Ring of Fire (19 page)

She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment. “Aw, how cute. You're saying a man needs to feel like he's the big, strong male?”

Maybe. Not that he was going to admit it. “More like the woman in his life can lean on him when she needs to, and he can help her.” Which was something that he questioned Lark's ability to do, despite her promise that she would.

“Can he lean on her, too?”

Eric tried to imagine his dad leaning on his mom, but couldn't make that picture form in his mind. And yet here he was with a woman who'd rescued him from a fire and helped him with his PTSD. “Yeah, though it may be hard on his ego.”

She turned her head to look at him, slowing their pace a little. “Why should it be, Eric? If a man believes that women are equal, why should it hurt his pride if he leans on one now and then?”

She sounded a little annoyed, which sure wasn't what he'd intended. When he'd said she was feminine in the right way, he'd meant it as a simple compliment. He hadn't expected a discussion of feminism, though in retrospect, knowing Lark and how she'd been raised, he probably should have.

“Maybe it shouldn't,” he conceded. “It's my dad's conditioning talking.” They were walking down the main street, approaching the Wild Rose Inn. “You were raised by a strong, independent mom and you're a lot like her. I was raised by a ‘man of the house' guy and a woman who centered her life around her husband.”

“I sure can't relate to that.”

“I know. Seems to me you aren't all that inclined to lean on a guy.”

“I do with my firefighters when it's called for.”

“But not in your personal life.”

“I haven't needed to.”

She had her mom; together, they formed a self-sufficient unit. Besides, her ex-husband and her biological father had disillusioned her. Eric got it. It was just his stupid male pride, wanting to balance the scales between them and, for once, have her rely on him.

Lark said, “Besides, your father did lean on your mother. A whole lot.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“When he was overseas, she did everything, didn't she? Raised you kids, kept the home, paid the bills, kept everything functioning. Took all those responsibilities off his shoulders.”

Along with some help from Eric and Quinn, once they were old enough. But yeah, basically Lark was right. “I never thought of it that way. I mean, I knew she did all that stuff, but I didn't think of it as him leaning on her. Yet you're right; all those tasks were essential and a nonmilitary couple would have shared them.”

“I'd guess your dad didn't think of it as leaning on her either,” she said dryly.

Lark reached the door of the inn first, but Eric managed to get a hand out and open it for her before she could do it herself. She shot him an amused grin as she walked through.

Eric followed, glancing around. It was the first time he'd been in the lobby, though he'd eaten at the Western bar two or three times. The décor was artfully rustic: slightly battered wooden furniture that looked as if it might date back to the 1800s, warm colors, and photographs of miners from the town's gold rush past.

Behind the front desk sat an attractive young woman with short black hair and a touch of Latina in her coloring and features. He'd seen her before, once behind the Wild Rose bar and a time or two around town.

“Lark,” she called, coming toward them. “Nice to see you.”

“Hi, Cassidy.” The two women exchanged a hug. “Have you met Major Eric Weaver?”

The younger woman extended her hand. “A pleasure, Eric. I've seen you in the bar, haven't I?”

“You have. Nice to meet you, Cassidy.”

“Cassidy and her husband, Dave, own the Wild Rose,” Lark said. Then, to her friend, “What are you doing on the desk on a Friday night?”

“There's a basketball game at the high school tonight and Coach Dave's doing his thing. I'd have gone, but our evening receptionist wasn't feeling well so we sent her home. Are you two here for dinner?” There was definite curiosity in her pretty bluish gray eyes.

“We are,” Lark said.

“I won't keep you then. Have a lovely evening. I highly recommend the stuffed portobello mushroom appetizer, and the Cornish hen is one of Chef Mitch's specialties.”

Eric and Lark both murmured thank-yous, then crossed over to the entrance to the dining room, where a hostess offered to take their coats. He was no expert on female styles, but he figured that the woman's upswept hairdo and long, dark blue velvety dress with lace at the neck were modeled on fashions from the gold rush days.

Eric hung on to his leather jacket since he wasn't wearing a sport coat underneath, but Lark unbuttoned her trench coat and took it off.

No, she wasn't clad in lacy lingerie. Even so, she was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. A dress the color of pumpkin pie gently hugged every toned muscle and firm curve, ending several tantalizing inches above her knees. She looked even more delicious and edible than pumpkin pie. Man, what he could do with a spray can of whipped cream . . .

As Eric followed her and the hostess into the dining room, he was only vaguely aware of the dark wood and brass ambiance of the room. Mostly, he just concentrated on not tripping over a chair—or his own tongue—as he drooled over Lark's straight back, curvy ass, and endless legs.

