One Was a Soldier (3 page)

Come on already! Come on!
What jackass had decided it was a good idea to separate family members from soldiers they hadn’t seen for eighteen months? When he’d come home from Vietnam, he’d just stumbled off a Pan Am flight from Hawaii. Yeah, it wasn’t a hero’s welcome, but at least he got to hug his mom and his sister, not stand at parade rest in front of an officer who sounded like he was running for Congress.

Finally,
finally,
the official orders terminating the brigade’s deployment were read, and the CO dismissed his command, his words drowned out at the end by a howl of glee from the waiting crowd as they surged forward, mothers and fathers and wives and children, arms outstretched, too eager to wait any longer.

Russ stayed where he was as civilians swept past him. She had seen him. She had marked him. He had no doubt she would find him. Sure enough, there she was, wrestling her way through the crowd, beret stowed in her epaulet, rucksack over her shoulder, the reverse image of the woman he had last seen walking away from him beneath a gray January sky eighteen months ago. Major Clare Fergusson. She kept her eyes on him the whole while, an undeveloped smile on her face. She halted in front of him. Dropped the rucksack to the concrete floor. Looked up at him.

“Promised you I’d come back.” Her faint Virginia drawl sounded out of place against the North Country Yankee burrs and flat Finger Lakes twangs all around them.

She didn’t leap into his arms. They had been circumspect for so long, always standing apart, controlling their eyes and hands like nuns in a medieval abbey. They had no easy familiarity with each other’s body. The two weeks they had been lovers—a year and a half ago, before she shipped out—seemed like a fever dream to him now. The small velvet box he had stuffed in his pants pocket suddenly felt like a five-pound brick.

He thrust the roses toward her. Two more ragged petals fell to the concrete floor. The bouquet looked as if a goat had been chewing on it. She bit her lip, just barely keeping a smile from breaking out. “Why, thank you, Chief Van Alstyne.” She took the flowers in both hands and buried her face in what remained of them. She had tiny lines etched along the outsides of her eyes that hadn’t been there when she left.

“They don’t have much of a scent.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, brushed the velvet box, jerked them out again. “But wait till you get to St. Alban’s. You missed the lilacs, but the roses are amazing. You can smell ’em halfway across the park.”

She looked up at him over the fraying flowers, her smile changing to something wistful. “I can’t wait.”

He stepped toward her just as she bent to reshoulder her rucksack. She let go, opening her arms in time for him to nearly knock her over as he ducked to grab the duffel for her.

“Screw this.” He kicked the canvas sack to one side and took her by the shoulders. “C’mere.” She folded inside his embrace as if she had always been there, and he kept his arms hard around her, his cheek resting on her too light, too short hair. Letting the reality of her, the warmth and weight and solidity of her, sink into his bones.

“Holding on,” she said against his chest.

“Not letting go.”

“I want to go home.” She tipped her face up. “Take me home.”

He smiled. “Petersburg, Virginia?”

She shook her head. “No. Millers Kill, New York.”

The parking lot was throwing off heat like a griddle in the late June sun. He tossed her rucksack into his truck bed and popped the doors. He thought for a second, then slipped the velvet box from his pants to the driver’s seat pocket. He jumped in, ratcheting the AC to full as soon as the engine caught. “Sorry,” he said as she climbed into the ovenlike cab. “I would’ve kept it on for you, but I didn’t want to risk running out of gas. The army doesn’t seem to have changed its hurry-up-and-wait policy since I was in.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s been so long since I’ve been in an air-conditioned vehicle, I’ve forgotten what it’s like.” She unbuttoned her bulky uniform blouse and stripped it off, revealing a gray T-shirt that stretched across her breasts when she twisted to drop the heavy shirt and the roses onto the narrow backseat. His throat went hot and tight. He shifted into gear and rolled out of the lot.

“Do you—” He coughed to get his voice under control. “Do you want to stop for a bite to eat? I went by the rectory yesterday with the fixings for a couple meals, but I didn’t know what you’d feel like doing. What you’d want to do.”

She stretched her arms toward the vents, which had begun blasting cool air, and closed her eyes. “Oh, Lord, this feels good.” She smiled, still shut-eyed. “Just to be sitting here in a truck without having to wear thirty pounds of Kevlar.” She ran her hands flat-palmed down her T-shirt from her collarbone to her waist, a perfectly natural gesture that nearly caused him to swerve over the centerline.

