Arlington Waltz

Arlington Waltz

By

Linda Basinger

            Jennifer Arden made her way across the sea of white crosses in Arlington National Cemetery. She breathed in the perfume of the fresh-cut roses she carried. Her husband Jim would have loved these, cut from the bush they’d given her parents to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Never did it occur to her that one day she’d be bringing bouquets from that bush to Jim’s grave. But here she was. She visited every Wednesday.

            Jim had been gone a little over two years, but a painful lump still arose in her throat when she approached his grave. Sighing, she pressed the bouquet to her heart.

            “I keep hearing how it’s supposed to get easier, Jim. Hurt less.”  A tear trickled, unchecked, down one of her cheeks. She sniffed. “It isn’t, though. It – it just isn’t. Maybe it never will.”

Finding a crumpled tissue, she blew her nose. “I’ve done all I know to do. Everything the counselor told me to try, too. I don’t know what else there is.” 

She arranged the blooms in the vase attached to the stone. “I brought these from the bush we planted for Mom and Dad. God, that was such a perfect day. A peace rose,” she mused, “planted with our hopes and prayers for a quick end to the war in the Middle East. Ironic, me bringing them to you here, a place of peace and tranquility. But the war just goes on and on.” 

Pulling bottled water from her purse, she watered the bouquet. “I think I’m making my friends and family crazy because I can’t seem to stop grieving. Your parents have even suggested that I consider taking off my rings. They think that would help me feel free to find a way forward. To go on with my life. They say you would want me to move on. Oh, love, I know you’d want me to get on with my life. But I don’t know -- I just don’t know. Maybe when the time is right…”

The soft breeze carried a low, soft-spoken male voice to her.

“I’m sorry, man. I should be the one in there, Gary, not you.” 

The voice sounded familiar. She pictured one of the soldiers she visited when taking hand-made gifts to Walter Reed. Why did this particular man, a sergeant, stand out in her memory so vividly?  He’d lost the lower part of his right leg, but there were many amputees. And she’d visited a lot of soldiers and veterans over the last year. Her counselor thought the visits would help her recover from the soul-wrenching grief that refused to release its hold on her. Clearly, the counselor was wrong.

The voice continued from a short distance behind her. “It’s just not right that I’m the only one of the squadron to get out alive.”  He coughed. “I saw your folks last week. They told me to stop thinking I should have been killed, too. But, Gary, man…”

She heard him choke back a sob. Knew she couldn’t turn around now and risk him knowing she’d overheard his outpouring of grief. Hearing him clear his throat and start talking again, she turned slightly to see who’d made the comment.

The man stood a slight distance to her left and on the row immediately behind her. He was tall, and jeans clad. From his bearing and posture it was clear to her that if he weren’t active duty now, he’d been recently. It might be the sergeant. The jeans could be covering a prosthetic leg. She decided to speak to him, but before she could, he turned and left. His smooth and easy gait convinced her it could not be the sergeant she’d met at the hospital. She suddenly became aware of a twinge -- something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Disappointment?  Over not seeing someone she didn’t even know?  Hmm. Maybe she should rethink Jim’s folks’ suggestion.

****

Standing at Gary Sylvester’s grave, Eric Wyatt mentally chided himself. Good God, man – pull it the hell together. You sound like a little kid. He looked up from Gary’s cross to refocus. At that moment, a woman at a grave just ahead of him turned toward him ever so slightly. The light breeze blew wisps of her soft brown shoulder length hair away from her face. Immediate recognition jolted him. He took in a sudden, short burst of air.

His beautiful angel, his inspiration!  She’d visited the hospital several times while he was still in a wheelchair. Often bringing hand-made gifts to the GIs, it always made his day to see her. He’d dreamt of dancing a slow, tender waltz with her. It was his motivation. He’d endured pain and frustration, and worked his ass off countless hours to master using his artificial leg. He’d managed to bring his stride to near perfection. He owed part of it to her, and knew he should thank her.

The sun glinted off the diamond on her left hand. Hell. He’d known all along she was off limits. Still, his fantasy of dancing with her had worked miracles. With it, he’d conquered his physical wounds. Maybe one day he could stop the nightmares, too. The medics kept telling him it was PTSD. He knew better. He was just weak. And it was unacceptable.

****

Jennifer brought flowers with her to the cemetery the next Wednesday. She wasn’t too surprised that no one else was in her vicinity.
            “Jim, I brought peace roses again.”  She’d just started talking about family news when she heard a man’s voice. It came from about the same place as the previous week. It wasn’t the same voice, though.

“Survivor’s guilt,” he said. “A kind of PTSD. He won’t accept it, though. Thinks he’s just being weak.”

She turned subtly, so as not to stare. A rather frail-looking, pale older man stood at Gary’s grave. He leaned heavily on a cane. Jennifer thought he was none too stable on his feet, and wondered if she should see if he needed some assistance. Maybe he should sit.

