It’s the first really warm day of the spring and Isabel feels an answering lift in her frame of mind. She even hums as she mixes the fresh lemonade she’s just made.
“Someone’s in a good mood.” Rosa doesn’t make the observation kindly, but it’s still not enough to irritate Isabel. She’s resolved to be positive today and nothing is going to spoil it.
“Well, Rosa, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” She busies herself placing two glasses on a tray along with the jug of fresh lemonade.
“Nothing to do with the handsome man in the garden, I bet.” This time, Rosa’s voice is knowing and Isabel turns around to see the older woman giving her a look. Isabel feels her face flame, which only makes Rosa even more curious. “He your…boyfriend now?”
Isabel shakes her head quickly, too quickly, she thinks bearing in mind everything they’ve shared in the past week. “No, he’s just a helpful tenant, Rosa. He’s good with his hands.” She blushes again, unable to control it. “So he offered to do some odd jobs around the place. Besides, it’s not like we can’t use the help.” She shrugs as if it were that simple.
Rosa nods in agreement, but when Isabel prepares to make her escape, carrying the tray out of the kitchen, the older woman steps into her path, giving her a warning look. “Just be careful, Isabel.” The woman looks genuinely concerned. “I not sure about this man.” She shakes her head, like she’s trying to get an image out of her mind.
Isabel feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Rosa has always claimed to have some kind of sixth sense or intuition for things. She can guess the sexes of unborn babies, tell when it is going to rain, that sort of thing. Rosa had said that generations before, the women in her family in Italy had been witches. Her ‘gift,’ as she refers to it, stemmed from there.
Isabel isn’t sure about the veracity of that particular assertion, but it is true that Rosa has been proven right more times than wrong. So her concern over Wesley is enough for Isabel to put down the tray and give Rosa her full attention. It’s not that Isabel is suspicious. In fact, quite the opposite; she prides herself on being pragmatic, a realist. She doesn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or magic, but she had seen Rosa’s ‘gift’ firsthand and that is enough to hear the woman out.
“What aren’t you sure about, Rosa?” Isabel waits patiently as Rosa heaves a sigh, as if she doesn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, when, in reality, Isabel knows Rosa quite enjoys putting in her two cents just as much as the next person.
“There’s something about him, a dark cloud around his head.” Isabel has to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the imagery Rosa is creating. “I think this man is dangerous. I don’t think he’s good for you, not at all.” Rosa shakes her head, looking meaningfully at Isabel. “He bring trouble to you; he bring trouble to this house.”
Isabel doesn’t tell Rosa that she’s already figured out that much. Wesley had trusted her with the secret that he is part of the Devil Dogs; she wouldn’t betray his trust. She lays a hand on Rosa’s shoulder, seeing that the older woman still looks troubled. “Thanks for your concern, Rosa. I really do appreciate it. But there’s nothing for you to worry about. Wesley is just a tenant, that’s all.” She pats the sturdy Italian woman on the shoulder and lifts the cumbersome tray up again to take it out to Wesley.
“Step carefully, Miss Isabel. You wouldn’t want to fall.” Rosa’s words are laced with meaning beyond the tray she’s carrying. But before Isabel can call her out on it, the woman has disappeared into another room with a speed that doesn’t seem possible taking into account her wide girth.
Isabel shakes off the ominous feeling that Rosa’s words have left her with, but they hang around, like the dark shadow she had described. She lays the tray down on the steps of the porch, taking a few moments to stare at Wesley as he hammers some nails into the wooden decking he’s repairing. She watches the way his muscles tense and bunch as he works and she feels a flutter of need pass through her. There’s something primal about a hot man working with his hands that can’t fail to turn a woman on, and Isabel wasn’t above that particular effect.
His head snaps up, as if he’s aware that he’s being watched and his expression turns from primed readiness, as if he is preparing himself for a fight, to a sexy smile that makes her insides doe somersaults. She realizes she’s been caught staring and sends him an answering grin. “Time for a break, don’t you think?”