He corrected with a jerk. Which he was starting to feel like. She had just gotten in from a combat zone, for chrissakes. She still had dust on her boots. She was enjoying the first real freedom she’d had in a year and a half, and all he could do was salivate over her.
She’s not a piece of meat, asshole
.

He focused on getting up the ramp and into the flow of traffic on the Northway. The only good thing about the battalion’s delay and the interminable ceremony was that it put them on the road after Albany’s rush hour. In his rearview mirror, the Empire Plaza towers caught the setting sun, their marble and steel surfaces almost too bright to look at.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her turn toward him, tucking one leg beneath her. “You’ve gotten back from more deployments than I have.”

“Probably.” Definitely. He’d been in more than twenty years. Funny. He’d thought that would make him more sure of himself, welcoming her home.

“What were the first things you always wanted?”

“A shower.” He didn’t have to think about that one. “A home-cooked meal. A bottle of whisky. Sex.” He felt the tips of his ears pink up.

He felt, rather than saw, her slow smile. “Well. That’s what I want. A shower, Lord, yes. A home-cooked meal. A bottle of whisky. Sex.”

He took a breath.

“And I can’t wait to celebrate the Eucharist again at St. Alban’s.”

He laughed. “I can guarantee you that’s one thing I never considered when coming home.”

“Multifaceted, that’s me.” She touched the side of his face, curved around his ear, traced his jawbone. “What sort of fixins did you put in the fridge?”

He swallowed. “Uh. A rotisserie chicken and a bag of salad.”

She slid her hand down until it rested on his thigh. “Doesn’t sound very home-cooked to me.” Her fingers kneaded his suddenly tense muscles.

“Quick,” he said. “Quick prep.”

“Good.” He heard the snick as her seat belt unlatched. “I’ve waited eighteen months for you. I think I’m about out of patience.” She flipped the console out of the way and slid toward him.

“Buckle up,” he said automatically, and then she wrapped her arms around his chest and shoulders and her lips were on his neck, her tongue flickering along his jaw, her teeth worrying his ear.

He braced against the wheel, arms shaking, trying not to let his head drop back and his eyes close. “Clare,” he got out. “Jesus, Clare…” Her hands were all over him, touching him, unbuttoning his uniform blouse, tugging his T-shirt out of his pants. “What are you doing, you crazy woman?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “If you can’t recognize it, it’s been too long.”

He flew through the twin bridges, barely keeping the truck in its lane. “I got it all set up for you at the rectory.” His voice was a grating whisper. “I got candles.”

“I hope they’re in better shape than your flowers.” She pried his belt buckle apart.

He gritted his teeth. “I was shooting for romantic.”

“I don’t need romance,” she said. “You had me at ’Scuse my French.’”

She laughed against the back of his neck, and he laughed, and he said, “God, I love you,” and her hand closed around him and he groaned, laughed and groaned and shook. “Stop.”

She pulled his T-shirt away from his neck and bit into his shoulder. “Do you mean that?”

“God! No.” He thumped the back of his head against the headrest. “I mean yes.” He flapped a hand at her in a half-assed way. “I don’t want to make love with you for the first time in a year and a half in my goddamn truck.”

“I missed you,” she said into his skin. “Oh, my love. I missed you so much.” She stroked him, once, twice, three times. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Exit 14 was coming up fast. He could pull off there. Where could they go? It wasn’t dark enough to park behind—he lifted his eyes to the rear view mirror and saw the whirling red-and-whites behind him.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Clare, get off me.” He glanced at the speedometer. Eighty miles an hour. He jerked his foot off the gas and signaled to pull over.

Clare looked back over the edge of the seats. “Uh-oh. Is that what I think it is?”

“Sit down and buckle up.” One-handed, he attempted to zip back up and refasten his belt.

“Can I help you with that?”

“I think you’ve helped quite enough, don’t you?”

Laughing, she swung back into her seat and put on her seat belt.

“Christ.” He brought the truck to a standstill and turned off the ignition before stuffing his T-shirt back into his pants. “Let’s hope it’s not somebody I know.”

