The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (32 page)

Sam reached for Willow’s hand and held it between them on the bleacher. She smiled at him, then leaned against him for quick second.

Could there be a better way to spend an evening?

Once they arrived back at Willow’s apartment after the game and finally got the wound-up Leo and Nick settled in bed, Willow preceded him into the living room. For a moment Sam stood in the archway, feeling happy and comfortable. At peace, he realized. Life was good. Even when he started toward the sofa and a second of imbalance reminded him of the loss of his leg, he felt better than he had in months, possibly years.

Then he settled on the sofa next to Willow, put his arm around her, and kissed her.

The pleasant interval lasted for quite a while, until Sam pushed it. He should have—did—know better, but had given in to his baser urges.

Willow removed his hand and shoved him away. “That’s enough. Don’t forget I have two sons only a few feet away.” She pointed down the hall.

“Let’s go into your bedroom and shut the door.” He reached out for her, but she scooted to the end of the sofa. The other end.

“Sam, not here.” She shook her head but a smile softened her words.

“We could go to my house, but my father’s there.” He shook his head. “
That
would be uncomfortable.” He thought for a moment. “We could find a motel.”

“Sam.” Her voice became very serious. “I’m not going to sleep with you.” She held her hand up. “You may have gotten the idea I’d be willing.”

He nodded.

“But I can’t.” She pointed down the hall again. “I have two little boys who lost their father and love you very much.”

Sam swallowed. Did they really love him?

“For that reason, I have to protect them. Before I make any… umm…”

However she finished that sentence, he knew he wouldn’t like it.

“Before I make a decision about you and me, Leo and Nick need to know they can count on you. They need to know that you’re not going to run out on them if you find something better to do or another woman you like better.”

“I’d never…”

“I need something, too. I refuse to fall in love with a man who can’t make a commitment to me and to the boys.”

“That’s your problem. I didn’t ask you to fall in love with me,” he said, although he felt pretty sure he’d acted like he wanted exactly that. “Or to marry me, just, you know…”

“But I don’t become intimate with a man unless I love him, unless there’s a commitment between us.”

“Commitment.” He knew his voice reflected the absolute terror the word awakened. “I can’t commit to anyone. I don’t even know who I am and what I’m going to do with myself.” He could feel sweat dripping down his neck.

“Then,” she said in a soft, sad voice, “it might be time to figure that out.”

The words burst from him. “Stop trying to fix me.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying
not
to fall in love with you.”

He scrutinized her face. She looked sincere. She sounded angry. “How could you ever fall in love with me? I mean, possibly? I’m a mess. My life is a mess.”

“You sell yourself short. You’re handsome. Women fall at your feet.”

“Not all of them,” he said. Her, for example.

“There’s more.” She ticked off each point on her fingers. “I admire your courage and how you fight to get better and stronger. I appreciate how much you care about Leo and Nick. I like the way you make me feel. I thought for a while I’d never again feel this way with a man.”

“That’s good,” he whispered as he attempted to close the small space between them.

She stood. “But I refuse to fall in love with you unless I trust you completely and until you can commit to us, at least try to. I will not have my sons hurt again. I will not make the mistake of loving a man who only wants my body. Not again.”

“Hey, I want more than just your body, but that’s a good place to start.”

She made her feelings about his flip remark obvious with a glare. “One more thing,” she started.

“One more thing? Don’t you think you’ve dumped enough on me?”

“One more thing,” she continued. “I will
not
commit to you until you can share all that anger and pain you keep inside you with me or with a therapist or your father. I don’t care which, but if you don’t get it out and talk to someone about it… well, you have to or you’ll explode and the collateral damage from that could hurt me and the boys badly.”

“Thank you for your opinion as a professional.”

“Sam, it’s for all of us. You
have
to work through what happened in Afghanistan.”

There it was, all laid out for him, logically and honestly. At this moment, he hated honesty and logic because he wasn’t nearly ready to face his feelings, his future, or, actually, anything.

Her words and expression summarized the whole predicament. His problems affected not just him, but Willow and her sons. He respected her for that, but did he want her enough to give in to those demands to communicate, to commit, to care?

Even more important, could he? His life would be less complicated if he’d been attracted to an accommodating woman.

“Does that mean Nick and Leo can’t come over anymore?” Losing the boys would about tear him apart.

“Of course they can. They need a male friend.” The expression in her eyes softened. “They admire you very much. You’re good for them. What they don’t need is the unrealistic hope that someday you’ll be their father.”

Crap. Not that he hadn’t considered the possibility of having those kids for his sons, but he’d knocked it down every time it popped up, like a game of Whac-A-Mole.

Would having kids be so bad?

Years earlier, when she was still a little naive and believed in true love, Willow had allowed herself to be taken in by a handsome charming man. How could she have been so gullible and trusting?

Despite all his good qualities, Willow knew one thing through her experience with wounded vets: A man who held in all that pain and anger would explode at some time. He could start drinking again or find relief with other women or just walk away. That would devastate Willow and her sons.

Not seeing him again outside the hospital, not having him look at her with longing while she both hoped and feared he’d kiss her, all of that she’d miss. The feel of his warmth next to her, of his touch and smile.