“Sounds like a good plan.” He walks up the stairs, slowly and as he approaches Isabel sees the drops of sweat forming on his broad chest. He looks around to see if anyone is watching and dips his head to nuzzle her neck gently.
Isabel leans in to him, feeling like she might melt away right there and then, breathing in the manly scent of him that’s enough to drive her insane.
An unknown noise has him stepping away from her and she misses his nearness instantly. But she knows the rules as well as he does. They’re to keep their relationship a secret. That said, she can’t help feeling like she wants to throw her arms around him and kiss the living daylights out of him every time she sees him. Now, it takes a supreme effort of will for her to sit down on the porch stairs instead of doing just that.
“Don’t worry. It’s just the cat.” She smiles at him reassuringly at the same time making sounds of encouragement to the kitten that is trying to find its way up onto the deck.
“If you keep feeding him, he’ll just keep coming back, you know. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Wesley gives the cat a dismissive look but Isabel isn’t fooled; she’s seen him pet the kitten when he thinks she isn’t looking.
“I don’t mind him. It’s nice to have the company. Besides, he looks like he could use a little fattening up.” She strokes the kitten that has jumped onto her lap, as if it is his rightful place. She picks up the bowl of milk she’d set out on the tray expressly for that purpose and sets it down for him to drink. He jumps off her lap and starts lapping at the milk as if it is the first meal he’s had in weeks.
All of a sudden, Isabel becomes aware of Wesley staring at her and the heat in his gaze makes her feel like she wants to jump him again. To give her something else to focus on, she pours out two glasses of the ice-cold lemonade and hands him one. She watches him take a sip and let out a contented sigh before picking up her own. She takes a look at the work he’s been doing, rebuilding the porch and decking, and she can’t help but be impressed. He’s done a lot in the space of only a few hours and even the searing heat doesn’t seem to be bothering him.
“So how’d you get to be so handy, anyway?” Isabel looks out over the garden, aware that Wes is leaning back against the wooden frame of the porch stairs, studying her.
He waits a beat before replying, probably trying to gauge if this is something he can share with her or not. She’s learned that Wesley has a lot of secrets, not because there’s any need to keep them to himself, but more because he is fiercely private. He’s not someone who likes to lay himself bare so any nugget of information Isabel can eke out of him feels like a solid victory.
Then, just as she’s expecting him to fob her off with a non-answer, as she’s become accustomed to, he starts talking. “My dad was a carpenter. He used to take me out onto jobs with him. I was holding a hammer before I learned to walk.” He smiles warmly at the memory.
“Your mom didn’t mind that your dad had you on a building site when you were just a baby?” Isabel takes a sip of her lemonade, the taste of it reminding her of her own mother who had taught her how to make it just like she had.
“I doubt it. She didn’t stick around long enough to see it so I guess she couldn’t have cared less.” His expression remains deadpan but there’s something behind the coldness of his tone.
“I’m sorry.” Without thinking about who might be watching, Isabel reaches out and covers his hand with hers. It’s a light touch and she feels his hand curl around hers.
“Don’t be. I figure it’s good riddance to bad rubbish. She didn’t want a kid, didn’t want a husband. It was worse for my dad. Shit, I don’t even remember what she looked like.” He shrugs as if to show he doesn’t care, but Isabel knows what it’s like to lose someone. Even if that someone was a crushing disappointment, it still hurt like hell.
Instead of pressing him to talk about something he so clearly wants to steer away from, Isabel tries another tack, making the most of the fact that she seems to have caught him in a slightly more loquacious mood.
“So you know how to fix things. Construction sites are like a second home to you, but you didn’t want to make a career out of it?” She turns her attention back to the overgrown garden, knowing he’ll be more relaxed if she’s not studying his reactions.
“The carpentry stuff – that was just a hobby, to help my dad out. I’d always wanted to be in the Marines. I can’t tell you why. It was just something I always knew I would do.” He takes a long breath and Isabel prepares herself for him to clam up, but he surprises her yet again. “After the Marines, I did a lot of things to make ends meet. Working with my hands came easy and the money was good. It made sense to me. I couldn’t imagine working in an office nine to five. I need to be doing something, making something, not just sitting around watching my life pass me by.” The passion in his voice lifts her spirits. It’s good to hear.
