not unkindly but as if he found her entertaining, which meant he saw right through her.

Lord, she hoped he didn’t have her figured out. Or maybe
she did. Then he could tell her exactly what was going on in her head, because she didn’t have one solid clue.

Well, maybe one. There hadn’t been a man in her life since J.R. And there’d never been a man who triggered the physical reactions this man had at first sight, all those months ago. Reactions he triggered again today.

It had unsettled and puzzled her that she’d experienced such a strong, instant physical reaction to him. She’d chalked it up to a cold, isolating storm, the threat of imminent danger, and a lot of long, lonely nights alone in her bed.

Then he’d disappeared from her life as quickly as he’d come into it. Which had been good. Which had been fine. She’d actually been relieved when he hadn’t called, even though he’d said he would—at least, that’s what she’d told herself. She didn’t want to get involved with anyone. She especially didn’t want to get involved with a man like Tyler Brown, who was just like J.R. Special-ops soldiers, whether on active duty or retired, were always warriors. They would always be the men leading the charge, putting themselves in danger, living for the adrenaline rush, and dying for God and country and the guy next to them in the trenches.

She’d lived with that man. She’d loved and tried to understand that man. But neither love nor understanding had been enough to keep him home, keep him happy, or keep him alive.

A
ware that Ty watched her
in a curious silence, Jess poured the minnows and enough water to sustain them into a clear plastic bag, filled it with air from the pressure hose, and fastened it with a rubber band.

“Need anything else?” She held out the bag, still doing her best to avoid eye contact.

The long silence that followed had her tensing muscles she wasn’t sure had ever been tensed before. When he finally shifted his weight and reached for the bag, she thought,
Here it comes
, and waited on an indrawn breath.

“Maybe a pole?”

That finally brought her head up. “Excuse me?”

His blue eyes flashed with amusement as he glanced from her hair to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “A fishing pole? I’ve heard it’s mandatory.”

Right. OK. A fishing pole was absolutely mandatory. If he’d actually come here to fish. Which, clearly, he hadn’t.

Or maybe he had, and she’d read everything wrong. People traveled to Lake Kabetogama from all over the country. The scenery was stunning. The national park bordering the lake was pure and pristine. You wanted to get away from it all? You came to the North Country, where you could fish and camp and, yes, maybe even see a bear.

So . . . what if he
had
come here with fishing in mind, and all this absurd schoolgirl hormonal activity was a result of a sad case of wishful thinking? Which was another surprise, because she’d had no idea she’d been wishing for anything. Her life was good. Maybe a little lonely. Especially today.

And maybe she needed to get a grip, because she really didn’t want to travel
that
road.

“Let’s get you set up with a pole, then,” she said, working hard to dismiss the notion that she suddenly felt more disappointment over the possibility that he’d actually come here to fish than apprehension over the notion that he hadn’t.

All purpose and pretense and business, she headed for the back wall, paneled in age-yellowed knotty pine and lined with dozens of fishing rods and reels.

“So, how’ve you been, Jess?” he asked softly from behind her.

She stopped mid-reach, then slowly pulled a rod off the rack, turned around, and handed it to him. “Good. I’ve been good. You?”

He studied the rod, tested its flex, then met her eyes on a long, slow blink. “Good. Yeah. I’ve been OK.”

It was only a blink. But it did things to her. Things that created a silence that became a little too lengthy and compelled her to take a stab at filling it. “You and your brother and your friends . . . you’re quite the legend around the lake, you know.”

He looked a little disappointed that she’d decided to keep up the dodge-and-weave game, but one corner of his mouth finally lifted in an ironic smile. “I thought you had to be dead to become a legend.”

“Since the biggest news this far north generally involves fishing and the weather, stories don’t need as much time to marinate.”

He got very quiet then. Thoughtful quiet. Troubled quiet. The kind of quiet that seemed personal and made her want to fill it. Again.

“So what are you fishing for?”

His grin came back slowly. “Um . . . isn’t that a redundant question?”

How could she not smile at that? He made it very easy. “What
kind
of fish? Walleye? Northern pike? Bass?”

“Ah. How ’bout we shoot for the walleye? Do they all come with saddles?”

An involuntary laugh burst out before she could stop it.

Across the road from her gas pumps stood a gigantic fiberglass walleye, complete with a dozen steps for the kiddies to climb up and sit in the saddle strapped to its back so Mom and Dad could snap their pictures. As a tourist gimmick, it was pretty corny, but since the lion’s share of the businesses around the lake depended on fishing for revenue, it was also highly effective in drawing travelers off the main highway.

“Last I knew,” she said, “only the big guy has one.”

“Good to know.”

Darn, that smile did things to her. Things she felt woefully unprepared to deal with. Just like it was hard to deal with his presence. He’d been dressed in winter gear when she’d seen him before, but even the bulky quilted outerwear hadn’t been
able to hide the fact that he was fit and fine. Today he wore a pristine white T-shirt and worn jeans that proved she’d been right about his build. He was tan and tall and strong in the shoulders, and she didn’t have to guess if his snug T-shirt concealed a set of six-pack abs to go with the biceps that bulged beneath his sleeves.

He had such an easy way about him. A man comfortable in his own skin. A man unimpressed by himself and by the reaction he most likely got from women. But as this drew out, he also looked uncertain—and that got to her more than how physically striking he was. A man who looked like him shouldn’t feel insecure around a woman like her.

She was no fashion plate. She didn’t have the time or, since J.R. died, the inclination to be. Makeup generally equaled tinted lip balm. The last time her plain brown hair had seen a pair of scissors, they’d been in her own hands. She kept it short out of necessity and softly curled because of heredity. She was tan from working outside in the sun, because shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops were her uniform this time of year.

By no stretch of anyone’s imagination would she be considered voluptuous, but she was proud of her toned limbs, which he’d been eyeing. And whoa, the silence had stretched out too long again as she’d wished that she’d put on a little mascara and done more than finger-comb her hair after her shower.

“Are you staying on the lake?” she asked, half afraid of his answer.

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Seeing you was as far as I got with the plan.”

Hokay.
There it was. The part that made her heart pound. No more pretending that he’d come here to fish.

And he had a
plan
.

She should tell him, very sensibly, that this was not a good idea. That he should go back to Florida and leave her peace of mind and her equilibrium and her fragile sense of stability intact.

Except the truth was, none of those things had been stable or whole since she’d lost J.R. All of those things were raw and frayed and so far from healed that she had no convincing argument that his departure would make it better.