When the two of them were seated across from each other in a booth, the hostess gave them menus and departed.

Lark said, “Isn't this a gorgeous room? Dave decorated it like a saloon in a ritzy gold rush hotel.”

“Gorgeous,” he echoed, his gaze on her rather than the room. There was a candle on the table, safely enclosed in a miniature version of an old-fashioned glass chimney lamp. The light made Lark's walnut-colored skin glow and glinted off a thin gold chain that circled her neck, calling attention to both her long neck and the smooth stretch of skin above the top of her dress. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks. It's new. Well, new used.”

“Huh?”

“New to me. It's from the thrift store.”

“It looks like it came from a designer shop.” Or maybe that was just Lark, looking like a million dollars. Arousal heated his blood. He peeled out of his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, wishing he could take off his tie and roll up his shirtsleeves.

“It's shorter than I'd normally wear. I'm sure I'm several inches taller than the designer had in mind. The sleeves are short, too, but Maribeth at the store tells me that's fashionable.”

He didn't give a damn about fashion. What he noticed was how the sleeves hugged her toned, shapely arms down to below her elbows, then bared her pretty skin. A wide silver and gold bracelet with an etched First Nations design accented her right wrist. She wore no watch, no rings, nor any nail polish on her short nails.

“I wouldn't change a thing,” he said fervently, eliciting a grin from her.

A waiter in period costume offered them drinks, and they agreed to share a bottle of wine. Since neither of them knew much about wine, they asked the waiter for recommendations, and then chose a Syrah from Nk'Mip Cellars in the Okanagan.

“I'm starving,” Lark said. “I watched Mom and Jayden eat tuna casserole and I didn't have a bite, but it sure got me salivating.”

He was salivating, too, but over her in that dress, in candlelight. Still, he said, “Then let's order.”

They studied the menu for a few minutes and then, his decision made, Eric finally gazed around the room. The décor matched the period costumes: dark wood, old-fashioned paintings, sparkling crystal, and subdued light glinting off brass. The music playing softly was more modern, though. Not Western music, but what he thought of as “easy listening.”

The waiter arrived to open and pour their wine, and take their food order. When he was gone, Eric raised his wineglass and said, “To being with you tonight.”

She touched her glass to his. “I've really been looking forward to it.”

They both drank and approved the wine. Eric thought he caught a hint of blueberry or blackberry as well as something peppery. After years of drinking mostly beer, he could actually kind of get into the subtleties of wine. But right now, his conversation with Lark was more important than playing wine connoisseur.

“That thing I said earlier,” Eric started, wanting to clarify in case she'd formed the wrong impression, “about my mom. I didn't mean to sound disrespectful. It's just how things are with Forces spouses. If a husband or wife is in the Forces, the other spouse tends to center their life around them and, you know, keep the home fires burning and look after the kids.”

She frowned. “You're saying that if one spouse is in the Armed Forces, the other will always come second? I find that hard to believe.”

He reflected on the military families he'd known, both as a kid and as an adult soldier. “Okay, not always,” he conceded. “It depends on what the non-Forces spouse wants to do, career-wise. A member of the military is expected to move several times. We're given new postings to ensure we keep getting more training and experience. Imagine trying to be a lawyer or doctor or firefighter if you have to move whenever your spouse is transferred to a different base. A person with work like your mom's does better, though I'm sure it helps your mom to build up local contacts over time. Like the gift shop that carries her paintings, and the boutique that sells her clothing.”

“I see your point. But that's no reason that the spouse who's in the military has to be the boss. Seems to me, the person who's at home running the house and raising the kids is really the person in charge of the family.”

“Maybe it's a Forces thing to take that role. We're trained to lead, to be in charge, to be decisive.”

“To command?” she queried.

“Well, yeah.”

Their waiter arrived to deposit the appetizers—scallops for her and a stuffed portobello mushroom for him—on the table and check how they liked the wine. After he'd gone, they both tasted their food and then each other's.

As they dug in, Lark picked up their previous conversation. “In my job, I'm in command. But can you see me coming home and trying to boss my mom around?”

He laughed. “No way. So maybe figuring out the, uh, balance of power has more to do with personalities?” Not only did he enjoy looking at Lark, but she was one interesting woman to talk to. Her perspective certainly got him thinking.

“And with the personality dynamics in the relationship.”

“Yeah.” Reflecting on his parents, he went on, “My dad's completely up-front about who he is. I don't think he'd have acted any differently when he and Mom were dating. She had to know he was the dominant type. So maybe that was the kind of man she liked.”