She thought she heard the old gentleman say something about love, but about that time a carriage drawn by six white horses in the distance distracted her. Carrying a black casket draped by the American Flag, it took her back in time two years. Seconds later, an intense reflection from the afternoon sun assaulted her eyes, ending her reverie.

The old man was gone. So frail an old man couldn’t possibly walk away so fast. She walked to the grave he’d been visiting. Searching in all directions for depressions that would have been made in the grass by a cane, she found nothing. As heavily as he’d leaned on the cane when he stood at the grave, it would definitely leave marks. It was almost as though he’d dematerialized. Could the stories of the ghost of the unknown be true, she wondered. She saw a single red rose on Gary Sylvester’s grave. It lay on top of a piece of paper which said, “Changing of the Guard, Tomb of the Unknowns, 10:30 Wednesday.” 

The next Wednesday, Jennifer arrived at Jim’s grave earlier than usual. A single red rose lay there.

“Jim,” she began, “I’m taking this as a sign. I think you’re telling me it’s time.”  She stabbed her fresh-cut rose bouquet into the vase. For the first time, she realized she didn’t have to talk around a painful lump in her throat. Yet another sign. Dabbing away threatening tears, she placed her wedding rings in her purse. Then she picked up the single red rose, and headed to the amphitheater.

Jennifer scanned the crowd, trusting that her intuition would guide her if nothing more substantial did. It was easy to spot him near the middle of the crowd. He stood proud and tall, waving his red rose aloft to get her attention.

“Sergeant?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Eric Wyatt. Or at least I was last month. Now I’m just Eric Wyatt. He smiled broadly and extended his hand.

She took his big hand in both of hers, feeling vulnerable without her rings. Even so, it was time for her to begin living her life again. She’d never been so sure of anything, and she beamed up at Eric.

“Jennifer Arden,” she said. “I remember you from the hospital.” 

His eyes, turquoise under mahogany lashes that matched his thick hair, gave her hands the once over. Then they took on a dreamy quality. “I remember you, too, Jennifer.”  He smiled broadly. “Better than you might ever imagine.”

The ceremony interrupted their banter. It brought tears to her eyes, as usual. She noticed Eric also allowed a few tears to moisten the corners of his eyes. She remembered how rigid and stern he’d seemed at Gary’s grave just the week before.

Maybe, she thought, he’s making some progress, too – like me.

He put his arm around her. “I’d like to take you to dinner this evening,” Eric said.

She smiled up at him. “Okay. Sounds fun.” 

In her peripheral vision, she caught a fleeting glance of the old man, a red rose in his hand, near the tomb. But he vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

****

When Eric escorted her onto the Potomac dinner cruise, she was glad she’d dressed up. The gleam she saw in his eyes told her he definitely approved.

“D.C. at night is gorgeous” he said, “but not as beautiful as you.”  He took her right hand in his and brought it to his lips, delivering a tender kiss. We’ll be cruising by a lot of the most notable places in town,” he added, “Including Arlington.” 

His arm draped protectively around her shoulder as they were shown to their table. Mmmm. He smelled so good.

Once they were seated, he reached across the table to hold her hands in his. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

Oh no, she thought. Please don’t say something bad. Her eyes widened. At his questioning look, she said, “Please. I – I just don’t want anything to mar our evening.”

He rubbed the top of her hand gently with his thumb. Gave her a lopsided grin. “Since the first time you visited that group of us at Walter Reed, I’ve thought of you as my angel. My inspiration.”

Now her eyes grew even larger. A big smile stretched her cheeks. “I never imagined,” she said.

“Thinking about you got me through a lot of hours of hard, frustrating work learning to get around with this.” He slapped his prosthesis.

“Oh,” was all she managed to say.

“I needed to thank you,” he said.

Her shoulders drooped. So that was it. A thank-you dinner, and that’s all. She’d foolishly let herself believe he might have feelings for her. “I see.”  She said.

Jennifer pasted on a fake but cheerful smile during the delicious meal. There was even wine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d received such sumptuous treatment. She should have been happy.

            The band began a slow waltz. Eric rose, extending his hand toward her. “Jennifer, may I have this dance?” 

            Her eyebrows rose toward her hairline. He could dance with his prothesis?

            As if he could read her mind, he added, “Trust me, Jen.”

Swirling gently around the small dance floor, she found herself humming along with the music. Good Lord – she hadn’t done that in years. Another sign, she decided. His arms around her felt so good. So right.

“Fantasizing about you, about us, dancing like this, is what got me through,” he whispered. “I think that’s when I fell in love with you, Jen.”

“Oh, Eric.”  His words went straight to her heart. She nestled her cheek against his shoulder, loving every tender moment of the slow waltz, of being in his arms. She was ready to move on, to find a new love. With Eric.

