A Soldier Comes Home

And for a few minutes there, she’d held out hope that Ray Hughes would be the one. The man who would help her move past the fear and hurt into something wonderful.

A man who hated her now, before he even knew her. On the scale of things, most would say it was a minor loss, but it hurt all the same. She looked out the kitchen window, toward his now darkened house. Was he sitting there in the dark, brooding? Did he regret anything he’d said?

Was there any way for the two of them to reach across the misconceptions and try again?

CHAPTER TWO

RAY TOOK A LONG SWIG of coffee and stared out the windshield of the rental car, fighting the fatigue that dragged at him. He was still on Baghdad time, where it was 2:00 a.m. At 4:00 p.m. in Lincoln, southwest of Omaha, the sun sat low in a gunmetal sky. He had the heater in the car turned up full blast but he could still feel the cold radiating through the windshield glass.

He’d rented the car this morning at the Colorado Springs airport and set out for Omaha. While he’d waited for his turn at the counter, he’d thumbed through the phone book and found a furniture store and asked them to deliver a sofa, a television and a king-size bed.

“Don’t you want to come down and pick something out?” the woman on the phone had asked, incredulous.

“No. I want a brown leather sofa, a big-screen TV, and I don’t care what the bed looks like as long as the mattress is good and not too soft.” He’d given them his credit card information, told them where to find the house key, and they’d promised to deliver everything that afternoon.

Later, he’d find a car lot and buy a new truck. The fact that before shipping out he had paid off the one Tammy had stolen galled him. He’d been looking forward to having no vehicle payments.

That didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he was going to get his son, and he’d bring him home to a house that didn’t look like thieves had swept through it.

He gripped the steering wheel at the top and slid his hands down to rest at nine and three o’clock. Going to his parents’ place always tied his stomach in knots, but never more than now. Would T.J. remember him? Would he cry for his mother?

Ray didn’t want to think about Tammy, but every time he’d closed his eyes last night, she’d been there. He’d slept—or tried to sleep—in the recliner, a blanket he’d found in the closet thrown over him. But memories of his marriage played in his head like movie trailers highlighting all the best and worst scenes.

They’d met at a bar. Did single people meet anywhere else these days? The bars around Fort Carson were packed every night with men and women eyeing each other across the pool tables and dance floor.

She had been bent over a pool table when he’d walked in with a group of friends. Her dark brown hair fell like a silk shawl over her shoulders, past her waist. She’d worn a short skirt that showed off her legs, and black leather boots that ended just above her ankles. She’d glanced back and caught him staring and smiled at him, and he’d felt as if she’d landed a hook in his heart and tugged.

She’d hooked him all right. And reeled him in. He’d gone willingly, and when he’d gotten the Dear John letter he’d felt the hook rip right out. The news had hit him as hard as an enemy bullet.

She’d said she was lonely. She was tired of waiting. She was young and deserved to be out having fun. Only later had he heard from a buddy still stationed in the Springs that she’d moved in with another man.

Another soldier.

She wouldn’t have done it by herself. She’d have been fine if she’d stayed home.

At first he’d been happy she’d made a new friend. Her e-mails had been full of talk of Chrissie. Me and Chrissie went out last night to a club near the base. Me and Chrissie had a girls’night out. Me and Chrissie had a lot of fun.

But Chrissie was single and Tammy was not. Seeing her friend flirt and go out with guys probably made Tammy want those things, too. She wouldn’t have left him otherwise.

He leaned forward and snapped off the heater, warmed by a renewed surge of anger. Chrissie had fooled him at first, too. Last night, when he’d opened the door and seen her standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand, a plate of food in the other, a cloud of red curls framing her face, he’d thought for a moment he was hallucinating.

That she had reached out to him that way had touched him so much he could hardly speak. Watching her, feeling the wine slide down his throat and warm his stomach, he’d allowed himself a small flare of hope. Maybe his life wasn’t completely in the toilet.

And then he’d realized who he was talking to and that little flame was doused.

He shifted in his seat and forced his mind away from last night, to the future. He was going to see his son again. He didn’t know anything about raising a kid, but he’d figure it out. They’d do all right together. Just the two of them.