“I guess some women do.” Lark scrunched up her face in distaste.

“As for what it's like to be the spouse of someone in the military, I don't know that anyone's ready for that unless they grew up in a Forces family.”

“I can imagine.” Lark ate another scallop and then said, “I'm sure some people are truly happy to be a supportive Forces wife or husband.”

He nodded. “It's a way of serving their country.” Not that his mom had really thought that way, as far as he knew. For her, her role had simply been to be his dad's wife and to raise their kids.

Lark nodded. “Yes, I see that. Or like you said, if the spouse has a job they can do at home, then they can work anywhere and still pursue their career dreams.”

“I guess so.”

Finished with her appetizer, she put her fork down and stared across at him. “Eric, you've said you don't want to get married and have kids because you don't want your family to have the same kind of life that you and your mom and Quinn had. But maybe it doesn't have to be that way. If you found a woman who was confident and self-sufficient, and had a career she could pursue wherever she lived, one who didn't mind being alone or raising children by herself for periods of time, and who could handle the stress of worrying about you . . .” Her voice trailed off and she glanced away from him.

He wondered what she was thinking. That finding such a woman was extremely unlikely?

She focused on his face again. “I think you could make a great husband and father, Eric. Don't rule out that possibility. Try to imagine what it would be like, and examine your heart to see how you feel about it.”

Hmm. So perhaps she didn't think it was so unlikely. Finished with his giant mushroom, he sipped wine and tried to do what she'd suggested. To imagine himself with a wife, a partner to share his life with. A couple of kids, smart and fun and sassy. His life would be so much richer.

But there was a serious glitch. In that picture in his head, the woman was Lark and one of those fantastic kids was Jayden.

And that was wrong. All wrong. Lark had made it very clear that she never intended to marry again. It was equally clear that she loved being fire chief in Caribou Crossing.

There was something else wrong with the picture, too. If he was with a wonderful woman like Lark and a terrific kid like Jayden, how could he leave them for months on end? No, he wasn't his dad. He couldn't juggle two priorities in life: for him, it was the army and only the army.

Which was good, because there was another reason that the idea of him, happily married and raising a child or two, didn't sit right. It wouldn't be fair, not when Danny Peller had been denied that very same kind of life.

Chapter Fourteen

Lark saw the troubled expression on Eric's face. It seemed that whatever he was imagining was giving him more concern than hope.

She shouldn't feel a twinge of pleasure about that. Really, it was too bad that he wasn't more enthusiastic. She honestly did think he'd do well with a family. A wife and children would soften him, lighten him up, bring joy to his life, and he deserved all of that. He was great husband and father material, too. Eric was a smart, focused man who respected women, was good with kids, and was thoughtful and willing to consider different points of view. Not to mention, of course, being fit, handsome, and incredibly sexy.

She couldn't have him for herself, so—No, scratch that. She didn't
want
him for herself because she didn't want a husband. Nor would she give up the career she loved and had worked so hard for, and trail around after a soldier, much less ask her son and mom to do the same.

Their waiter came to clear the empty appetizer plates, and she was grateful for the interruption to her train of thought. She noted that three couples were dancing on the small dance floor. The tune, incongruous for country-and-western Caribou Crossing, was Frank Sinatra's “New York, New York.”

Then she smiled, understanding. “It's because of Evan.”

“What? What's because of Evan?”

She hadn't realized she'd spoken her thought. “The music. See the youngest couple on the dance floor? That's Evan Kincaid and his wife, Jess. The song's either a tribute to him or a sly poke.”

“How so?”

Still watching the dancers, she said, “He grew up here and sneered at it as a hick town, counting the days until he could run off to New York City. And he really did ‘make it there' as the song says, building a successful business as an investment counselor. He didn't return to Caribou Crossing for ten years.”

She glanced at Eric. “When he did, he reunited with Jess, who'd been his best friend when they were kids. They fell madly in love. She's one of those people who totally belongs here. You couldn't imagine her anywhere else. Anyhow, Evan proposed to her and moved back.”

“Carrying on his business online? Does that work for him?”

She shook her head. “He gave it up. He left Manhattan and his rich clients and now he's doing investment counseling here, which must be a really different thing.” Evan had made a major life and career move to be with the woman he loved.

“Yeah, I'd guess. That's a big change. Is he happy?”

“From what I can see, he and Jess are extremely happy. They have a toddler, and Evan gets along wonderfully with Jess's daughter from her first marriage. Which, by the way, was to Dave, the hotel owner who's now very happily married to Cassidy.”