“No, I can’t really see you as an accountant or anything else, for that matter, that would require you to wear a suit.” She smiles at the thought of it. Emboldened by his openness, Isabel asks the question she’s been wanting to since she found out he used to be a Marine before he seemed to drop off of the face of the planet. “So if you loved it so much, why did you leave?”
“I could ask you the same question.” His rapid-fire response catches her off-guard. She shrugs, accepting the fact she’d walked right into that particular retort.
“You could, but we’re talking about you now, not me.” She waits, sipping her lemonade, looking at the plant beds that need weeding and the rose bushes that need trimming. Those roses had been her mother’s pride and joy; she would probably be horrified if she saw them now and she’d have a few choice words to say to Isabel about letting them run so wild.
Isabel has all but given up hope of Wesley actually giving her an answer when, slowly but surely, he starts talking. “I was injured.” He clears his throat, as if it’s something that’s hard for him to talk about. “I was on a mission in Afghanistan. It was my third tour. I guess third time isn’t always lucky.
His eyes have that faraway look about them that tells Isabel he’s no longer just recounting what happened; he’s reliving it. “My platoon and I were tasked with locating a threat and neutralizing it.”
It isn’t much of a stretch for Isabel to figure out that ‘neutralizing’ is just a euphemism for killing.
“We were first on the scene in pursuit of the threat. It was a routine mission, nothing different from what we’d done a hundred times before. But we were all a little tired, a little on edge; we’d been tracking him for about thirty-six hours without sleep. We were going through a town where we knew there were Taliban sympathizers.
“We had our guards up, alert, aware.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “But it wasn’t enough. There was this little kid, he had a yo-yo he’d made himself and he was all excited, wanting to show the American troops what he’d done.
“He was just a kid, couldn’t have been more than six or seven. It hardly took any time at all and before I realized what was happening it was too late. He wasn’t just any kid; he was a kid with a bomb strapped to his chest under his clothes. I saw him looking back towards an outcrop of rocks in the distance; that’s when I saw the riflescope.
“I shouted at the guys to hit the dirt but it was too late. The kid was already close enough to the platoon to do some real damage. I still don’t know if he’d been convinced to detonate the bomb himself or if the guy behind the rock had a remote transmitter. I guess it doesn’t really matter. The outcome is the same. The whole platoon was wiped out, except for me. I was the lucky one, apparently.”
The way he says it tells Isabel he doesn’t think he was lucky at all. She barely breathes, not wanting to halt his words, knowing he needs to tell the story as hard as it is for him to do it.
“There was nothing I could do. They were all gone. It was over in an instant. It took me a little while to realize I’d been hit.” He motions towards his leg. “You saw the scar that first night you patched me up.”
“It was a burn.” Isabel says the words quietly, nodding.
“A piece of burning shrapnel had lodged in my thigh. The doc told me it was less than an inch away from severing my femoral artery, that I would have bled out in seconds if it had even nicked it.” He rests his hand, almost absently on his thigh where the scar bears testament to the horror of that day. “That was just before he told me told they hadn’t been able to get all the shrapnel out.” Isabel’s head whips up at this. “He said there were tiny fragments, so small it would have been impossible to get them all out, that my body would expel them.” He shakes his had at the memory.
Isabel bites her bottom lip as she considers the pain he must have been in. An injury like that would have been agonizing, not to mention the after-effects. “It never really heals, does it?”
Wesley shakes his head slowly. “There are bits of metal still trying to find their way out, they rip me open from the inside. I couldn’t go back to active duty like that. I was a liability; that injury could have come back at any time and that would have put my entire team at risk. They offered me some bullshit desk job, but there was no way I was going to sit in an office while and push pens around while men that I’d trained with were fighting and dying. So I was out. I guess it’s no more than I deserve.” He leans his head back against the wooden railing, looking up at the clear blue sky.