“Jen, do you know that guy?” Eric gestured toward their table.

“What guy?” 

“An old man. He’s putting a red rose on the table.” 

Jen smiled softly. “Do you believe in ghosts?”  

That Others May Live

That Others May Live

By

Silver James

     “I’m not a cripple.”

     “Never said you were, son.”

     Lt. Scott Bryan glared at the cab driver. Why wouldn’t the man take his money? He couldn’t stand people feeling sorry for him.

     The man twisted in the front seat and gestured toward the patch on the sleeve of Scott’s uniform. “Son, I was at Hamburger Hill in sixty-nine. I wouldn’t have made it if a helicopter full of PJs hadn’t pulled my ass out. I give a lot of you boys from Walter Reed free rides. Just my way of sayin’ thanks.”

     Scott cleared his throat but the lump that formed didn’t go away. He simply nodded and put the twenty back in his pocket. Struggling, he managed to extricate himself from the back seat without assistance. The doctors in Kandahar saved his legs but even after six months of physical therapy, he still walked with a cane. Leaning down to peer in the front passenger window, he offered a smile. “Thanks.”

     The cabby saluted and drove away as Scott turned to face the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery. The gold locket in his pocket burned a proverbial hole. He should have made this pilgrimage months ago. Instead, he’d hung onto the necklace as a sort of good luck talisman. The photo of the girl inside kept him pushing through the pain and exhaustion. It was wrong of him. He’d made a promise to a soldier as the man lay dying on the bloody deck of Scott’s helicopter—to return the locket to the girl back home. Only the helo had been shot down on the way back to home base after leaving the hospital heliport. His teammates had died, but Scott survived though horribly injured. Now he had scars—inside and out—and bum legs to show for it.

     He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering the now-familiar square pendant. He’d wondered who the girl was. Wife? Girlfriend? Did she mourn her soldier? He was half in love with the picture. He’d spent hours during physical therapy fantasizing about her. He didn’t care that she belonged to a dead man—a man he’d failed to save. That was his job. That others may live. The creed of the United States Airforce Pararescue Jumpers. He was supposed to save all those broken bodies he and the other PJs retrieved from the battlefields, flying them by helicopter back to a hospital. But he hadn’t saved this one and he hadn’t fulfilled his promise to get the locket home. 

     Two enlisted men passed him, both saluting smartly and pulling him from his reverie. He raised his hand to his forehead in response. Time to get this finished. He inquired where to locate the grave and set off, his gait uneven, to find it. He had an apology to make to the ghost of the man buried there.

****

     Emily Kane looked around to make sure no one paid her any attention. Sinking onto the grass, she crossed her legs Indian style and reached out to trace the name on the headstone. She had no more tears to shed so she simply sat, soaking up the early April sunshine.

     “Decoration Day is coming next month, Jeff. Remember I told you that Grandpa had your name added to the family stone back home?” She tried to laugh but the sound came out strangled and forced. “I keep reminding them that it’s called Memorial Day now, but you know how they are. They’ll put out a flag and lay a wreath. Grandpa will be wearing his American Legion cap and vest and he’ll salute right proper.”

A tear rolled down her cheek but she ignored it. “Ah, damn, bubba but I miss you.” More tears followed.

****

     Scott watched the woman. His heart hurt so much for her. He’d recognized her as soon as he walked up but he hated to intrude on her grief. He could make amends now, if he retreated to the entrance and waited for her. He would approach her and offer the return of the locket, just as Jeff Kane had requested. Fighting the urge to go to her, to offer comfort, knowing he only wanted to hold her as he’d dreamed of doing all this time, he backed away.

     “Easy there.”

     Startled, Scott spun around so quickly he teetered off-balance. Regaining his footing, he stared at the man who’d seemed to appear from thin air. The soldier’s gaze fixed on his shoulder patch and then the gold bar on his collar.

     “You okay, sir?”

     “Yeah. Yes. I’m good. I didn’t mean to plow into you.”

     The soldier stared over Scott’s shoulder. “She comes every week, you know.”

     Turning toward the girl sitting at the grave, Scott felt his heart lurch again. “She must love him a lot.” His mouth felt as dry as Afghanistan’s deserts but he managed to get the words out.

     “Yessir, I think she does. They were close.” The man glanced at him. “You should go introduce yourself, Lieutenant. She’d like that, knowing you were there, that you tried to help.”

     “But I didn’t. He died.”

     “We all die, sir. Sooner or later. She needs t’know that he was thinking of her, remembering home.” The man clapped Scott on the shoulder and gave a gentle push. “Go on now. I think you need to go introduce yourself, sir. She’s a real sweetheart.”