Oh, bother! She’d already fallen in love with Sam and would really miss him. She’d have to accept that and hope Sam figured things out, opened up, and included her in his life.

“I want my old life back,” Sam shouted. He wanted all the good stuff he’d lost. He wanted to be with his men in combat. He wanted his leg back. Most of all, he wanted to fight and to joke with Morty again.

None of that was going to happen, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want it.

He pulled the bottle from the dresser, a fifth of the best Kentucky bourbon. He needed it. He deserved it. His life sucked. He’d screwed up with Willow because he couldn’t give her what she needed and deserved. He’d screwed up because that was what Sam Peterson did best. Right now, he wished the general would leave—go home, move in with Winnie. He didn’t care but he wanted to be alone to wallow.

He broke the seal and opened the bottle. No need for manners or a glass in the solitude of his room. He put the bottle to his lips, leaned his head back, and drank deeply. It tasted good. How long had it been since he’d had a drink of real liquor? Weeks, at least.

As the gulp went down, it warmed him inside. An artificial heat, not to be confused with any emotion. He knew that. Didn’t mind. At this moment, he needed to feel something other than pain.

He sat on the edge of the bed and removed the prosthesis. He should wash it. He’d do that in the morning. Of course it wouldn’t dry by the time he needed to wear it. So what? But he couldn’t break the habit of checking his leg for redness and irritation. Everything looked fine. Willow and her prosthetist had done a good job on the fit.

He cursed. Everything, even the stupid leg, reminded him of Willow.

Settling the device against the head of the bed, he took another deep drink. The glow spread through him, down to his fingers and even the toes on his missing foot.

But the sensation filling his body didn’t feel as good as he remembered. It deadened his brain and made him dizzy. He took another swig but still didn’t feel any better. He couldn’t even count on whiskey.

For a moment, he stared at the bottle before screwing the cap back it and shoving it under the bed to hide it. Last thing he needed was a lecture from the general about his drinking.

With that, he turned off the lamp on the bedside table, lifted his thigh to put it on the bed, and lay back on the pillow.

Rockets exploded around Sam Peterson. The acrid smell of ammo and war and the coppery stench of blood hung over the rocky hill.

Then his leg exploded with pain. He reached for it, felt nothing but blood and jagged bone.

“Morty!” he shouted and sat straight up.

In bed, he realized. In Aunt Effie’s house. With tears running down his face he gasped for air.

“You’re fine, son.”

He swung his head to see the general, sitting in a chair only inches from the bed. Just like the last time. “I’m here.”

Without even thinking—because if he had thought about it, Sam wouldn’t have done it—he reached out for his father and pulled him to sit on the side of the bed next to him. Folded in his father’s arms, he sobbed. His father patted him on the back. Neither said a word but for a moment, peace and acceptance filled him as his father wept with him.

“Son, I’m so sorry,” his father kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”

After a few minutes, Sam struggled for control and pulled away. “Why?” He wiped his cheeks. “Why are
you
sorry?” He didn’t think he’d ever heard the man say that word. No, that was wrong. He’d used it a while back, the first time Sam could remember hearing that word escaping from the general’s usually tight lips.

But they weren’t taut now. His face looked… droopy. Sad. And his lips, his whole expression looked soft as if he were begging, as if this moment were very important for him.

“Why?” Sam asked again.

The general returned to his chair. “I wasn’t much of a father. I wasn’t much of a husband, either.” He shook his head. “Military families put up with a lot. I had the admirable excuse that I had to serve my country. I used it every chance I had.”

“You did serve the country.”

“Other parents in the military spent time with their families. Morty’s dad—he went to every football game he could, every talent show.”

“Morty’s dad retired as a captain.”

The general shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You wanted to be a general. Morty’s dad didn’t.”

“Morty’s dad had better priorities than I did.”

“Dad, I was a lot like you. I pushed and pushed and pretty soon I outranked Morty. That’s what a Peterson does. It’s what your father did, and his father.”

“Generations of Petersons who taught their sons how to go off to war but never how to stay home and be a real parent.” He shook his head. “I should have cared more about being your father than being a general.”

Sam’s thoughts flashed back to his grandfather, a three-star general who looked exactly like this general, who’d hit only two stars. Had he been a disappointment to
his
father as well? Sam hated to admit it, but perhaps he should or could be a little more understanding and less self-centered. The realization made him feel like a jerk.

“You weren’t responsible for Morty’s death,” the general said after a long silence.

He could feel his body straighten and stiffen. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Morty didn’t become a marine because of you.” The general looked in Sam’s eyes. “You know that, don’t you? He was always crazy about the military, wanted to be a marine like his father, like me.”

Sam couldn’t form the words to answer. The general was right. Morty had been as crazy about being a marine as Sam had. Deep down, Sam knew that, but in his grief and guilt he’d denied it. Because he had lived, had come home. Morty hadn’t.

“His death was a tragedy.” The general shook his head and looked down at his folded hands. “But it was his choice to be in Afghanistan on that hillside. You never pushed him.”