The One Worth Waiting For (11 page)

Instead, the center of the camp riveted all attention. There, an old, tottering school bus rested with idling engine. A man and a woman were directing the flow of activity, and as Garret watched, the younger children in the camp slowly climbed onto the bus. Dimly, he heard orders being issued in French and understood the commands because he knew French from his Cambodia days.

Abruptly, he was aware of all the other sounds: the weeping of the women, letting their children go, the wails of the children, frightened by their mothers’ tears. And finally, the distant, constant sound of shelling.

Every now and then, one of the weeping women would look toward that sound and the distant sight of the city. The shelling had grown closer just this morning.

Then Garret’s eyes found her.

He recognized her right away, and in the depths of his mind, he already knew her name. Zenaisa. She bent over, her long, honey blond hair half hiding her face as she straightened the collar of the young, somber-faced child in front her. Behind her, her husband, Zlatko, looked on with a grim expression.

The first tear trickled down her son’s face, and with a feeble smile, she wiped the tear away. A matching tear trickled down the other cheek. She found that tear, as well, and then she smoothed his threadbare coat with a mother’s touch, her hands lingering briefly on her son’s thin shoulders. The EquiLibre L’Entreprise Humanitaire would take the children away to safety. Most likely they would remain in an orphanage for the months to come. Some might be adopted. Perhaps some might even manage to find their parents after the war.

No one knew.

As Garret watched, Zenaisa reached into the folds of her overcoat and pulled out a small package. Even from his position at the perimeter of the camp, he could see her hands tremble. And even from this distance, he recognized the carefully tied bundle as the remnants of their last UN package, containing tins of beef and fish, half a box of cheese and one bar of soap. Zenaisa had stood in line five hours to get the supplies.

Sudic began to cry in earnest now, his pinched seven-yearold face crumpling into a mask of raw terror and desperate pain. For one moment, Zenaisa gave in and crushed her last living child close to her heart. Her hands shook as they smoothed his dark hair, her shoulders trembling as she rocked his tiny frame and prayed for strength and hope in a time when there appeared to be none. Zlatko placed a hand on her shoulder, and she loosened her grip on the child.

There were tear tracks on her cheeks, but she still smiled at Sudic, soothing him with soft words as her hands lingered on his shoulders one last time. With a sigh of determination, she stood and brushed off her dusty skirts. Then she took her son’s hand and led him to the bus.

She stood there for a long time as the bus pulled away. The women around her sobbed, some tearing at their hair with the force of their grief. But Zenaisa just stood there and watched her son’s face disappear into a haze of dust.

Zlatko came up behind her and placed his large, callused hands on her shoulders. She turned then, looking at him with a wide Slavic face that once had been beautiful, but now was worn and tired. Abruptly, she threw her arms around her husband’s shoulders, burying her head against his neck.

And right before Garret had to look away, the emotions burning his own throat, he saw her shoulders shake with the force of her tears.

“Darn it, Cagney, the man needs something to do! We can’t just keep him locked up in my house all day.”

Cagney eyed her with his calm gray gaze and arched an eyebrow. “Is there something I should know?” He’d never seen practical Suzanne so flustered before. It was only eight a.m., but half her hair had already escaped from its customary knot, and her cheeks were flushed.

“That’s none of your damn business!” she snapped, raising his brow even higher. “Just help me figure out something for him to do!”

Cagney sighed, rising from the corner of his desk to stretch out his leg while he contemplated her words. It was too early in the morning to be worrying about Garret again. He was a newly engaged man with a beautiful, passionate fiancée. What in the world was he doing arriving at the sheriff’s office at eight a.m.?

He dragged a hand through his rumpled black hair and gave Suzanne another thoughtful look. Garret always did wreak havoc on her nerves.

“How’s his back?” he asked presently.

“He gets around all right. He still sleeps quite a bit, but I think he’s about to eat me out of house and home.”

“Sounds like Garret.”

“You’re not helping.”