     Still wobbly on his bad legs and cane, Scott shuffled toward the grave and the pretty girl. Her hair, a dull blonde in the photo, glistened beneath the spring sun with shades of blonde and red. When he stopped beside her, he recognized the sprinkling of ginger freckles across her nose and cheeks but her blue eyes were far beyond anything her picture conveyed. She shaded those luminous eyes as she glanced up. She offered a curious if wavery smile as she watched him.

     “Uhm…” Scott shoved his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the locket. “I’m…uhm…”

     She glanced at his patch and a look of confusion replaced the hesitant smile. “Can I help you?”

     “My name is Scott. Scott Bryan. I…uhm…I’m a PJ and I…” His uncertainty surged as her eyes widened.

     “Were you there? With Jeff?” She jumped to her feet and her hand landed on his arm. Warmth spread straight to his heart. “We heard from his CO that he’d been picked up after the IED, that the PJs came for him in their helo and got him to Kandahar. Was that you? Oh my gosh but I’ve dreamed about meeting you, about thanking you.”

     She all but gushed in her excitement. All he could do was nod before she started babbling again. She finished by saying, “I’m Emily. Emily Kane. I…could I buy you a cup of coffee or a piece of pie or something?” Emily looked so pretty and so full of life. Scott couldn’t resist her.

     Thirty minutes later, they shared a table at her favorite coffee shop. She had something frou-frou, he had plain black in a ceramic mug. He loved the sound of her voice. Hell, if he was honest, he’d admit he loved her—no matter how inappropriate those feelings.

     “Jeff was an absolute jerk when we were growing up. And heaven forbid when a date came to the house to pick me up. He’d answer the door with a shotgun in his hands.”

     Her words finally penetrated his guilt-induced haze. “Wait…what? Dates?”

     Emily tilted her head and squiggled her nose. Scott had the insane desire to kiss its tip. “Uhm…yeah. Dates. I dated in high school. And my jerk of a brother decided he needed to scare off any potential boyfriends.”

     He stared at her for a long moment, realized his mouth was gaping, and snapped his jaw closed. “Jeff was your brother?”

     She nodded, looking bemused. “Yeah. And?”

     Scott didn’t breathe for a minute, despite the hammering of his heart. Then he started to laugh. He couldn’t stop. Within moments, he was crying through the laughter, feeling foolish, forlorn, and for the first time in months, hopeful.

     Emily reached over and cupped her hand over his. His fingers automatically laced through hers. How many times had he envisioned doing just that? He couldn’t count. Didn’t need to. When he finally regained control, he pulled the locket from his pocket and slid it across the table.

     “I thought you were his wife. He asked me to return the locket to you. It was really important to him. It was all he could think of, talk about, until I agreed. I planned to take it back to him, the next time we had a run to the hospital, but we crashed. And by the time—” His voice broke and he swiped his free hand over his eyes.

     “Shhh,” Emily soothed. “It’s okay.”

     “I have to say this. I found out Jeff died. I didn’t save him.”

     “But you tried.”

     “But I didn’t save him.” He couldn’t face her any longer, couldn’t stand to see her condemnation of him, so he dropped his chin to his chest, refusing to meet her eyes.

     Taking his hand in both of hers, Emily ducked and tilted her head so he’d have to look at her. “I tucked that stupid locket into his duffle bag as he was shipping out. He never mentioned anything so I figured it had dropped out and gotten lost.” Her smile remained strong even though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But it didn’t. He found it. Kept it. And made sure it got back to me.”

     They drank coffee. Talked. Held hands. Shared secrets. He admitted how he’d fallen in love with her picture, how thinking of her had seen him through his rehabilitation. She told him of growing up in Georgia, of coming to Virginia for college and staying, unwilling to go home where everything reminded her of her brother and best friend.

     Hours later, she drove him back to Walter Reed Hospital. Emily left him with a kiss and a promise of seeing him soon. They dated, became sweethearts, and visited Jeff’s grave every week. As Memorial Day approached, Emily scored tickets for the Presidential wreath-laying ceremony from her boss, a senator.

Memorial Day dawned overcast and chilly. Scott dressed slowly, making sure each part of his dress uniform was meticulous. His shoes glowed from the spit shine he’d put on them the previous night, his medals—including his Purple Heart—lined his chest in precise rows. Emily picked him up at the hospital and they joined the throngs at Arlington.

     They found their place in the reviewing stand—on the front row. People came up to Scott, thanking him for his service. The lump in his throat had grown to the size of fist and if Emily hadn’t been there, holding his hand, gazing up at him with adoring eyes, he would have bolted. He didn’t deserve praise. The ghosts of all the men he hadn’t saved lined up in his mind. Each one demanded recognition. He freaked out as the echoes of explosions and the clatter of chopper blades and small arms fire warred with the stench of blood and guts and the moans of broken men.

     Someone bumped his arm, a gentle nudge he almost didn’t feel, but it was enough to pull him back from the brink. He was surprised to see the same soldier who had urged Scott to meet Emily appear beside him. The man winked when Scott glanced at him.