Eric's eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely. Happy endings all around.” And they were all nice people who deserved their happiness. She glanced at the dancers again, for some reason feeling wistful.

“Want to dance?” he asked.

“I'd love to, but”—she gestured toward the approaching waiter—“here's our food.”

The waiter served their main courses: braised lamb shanks for Eric and stuffed Cornish game hen for her. He poured more wine for them, and departed.

As she and Eric began to eat, Lark decided not to return to the subject of Eric's possible future happy ending, since it seemed to unsettle both of them. Instead, curious to learn more about his relationship with his father, she asked, “Your dad wanted you to be a soldier from the time you were born, right?”

“More like from the time he found out Mom was pregnant, and he decided the baby was going to be a boy.”

She swallowed a delicious bite of Cornish hen and herbed wild rice and said dryly, “Handy of you to oblige him. Both by being a boy and by wanting to be a soldier.” Though she wondered if that boy had truly wanted to be a soldier or if he'd been more concerned with meeting the expectations of his hard-line father.

Eric shrugged.

“So your dad wanted a wife who would fit her life around his, and he found one. Then he wanted a son to be a soldier, and you complied. What did he want from Quinn?”

“To get good marks, be a good girl. Though, as I mentioned before, she didn't fall into line the way Mom and I did.” He took another forkful of lamb.

Lark's immediate thought was:
Good for Quinn
. Best not to tell Eric that. “He never wanted Quinn to be a soldier?”

Eric shook his head. “No, he was always pretty sexist about women in the military.” He added quickly, “Which I'm not. I've served with women and they pull their weight, just like the guys. But he was from a different generation of soldier. Of men. He honestly believed—believes—that women are the weaker sex and should be protected.”

“Or subjugated.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe some of that, too.”

“I don't think your father and I would get along.” Not that they'd have any reason to meet.

He barked out a laugh. “No, I think you're right.” His lips pressed together, then curved, and his gray eyes danced. “Oh, man, I'm imagining you and your mom taking on Dad.”

Why didn't Eric take on his father? He wasn't sexist; he didn't believe the same crap his dad did. Why didn't he stand up to him? God forbid she raise Jayden so that he was afraid to express his opinions to her. “Better make sure we're all unarmed, right?” she said, an edge to her voice.

Eric eyed her warily. “Pretty much.”

“Who would you bet on?”

His jaw tensed, and then he said slowly, “It's hard to conceive of anyone winning against Dad. Or, at least, him conceding victory to someone else.”

She wouldn't like his father. Might not like his mother, either. Quinn, on the other hand, she did like. Even though Eric's sister was a little confused and unfocused, she was a good person and clearly had Eric's best interests at heart. That counted for a lot with Lark. Besides, Quinn had challenged her father, which was more than Eric seemed to have the guts to do.

“You're disappointed in me,” Eric said flatly.

She gave a quick head shake. “It's not for me to judge someone's relationship with a parent. It's often pretty complicated.”

“Thanks. But you think I should stand up to him when he spouts sexist crap. Lark, it wouldn't get me anywhere. He'll never change his mind.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Go on.” Eric leaned forward. “Say it.”

Sighing, wondering if this would mean the end of their relationship, she put down her fork. “Silence implies agreement.” And that was why she had to be honest with Eric rather than keep her mouth shut. “Besides, I don't care about your father changing his mind. I care about you being true to yourself.” She held her breath, wondering if he'd explode.

His brows drew together in a scowl, but he didn't speak for a couple of minutes. He drank some wine, put down his glass, and said, “I can be true to myself without engaging in a futile battle.”

She considered that, and then she sighed again. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes. “Really? You get it?”

“It's like my dealings with the town council. There are certain things I can get them to do for the fire department, and others they'll never budge on. It's a waste of energy arguing with them. If I really need those things done, I have to find another way. I can step back and not engage, and still be true to myself. I'm sorry I said what I did, Eric.”

She reached across the table of the booth to rest her hand on his wrist. This was the first time he'd worn a dress shirt and, while he looked great in the more formal clothes, it felt odd to touch crisp cotton rather than his warm skin. “Will you forgive me?”

“Of course,” he said. “I like that we can speak our minds to each other. But let's not talk about Dad anymore. He's a touchy subject, and I've had enough touchy subjects raised today.”

She squeezed his wrist and released it so they could both go back to their meals. “You'll never take me out for dinner again if I keep raising all these touchy subjects.” But that was who she was. She had learned, with Jayden's father, that she had to be herself. If you presented a façade to the world, you never gave people a chance to like the real you.