Cagney threw up his hands in self-defense and tried to fend her off with a disarming grin. “I’m working on it, I’m working on it. But for goodness’ sake, Suzanne, I haven’t received much more than a couple of phone calls and postcards from Garret in the past ten years. How do I know what he likes to do?”

“He’s your brother.”

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.” Cagney pivoted, and unconsciously began rubbing his left leg. His limp was much better these days, since he’d started doing the doctor’s stretching exercises. Still, if he moved too suddenly, the old bullet wound plagued him. “Dad just overhauled his shop. I suppose I can ask him for his old tools.”

“Furniture tools?” Suzanne looked unconvinced, but pondered the idea. “Where would we put them?”

“Don’t you have that shed by your garden?”

“Yes, but my garden supplies are in there.”

Cagney gave her an exasperated look. “Surely you can move your garden tools for this. Remember, it’ll get him out of the house.”

That seemed to convince her. “Will they all fit?”

Cagney shrugged. “Only one way to know. Look, I’ll talk to Dad this afternoon and tell him I’d like to play around with his old tools. He’s never said anything, but I think he’s always wished one of his kids would show an interest in craftsmanship.” Cagney frowned, looking unhappy. “I hate lying to him, you know,” he said suddenly. “I hate having a deputy watching my own parents’ house and not being able to tell them.”

Suzanne’s gaze instantly softened, and she nodded her head. “It can’t be much longer,” she said quietly. “He really is recovering remarkably fast. Sooner or later, it won’t matter if his memory has returned or not. He’ll simply leave out of the pure frustration of not knowing what to do.”

Cagney looked at her for a moment, then gave in to his impulse to tell her everything. “I heard from Mitch,” he said abruptly. “He did some minor checking from the road. Garret’s considered AWOL.”

Suzanne’s eyes opened wide. “Garret would never desert. He just wouldn’t.”

Cagney nodded his head. “I know, I know. He would never deliberately desert. But let’s face it, Suzanne, he came here covertly. Obviously, they don’t know where he is.”

“Do you think maybe he should contact someone?”

Cagney frowned, his face looking troubled once more. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. But Garret always did have uncanny instincts. I used to think both he and Mitch were throwbacks to the old warriors. Mitch always knows when something bad is about to happen, and Garret…Garret just seems to know what to do. Think about it. He was shot in the back. Most people would have gone straight to the hospital, and most men back to their unit. Garret came here, told us to tell no one and ordered Mitch out of D.C. Until he remembers more, I think we have to trust that.”

Suzanne nodded, but her face was as troubled as his own. “How’s Jessica?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Eight months pregnant with twins, so she’s mad as hell to be on the road. Mitch says she’s going along with it for now, but if Garret had them leave for no good reason in the end, she’ll skin him alive. Hmm. That could be interesting. The Ice Angel taking on Garret.”

Suzanne gave him an exasperated look. “I’m sure Garret had them leave for a very good reason;” she insisted. “So you’ll get the tools?” she prodded, returning to the original subject.

Cagney nodded. “I’ll see what I can work out. Most likely I can bring them over this afternoon. I’ll try to stop by the lumberyard as well. Maybe we can figure out something constructive for Garret to do rather than eat all your food.”

Suzanne’s mind unwittingly flashed to what other activities Garret had been doing, and she felt her cheeks flush. “Fine,” she squeaked, and immediately headed for the door. If she blushed much darker, Cagney wouldn’t need her to say a word to know what was going on. And she’d just as soon keep her foolishness to herself.

Maybe she had been living alone for too long, and that made her, well, susceptible to Garret. But she was over that now. The efficient Suzanne was back. She’d gotten up first thing this morning and called Cagney to get something worked out. Now Garret would work in the shed, and she’d have her house back. It was exactly what she wanted.

She marched primly to the door, ignoring the small flutter of disappointment in her stomach.

“Just come over when you have the tools,” she called over her shoulder as she opened the door.

“Will do. And Suzanne, it’ll take more than a hobby to keep that whisker burn off your neck.”