     “You were right,” Scott whispered. “She is a real sweetheart.”

     An anticipatory stir ruffled the crowd. The soldier tapped the USAF Pararescue patch on Scott’s shoulder. “That others may live. That means you, too, sir.” He glanced pointedly at Emily, who was so engrossed in the pomp and ceremony she paid no attention to them.

     By habit, Emily slipped her arm through Scott’s, distracting him for a moment. When he glanced back at the soldier, the man was walking toward the Tomb of the Unknown. Before he could say anything, the ceremony began with members of the Old Guard executing their measured march. The soldier leaned against the Tomb watching. As the honor guard passed, another man joined him—a man who looked very much like Jeff Kane. Both men gazed straight at Scott, and saluted. He saluted automatically then watched as they disappeared.

     At the end of the ceremony, with the wreath in place before the Tomb, and with the last wavering notes of “Taps” drifting away on the breeze, Emily rose on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips.

     “Did you see them?” she asked.

     His gaze returned to the Tomb. “That others may live,” he murmured. He cupped Emily’s cheeks in his hands and kissed her tenderly. “I’m ready to start living, Emily. With you, if you’ll have me. I love you.”

She blinked rapidly and he recognized the hope shining in her eyes. “Are you…are you…”

     “Will you marry me, Emily Kane?”

     “Absolutely, Scott Bryan.”

     As they walked off arm-in-arm, the two ghosts leaned against the Tomb. “I think she got a good one, Sergeant Kane.”

     “Thanks to you. Hey, I don’t even know your name.”

     “Yeah. That’s the way it works, Sarge.” The Ghost of the Unknown shrugged and offered a wry smile as he faded into the white granite of the Tomb.

The Outsider

 The Outsider

by

Silver James

     Megan Carter stared at the blank window open on her laptop screen. She’d returned to Valentine, Colorado to be inspired, so this was supposed to be easy. She sucked hard on a chocolate Tootsie Pop, the white paper stick jammed in the corner of her mouth like a skinny cigarette.

     “What was I thinking? Oh, wait. I wasn’t thinking. Idiot. It’s February. In the Rockies. I hate snow.” She pushed back from the desk and rose to pace the confines of her luxury cabin at the SweetHart Lodge.

     The cell phone on the desk buzzed, dancing across the polished surface like water on a hot griddle. Megan didn’t bother to answer. The caller was either her editor or her agent. Both were panicked about her deadline.

     “Which is why I freaking came up here!” Her frustrated shout echoed through the empty room.

     This trip was supposed to be all about inspiration. She’d lived in Valentine for a couple of years in high school. Until her mother got wanderlust, picked up everything they owned, and moved to San Diego. It doesn’t snow in San Diego. But it snows in Megan’s unfinished romance novel. Hence her trip back to Valentine for inspiration. Her hero was a hunky ski patrol member and her heroine a reckless downhill skier. The whole idea was ludicrous. She knew nothing about skiing. What had she been thinking? Oh, yeah. Back to that again. 

     She poured a cup of coffee, lacing it liberally with cream and sugar before moving to stand in front of the picture window. Fat snowflakes drifted down and she experienced a moment of vertigo like she’d been caught in a snow globe, held upside down and shaken, not stirred. She’d have to bundle up soon and trudge over to the main lodge. Maybe that whole après ski thing would soak in as guests schmoozed around the fire. She could eavesdrop to get her Muse into high gear—and get an Irish coffee at the bar.

****

     Jesse Travers ducked his chin to his chest and hunched his right shoulder as he turned away from the couple strolling along the sidewalk he’d just shoveled. Holding hands and making goo-goo eyes at each other, they passed him like he was invisible. Just as well. He’d hate to give the woman nightmares.

     Wiping the sweat off his brow, he knocked his hood back. If it kept snowing, he’d have to get out the snow blower to keep up. He hated the noise and oily stink of the engine fumes when it was running. The sound and smell reminded him of things that gave him nightmares.

     Seemed he hated a lot of things these days. This place. The people who vacationed here. Life. He’d ended up back in Valentine by default after his discharge from Walter Reed Hospital in D.C. His old man had finally died and Jesse had to return to pay off the bastard’s debts. Val Hart offered Jesse a job and a place to stay in one of the old cabins on the back of the property. He hid out, doing odd jobs and repairs around the place. Come spring though, he and Sarge were leaving.

     A woman’s terrified scream raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Without a second thought, Jesse dashed toward the sound. He rounded the corner of one of the cabins and slid to a halt. Sarge had someone cornered on the ground. The woman was curled into a tight ball, still screaming even as she tried to fend off her furry attacker. Jesse waded into the fray, wrapped his fingers in Sarge’s collar, and yanked the big idiot back.