“It's not just you, Lark. Something else happened today.”

Something that put a dark-cloud shadow in his gray eyes when he thought about it. Concerned, she asked, “Want to talk about it?”

“No. Thanks.”

Trying not to feel shut out, she ate in silence as he did the same. “Delicious dinner,” she said. “Want to taste?” She offered him a bite of Cornish hen and stuffing.

He leaned over to take the forkful into his mouth. “Mmm, it is.” He gave her a bite of lamb in exchange.

After another couple of minutes, she said, “We could talk about the weather.” In truth, there were a dozen more interesting neutral topics she might raise. And should raise, because it was silly to feel hurt that her casual-sex lover wasn't sharing all his personal problems with her.

“I like the crispness in the air,” he said.

Seriously? He was really going to talk about the weather? Fine. She could do that. “And the colors of the leaves. They're so gorgeous. Though I hate to see the leaves fall and the tree branches get bare. It seems sad, somehow. At least until the snow falls and turns the place into a wonderland.”

“I bet Caribou Crossing's pretty in winter.”

“In all seasons.” Which he likely wouldn't find out; his PTSD was improving and he'd probably be gone before winter came.

Eric ate the last bite of his dinner and laid his knife and fork neatly across his plate. “Maybe I do want to tell you about it.”

Warmth flooded through her. “And I want to hear.” Again she reached over to touch him, this time grasping his hand. Oh, yes, this was better than touching a shirt cuff. “I promise—well, I'll try my best—not to be judgmental this time.”

His lips twitched. “Feel free to be opinionated, though. Not that I can stop you.”

She winced. “Am I that bad?”

“No, it's good that you have opinions and share them. I like how straightforward you are.” He winked. “And at least half of what you say actually makes some sense.”

With her free hand, she swatted his arm. “Half? Try ninety percent.”

“Can we agree on seventy-five?”

Chuckling, she said, “Let's finish off the wine and you can tell me what happened.” Then she frowned slightly. “Though I'm curious why you didn't want to tell me.”

“It's just . . . You never share your problems with me.”

Oh. He did seem touchy on the subject of reciprocity. A proud person herself, she could understand that. “Eric, I don't actually have any problems right now.” She bent to rap the knuckles of her free hand against a table leg. “Touch wood.”

He peered intently into her eyes, and then nodded. “Okay. I'm glad about that.” He poured the last of the Syrah into their glasses. “I got a call this afternoon from a sergeant in my old unit, Black Bart—”

“Black Bart?”

“Name's Bartholomew and his skin's so dark a brown it's almost black. It's not racist, honest. Lots of soldiers get a nickname.”

“What's yours?”

“Nails.”

“I'll bite. Why?”

“Because when I was wet behind the ears, I was trying to be this real tough guy. Another soldier ribbed me that I wasn't tough enough to eat nails. Idiot that I was, I said, ‘Try me.' Fortunately, he didn't, he just landed me with the nickname.”

“Aw, that's cute,” she teased. Then she said, “I'm sorry I interrupted. Go on. Black Bart phoned you?”

“He said they drew straws and he lost.”

She raised her eyebrows in a question.

Eric took a hearty slug of wine. “Some of the guys in my old unit have e-mailed me and I guess I haven't been good about responding. So they decided that someone should call and see how I'm doing.”

“Why didn't you answer the e-mails?”

He shrugged. “I did sometimes. Told them my rehab was coming along fine and I'd be back soon.”

“But that wasn't enough for them?”

“They wondered why it was taking so long. They've never seen anything”—he swallowed hard—“get the better of me. I guess it worries them.”

“Sure it does. They're your colleagues. They want you to be okay.”

“Well, yeah, but . . .”

“But what?”

He tried to pull his hand free from hers, but she tightened her grip. “But what, Eric? I want to understand.”

“If this gets the better of me, the same thing could happen to any of them. It's tough being a soldier and seeing another soldier die or get seriously injured. You realize it could be you. It could be your family at home, getting the bad news. They want me to be back so they can pretend like nothing happened.”

“You have a prosthetic leg. And Danny's gone. How could they pretend?”

“Oh, they know the truth, deep down. But there's a kind of denial or avoidance thing that happens. Also, I suppose I'll be tangible proof that we can overcome whatever shit the bad guys throw our way.”

Except they couldn't, not really. Nothing could “overcome” Danny's death. But maybe the soldiers needed “Nails” back, as strong as ever, to give them a sense of optimism that allowed them to carry on, day by day, no matter how challenging their mission. “And you've been avoiding them because you don't want to tell them you have PTSD?” she ventured.