Her cheeks turned positively scarlet, but she didn’t say a word. Not even when she slammed the door on Cagney’s droll gaze.

Her house still looked like her house when she pulled her old Ford back into the driveway. The wraparound porch was becoming warped in places but could probably survive another year before being replaced. The white paint at least looked good; she’d awakened the morning after her mother’s funeral to find her fellow church members on her front porch, armed with paintbrushes and pails of fresh paint. After the strain of the past few years, their actions had brought tears to her eyes. Now, every three years, they all reappeared on her lawn, ready to help yet again. When she died, she would leave the house to the church. Rachel didn’t want anything to do with Maddensfield, and there were no other Montgomerys left.

She climbed out of her car and took a deep breath. This was her home, and she was proud of the life she’d built. And darn it, she’d come far enough to be able to deal with a simple man.

She marched up the porch into her house, this time looking immediately behind the front door so she wouldn’t be scared witless again. There was no sign of Garret, however. She combed the first floor, but it was empty. Slightly puzzled, she climbed up to the second floor. But the four bedrooms were empty, with nothing stirring but old cotton curtains she’d sewed years ago. Frowning, she went up to the third floor. It was much too hot up here during the summer, so the three bedrooms were used only for storage. Garret wasn’t here, either.

The first prickle of unease snaked up her spine.

She climbed down the stairs much faster than necessary, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed as she found herself searching the second floor yet again. But nothing—no one—moved. The house was simply empty.

He’d left.

She’d known it would happen, had told herself quite logically that the day would come. But that realization didn’t quite prepare her for the sudden sinking feeling in her stomach, the new tremor in her hands. All at once, she felt empty and not herself at all.

Then in the next second, she heard a sound from the backyard. Bunching her loose skirt in her hand, she bustled down the remaining stairs and along the back hall. She came to a heart-stopping halt in front of the back door, her eyes opening wide. Through the window she could see an ax arch up in the hot July sun, then come whistling back down into a small log. It split cleanly and toppled to the ground.

Without breaking rhythm, Garret placed a new log on the stump and hefted the ax once more. Bare muscles glistened in the hundred-degree heat and high humidity. Sweat rolled down his biceps and chest, disappearing into his black furred chest as the ax arched up and swung down with relentless precision.

She felt her mouth go dry and her legs begin to tremble. She placed her hand flat against the window for support, her eyes still glued to the man in front of her. With a bandanna tied around his forehead, his jet hair spiked with moisture around his shoulders, he looked wild and reckless. And he looked comfortable and efficient with an ax in his hands. She opened the back door.

Garret didn’t know how long he’d been chopping, and it didn’t matter. He’d found the old ax in the shed and the tool had called to him. From his earlier memories, he knew he’d used an ax to chop wood as a teen. In the fire-seared corners of his mind, he knew he’d carried an ax for far more serious purposes. He’d picked up the old tool out of fascination, and the comfortable feel of it in his hands had sent chills up his spine. It was like coming home.

He’d followed his instincts after that, finding a pile of logs outside the shed and setting them up on the stump one after another. In the beginning, the movement had tested rusty muscles. Now, a fourth of a cord of wood later, he moved like a well-oiled machine. He felt the sweat and the heat and the thirst. He felt the slow burn of tired arms and the tingling pain of his wounds.

He felt good. And as he moved through the pain and heat and thirst, he could remember the sign every SEAL saw from the first day of training: “The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.”

He hefted the ax above his head, and let it whistle on its way back down.

“What in the world are you doing?”

Suzanne stood on her back porch in a yellow twentiesstyle dress, her hands on her hips. She looked lovely, her hair rolled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked angry.

He swung the ax up and felt his blood sing. He slammed the ax back into the wood, watching it split with instant satisfaction.

Suzanne, however, wasn’t put off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her come bustling down the porch steps, her lips thinned into the kindergarten-teacher look he was beginning to know so well. But rather than stop in front of him, she went immediately to his back. He heard her gasp, but even then it took him a few minutes to put it all together.