     “Stop screamin’, ma’am. He won’t hurt you.” The dog lunged at the woman’s face and she screamed again, right before the damned dog licked her face.

     “Jeez, Sarge. Release.” Jesse barked the order and the dog, with one final lick which dislodged something from the woman’s mouth, obeyed.

     She stared into amazing blue eyes—as hard and bright as aquamarine glinting under the summer sun—the same blue eyes she saw whenever she dreamed up a new hero. She recognized those eyes. Megan gasped.

     Jesse flinched at the sound she made. He flipped up his hood and shifted his face into the shadows. Only then did she realize he thought she was upset by his scars. She wasn’t. This man—who’d once been a boy as furtive in the shadows as he was now—had both rescued and humiliated her. She remembered the boy Jesse Travers had once been—the son of the town drunk—and a brutal man. She’d seen the bruises and cuts the boy tried so hard to hide. He’d been proud, even then, wearing his lost-and-found clothes like they came from an upscale store at the mall. He’d had a lean and hungry look in those days, much like his current expression.

     Megan peered around her. The dog had knocked off her glasses and now that both man and animal had backed away, she couldn’t see them as plainly. She patted the snow and rolled to her knees to check underneath her. Jesse just watched, silent and sullen. The dog—wolf—ravenous monster—decided she was playing a game. He jumped on her back, knocking her face first in the snow. She whimpered and tried to fend off the crazed animal.

     “Sarge, fuss.” Jesse’s voice crackled with command. The word sounded like “fooss,” German for “heel.” The dog seemed reluctant to leave her alone but he responded, dutifully returning to his master’s side. “Platz, Sarge.”

     A moment later, Sarge was belly down in the snow but his shining eyes tracked every move Megan made as she searched the snow again.

     “Lose something?”

     “Yes. My glasses.”

     Jesse kicked at the snow around his feet then bent from the waist and retrieved her heavy black frames. He hesitated then pulled out the tail of his flannel shirt and dried them off before handing them to Megan.

     She took them, settled them on her face, and gazed up at him. “I know you.” He shook his head and backed away. “Wait. Please? Jesse, right? Jesse Travers. You…I…we…” She inhaled and blinked a few times. “You saved me in high school. Down under the bleachers at the football field.” She held out her hand and offered a smile. “I think you just saved me again.” Megan wasn’t about to mention what else they’d done, or how he’d broken her heart.

     Jesse stared at her face before his gaze traveled to her outstretched hand. He wiped his palm down the side of his thigh before taking hers and pulling her to her feet. He didn’t say anything but his shadowed eyes glinted like gemstones under the soft streetlamps lining the pathway. Once she was on her feet, he jerked his hand away, like contact with her skin burned.

     “I’m Me—”

     “I remember. Megan Carter.” He turned on his heel and slapped his thigh for the dog to follow him. They left her standing there.

     If it hadn’t been so cold, Megan would have butt-planted in the snow. As it was, her knees barely held her upright. “Well, damn.” She exhaled on the oath, softening the sound of it.

     Jesse Travers. The boy of her dreams. The slayer of her dragons. And the man who’d broken her heart.

****

     His heart pounded in his chest and he fought the adrenaline surging through his body setting his fingers and toes on fire. He wanted to hit something. Or run. Megan Carter. She hadn’t changed a bit. Big doe eyes blinking behind the veil of her thick glasses. Full lips begging to be kissed. And he had. Despite everything, he had. Kissed her lips and more back then.

     Sarge whined at his side and Jesse automatically dropped his hand to the big dog’s head. He’d dreamed about her, hunkered down in a dozen different war zones. He’d pretended she was still his, that she’d be waiting for him when—if—he returned. He didn’t deserve her, but he’d wanted her. What the hell was she doing here? Especially now.

     The dog whined again as Jesse gripped his ruff so tight he was pulling fur. He relaxed his hand and breathed. In. Out. Thinking about the action until the pressure in his chest eased.

     Another couple approached, arms wrapped around each other. Jesse turned away, burying his face against the rough wool of his coat. He was still the invisible man. Just as well. He couldn’t stand to look in the mirror so how could he expect anyone else to look at him. Except Megan. She’d watched him. Even though she gasped—he knew he’d frightened her—but she didn’t turn away. She didn’t hide from the scars on his ruined face.

     Sarge crunched something in his teeth. Jesse bent to take whatever it was away, only to pull out a sticky mess wrapped around a wad of paper. He laughed. Sarge’s penchant for sweets was legendary. That’s why the dog went after Megan. She’d been sucking on a chocolate Tootsie Pop. The muscles of his face stretched and felt odd. Then he realized he was smiling. He hadn’t smiled in…he couldn’t remember.

****

     Megan cupped both hands around her Irish coffee and stared at the flames leaping in the massive fireplace. Her view was blocked momentarily as Tina Hart, one of the owners of the SweetHart Lodge plopped into the chair next to her.