In his side mirror, he saw the state trooper get out of his car. Russ placed his hands on the steering wheel in plain sight. Clare had hers over her mouth, trying—not very successfully—to stifle her laughter.

The trooper reached Russ’s window and signaled him to roll it down. Russ complied. The trooper glanced into the cab, taking in Russ’s radio and switch light, the lockbox and roses in the back, and Russ’s crumpled uniform blouse, hanging loose over his T-shirt.

“License and registration, please.”

Russ reached for his rear pocket. “I’m retrieving my billfold,” he told the statie. “Clare, will you get my registration out of the glove box?” He waited until she had gotten the slip of paper, then passed both documents through the window.

The trooper studied them. “Sir,” he said, “are you a peace officer?”

Russ sighed. “Yes, I am.”

“In Millers Kill?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I see your identification, please?”

Russ flipped open his billfold and handed it to the guy. The trooper studied the badge and ID. Looked up at Russ. “
Chief
Van Alstyne?”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

“That’s correct, Trooper—” he peered at the man’s name tag—“Richards.”

Richards handed the billfold, license, and registration back to him. “Mark Durkee’s in my troop. He was one of yours, right? He speaks very highly of you.”

Russ couldn’t think of a good response to that.

“Do you know why I stopped you, sir?”

“I was driving fifteen miles over the posted limit with an unbelted passenger in the front seat.”

“Actually, sir, when I first picked you up, you were going twenty-five miles over the speed limit. I’ve been following you for eight miles. You didn’t notice me?”

“I was … distracted.”

Trooper Richards looked at Clare, who was doing her best good-soldier imitation. “I see.”

“She’s just gotten back from Iraq,” Russ said inanely.

“Welcome home, ma’am.” The trooper eyed Russ. “I don’t need to lecture you on the importance of safe driving, do I, sir?”

“No.”

“Or the importance of making sure everyone in the vehicle is properly belted?”

Russ resisted the urge to check his pants to see if anything was still hanging open. “No.”

“Then I trust the next time I make you at eighty miles per hour, you’ll be responding to a call.” He glanced at the radio mount. “You haven’t been on the radio, have you?”

“No.” Russ frowned. “Why?”

“Your dispatcher’s looking for coverage. A bar fight at some place named the Dew Drop Inn. She’s sent one unit out, but she wants another for backup.”

“I’ll get on it. Thanks for the tip.”

The trooper touched his hat. “You have a good night then, sir.” He glanced at Clare. “Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Trooper Richards. I’ll try to see that he does.”

The trooper’s stone face twitched. “
After
you get him home, please.”

“Absolutely.”

Russ powered up his window as Richards got back into his car. “God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again.

“What? You got out of a ticket. If I’d been driving it would’ve been two hundred dollars and a point off my license.”

“I’d rather get a ticket, if it meant I wasn’t going to become tomorrow’s coffee break hot topic. Staties are gossip hounds. They make Geraldine Bain seem like a hermit under a vow of silence.” The Millers Kill postmistress was better known for passing on the latest tidbits than she was for handing out the mail. He switched on his radio and unhooked the mic. “Dispatch, this is Van Alstyne, in own vehicle. I understand you’ve got some trouble?”

Harlene’s voice came on immediately. “Chief? What are you doing on the air? I thought you were picking up Reverend Fergusson?”

“I’ve got her right here. What’s up?”

“Brawling at the Dew Drop Inn. Hadley’s on her way, but I thought she should have some backup.”

“Good call.” Knox had graduated from Police Basic a year and a half ago, and she had come a long way, but he didn’t like the idea of a woman alone tackling the lowlifes that frequented the Dew Drop. “Who’ve you got?”

“Paul’s tied down with a three-car accident out past Lucher’s Corners. Tourists. Eric’s in the hospital with a drunk driver.”

“Lyle?”

“Off fishing somewheres. I left a message for Kevin. He was planning on getting back to town today. I asked him to call me if he can assist.”

“He doesn’t have to report for duty until tomorrow.”

“Tonight, tomorrow, what’s the difference?”

He sighed. “I’m on my way.”

“No!” Harlene sounded scandalized.

He looked at Clare. She nodded.

“I’m on my way. ETA thirty minutes. Let Hadley know.”