     The grandmotherly woman didn’t waste time with small talk. “Val and I saw you talking to Jesse.”

     Blinking a few times, Megan considered what to say. Her jaw finally loosened so she could speak. “Is there a problem with that? Is he not allowed to speak to guests?” She snarled the questions.

     Tina arched one brow. “Jesse can speak to whomever he pleases. I just—”

     “You just what? If he’s allowed to speak to guests then there is no problem with me talking to him, is there?” Megan clenched the glass coffee mug so tightly the whipped cream on top threatened to slosh over the edges. What had gotten into her? She inhaled, relaxed her hands, took a sip, and then exhaled. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hart. That was rude of me. I just…Jesse and I were in high school together. Things were… Well… His life back then…I mean…” She inhaled deeply. “I just want things to be okay for him.”

     The woman leaned closer and patted her knee. “My grandson went to school with Jesse, too. It’s okay, hon. I understand. And I’m glad to see he has a champion. Afghanistan was…”

     Megan winced. “Is that how he was injured?” She was relieved, though, as she’d worried his father had scarred Jesse’s face with one of his beatings.

     Tina nodded and spent a few minutes explaining about the IED explosion, Jesse’s injuries, what Sarge meant to him, and why he was back in Valentine. The longer the innkeeper spoke, the more Megan’s heart broke.

     That night in bed, she tossed and turned. Every time she closed her eyes in an attempt to sleep Jesse’s eyes pierced the darkness. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen and he was the most handsome man she’d ever known. Even with the scar. She wanted to kiss it, kiss him. Hold him. Her body ached with the memory of their one time together. It had hurt and been uncomfortable and she’d cried but Jesse held her and kissed her and told her everything would be okay. Only it wasn’t. He disappeared the next morning and a week later, her mother was packing them up to move.

     Megan knew what she wanted. She’d always loved Jesse and she was positive her feelings were more than the lingering effects of a schoolgirl crush. No other boy had ever affected her like he did. And now he was a man—a man still confined to the shadows. Her stomach lurched at the thought. He must be so lonely. She wanted to bring him out into the light, to prove he didn’t have to be on the outside looking in. Never again.

     With her mind made up, she rolled over and drifted off to sleep.

****

     Jesse greeted the dawn without ever seeing his bed. He’d been too restless, but he’d come to a decision. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t face Megan, or the pity he knew would be in her expression whenever she looked at him.

     Sarge was curled on the rug, his muzzle resting on his front paws, eyes never leaving his master. He occasionally whined and offered a gentle thump of his tail on the worn wooden floor of the cabin.

     “We can’t stay, Sarge.”

     The dog’s gentle woof sounded chastising. Ignoring the dog’s censure and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jesse got ready for his day. A couple of the snowmobiles needed maintenance. He’d take care of those and then tell Val Hart that he was moving on.

     Chores came hard and fast and before Jesse realized it, the sun dipped behind Valentine Mountain. Lights blinked on in the gathering shadows even though the sky looked like someone had painted it with pastel pinks and purples. Mr. Hart would be in the office. It was time to say goodbye. As he turned the corner of the building, he found the parking lot full of vehicles, including the sheriff’s SUV. A crowd gathered near the front doors to the Lodge.

     “There he is, Sheriff Landers!” Brian Benjamin, the Lodge’s ski instructor, pointed toward Jesse.

     He slowed and hunched lower under his hood.

     Val Hart waved him over, calling, “Jesse, we need you! We have a missing guest.”

He relaxed a little but kept his chin down. There were a lot of people and lights and he wasn’t comfortable with either.

     “We don’t know when she went missing,” Mr. Hart explained to the sheriff. “One of the maids saw her headed toward Cupid’s Creek Trail. Nobody saw her come back, her room is empty, and with weather moving in, we’re worried.”

     The old man gave a quick description but when he said the guest’s name, Jesse stopped breathing. Megan was missing? Sarge quivered at his side, picking up on the tension in the group.

     The sheriff split the searchers into groups and gave terse orders. Sarge did his best to pick up the scent but the area was muddled with tracks, people, and too many odors for the dog to winnow out the right one. Hard dark and a fast-moving winter storm had the sheriff calling off the search around ten p.m. Disheartened people tramped into the Lodge looking for food, drink, and warmth.

     Jesse wasn’t ready to give up. He’d run away from her in high school. He wouldn’t abandon her now. “We’ll find her.” He turned on his heel and gave Sarge a sharp command. “Fuss. Heel.” They started up Cupid’s Creek Trail and Jesse issued another order. “Such, Sarge.” The word sounded like tsuuk and meant track. “Such Megan.”

     The dog raised his muzzle, lifted one front foot then he lowered his nose to the snow and took off. Jesse followed close behind, his breath catching in his chest as his heart hammered. Within minutes, a curtain of snow cut off view of the lodge. Jesse didn’t stop. Megan was out there, lost and alone, and she wouldn’t survive the night if he didn’t find her.

     Midnight arrived. And left. The military watch on Jesse’s wrist glowed. Two a.m. The sharp wind abated but still swirled and drifted snow so that he had to struggle forward. He was so cold. And so afraid. Then Sarge’s bark echoed through the night. And he heard a faint shout.

     “Help!”

     Megan! He pushed through the snow, running hard now, no longer exhausted. Sarge’s excited barking guided him and he found her halfway submerged in a pond at the bottom of a short slope. The ice had broken, dowsing her legs. The dog had her coat sleeve in his mouth and was tugging even as Jesse slid down the slope.

     After dragging her up onto the bank, he noticed her blue lips. Her teeth chattered so much she couldn’t talk. He didn’t have a radio. Staring around him, wild-eyed and panicked, he realized they were trapped in white-out conditions. Even if he had a radio, no one could find them. It was up to him to get Megan to safety. He wouldn’t fail her again. He’d die first. He pushed away the very real possibility that neither of them would make it.

     “Megan? Megan, you have to hang on, baby. I’m going to get you out of here. I’ll get you home and safe.”

     She nodded mutely.

     “Sarge! Home, boy. Take us home.” With a happy bark, the big dog followed an overflow trough below the pond. Jesse wanted to carry Megan but she’d be better off moving, getting the blood to flowing.

     After what seemed like hours, the area around them looked familiar. A few minutes later, Sarge led them straight to Jesse’s cabin. Inside, Megan collapsed on his ratty old sofa while Jesse stoked the fire.

     “I’ll start the shower. We need to get you out of those wet clothes, Megan. I have to get you warm, baby. Okay?”

     Once in his bathroom, Jesse discovered Megan didn’t have the strength to stand on her own. He stripped her and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he stripped as well. Taking her in his arms, he stepped into the shower, under water as hot as Megan could stand it. The small room filled with steam but he knew she could see his scars—every last ugly one of them.

     Megan gazed up at him, her eyes tracing the scar that ran from his forehead and down around his left eye to slash across his cheekbone. The tip of her finger followed the same path a moment later. Her touch felt almost reverent. Her teeth had stopped chattering and color flooded her cheeks.

     “You’re always saving me, Jesse.”

     He shook his head, denying where the conversation was headed. “I’m no hero, Megan.”

     “You are to me.” She rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. “You always have been,” she murmured against his mouth.

     With a groan, he wrapped her tighter in his arms and kissed her back, his tongue tracing her lips before they parted and let him in to taste the sweetness of her mouth. The bands constricting his chest and heart eased.

     Later, after he’d called the sheriff to let everyone know Megan was safe, they lay curled together under a pile of blankets in front of the fire. He told her about his life. About what had happened the night after he’d pledged his love to her and she to him. About the Army. About Afghanistan. About Walter Reed. Sarge lay beside Megan, adding his warmth.

     “I loved you, you know,” she whispered when he finished his story. “I still do.” He opened his mouth to protest but she stopped him with a gentle finger laid across his lips. “Shh. All I want is the chance to get to know you again.”

     Jesse closed his eyes. “There’s not much to know. Not much worth knowing.” He mumbled the words and moved to roll away from her. She’d have none of it.

     “I love you, Jesse Travers. Period. Just the way you are. I have since that day under the bleachers when you scared those bullies away.” She snuggled into his arms and within a few minutes, her misadventures caught up with her and she drifted off.

     When Megan awoke, she was alone. The fire radiated heat and looked liked it had been stoked not too long before. She found a neatly-folded stack of her clothes—jeans, sweater, socks, and dry boots. She dressed in front of the fire, still chilled to the bone from her ordeal. She’d been terrified but never once doubted that Jesse would find her. She knew all she had to do was hang on until he came. He didn’t disappoint.

     Something scratched at the door. Curious, Megan opened it. Sarge sat on the porch, the handles of a bag from Serendipity Bakery in his mouth. She retrieved it and peeked inside—chocolate, flowers, and… She glanced up at the man who stood in the shadows of the porch. He’d always been an outsider. She refused to let him remain one.

     “Are these for me, Sarge?”

     The dog woofed and she rubbed his ears as he nosed the bag. Megan smiled at Jesse and stretched out her hand. He took it and moved into a small patch of sunlight. He wasn’t wearing his hood. Her eyes glistened with tears as she twined her arms around his neck.

     “I love you.”

     “Yeah…I…I love you, too.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Be sure to return tomorrow for the next story, CHOCOLATE, FLOWERS, AND...CHAMPAGNE by Anna Kittrell. If you missed a story, you can use the Older Post button below or the archive list on the right to go back and catch up. Happy Valentine's Day!