AS SOON AS the office mail was delivered and parceled out, Rita retreated to the shelf in the corner she used for charting and opened the envelope addressed to her in familiar handwriting. Paul sent his letters to her here so she’d get them earlier in the day. He started that after she told him how antsy she got when she was expecting to hear from him—how she couldn’t concentrate on her work, wondering if there was a letter waiting at home for her.

He’d told her his friends gave him a hard time about the letters. Why didn’t he just e-mail like everyone else? But he said he thought better with a piece of paper in front of him and a pen in his hand. Even as a boy, he’d kept a journal, and his grandmother had predicted he would be a great writer. For now, his letters home were his best work.

She unfolded the two sheets of paper and smoothed them out. Paul had beautiful handwriting. His third-grade teacher was also his aunt, Wilma Blue Legs, and she had made the children practice their cursive letters in an old copperplate style no one cared much about anymore.

Rita knew because she’d been in Wilma’s class, a year behind Paul. Even then she had admired the slim boy who sometimes made faces at her in the lunch room.

We have a new medic here who is from Boston. A real city boy. He found out I was Indian and he was like a little kid following me around, asking all these questions. You know the ones, all about what was life like on the reservation and all that. I told him life on the rez wasn’t that different from life in Baghdad, except that here it’s a lot hotter and they don’t have as many tourists.

She smiled. That was Paul. He always tried to put something amusing or lighthearted in his letters. He never talked about the dangerous stuff, except in offhand ways.

You might have seen something on the news about a bombing near the base. It was a bad scene but we are all okay.

By we he meant his unit. His buddies. The Special Forces group who lived and worked together. His tribe he called them sometimes. He’d moved into Special Forces after Chrissie’s husband, Matt, was killed. Paul said losing one of his buddies made him want to do something to have a bigger impact on the war. He’d thought Special Forces was the answer. She was proud of him and scared for him all at the same time, but mostly tried to keep the fear to herself, though she knew he sensed it.

I was sitting outside the barracks, watching the sunset just now. The sunsets can be pretty spectacular here. I think it’s all the dust in the air that reflects all the colors. I wish you could have seen it. It reminded me of when we used to sit behind by Mom and Dad’s house and watch the sun go down. I’m looking forward to doing that again with you soon. You know I love you. You’re what keeps me going.

She folded the letter and held it to her chest, imagining she was holding him instead.

Chrissie passed and saw her smiling. “A letter from Paul?” she asked.

Rita laughed. “How did you know?”

“Insurance explanations of benefits don’t make you smile that way.”

Rita shook her head and tucked the letter into the pocket of her smock.

“How’s he doing?” Chrissie asked.

“He sounds good. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me anything else. He doesn’t want me to worry. It’s the whole stoic-warrior thing.” She waved her hand. Truth be told, a sensitive, new age guy who bared all his emotions would have freaked her out. She’d been raised by people who had suffered hardship for generations. Lakota didn’t emote—they endured.

She checked her watch; she didn’t have another cleaning for twenty minutes. Her supplies were in order, so she had time to visit. She followed Chrissie up front, where she was pulling double duty as receptionist in Allison’s absence. The little blonde had the rest of the week off to welcome her husband home.

“That was fun last night,” Rita said. The movie had been silly, but silly was exactly what she needed. Seeing Allison so excited about Dan’s return had brought home how many months it would be before she could expect to see Paul again.

“Yeah, it was.” Chrissie glanced at her, a pensive look in her eyes. “Something strange happened after I got home, though.”

“Oh? What was that?” Rita pulled up a chair and sat.

Chrissie leaned forward and slid shut the frosted glass partition that separated the reception desk from the waiting room. “You remember Tammy Hughes?” she asked. “The neighbor girl I used to babysit for sometimes?”

“The one who was cheating on her husband.” Rita frowned. As far as she was concerned, there was a special place in hell for a woman who’d run around on a man while he was halfway around the world fighting in a war.

“Yeah.” Chrissie sighed. “Her husband came home last night.”

“He came home from Iraq?” Rita clarified.

Chrissie nodded. “I saw the light on next door and all I could think of was him sitting over there by himself. To be gone so long and then to come home to…to no one.”

Rita nodded. The idea lay heavy in her stomach like a wad of uncooked dough. Paul’s first homecoming, there’d been a couple of guys in his unit who didn’t have anyone waiting for them at the welcome ceremony. They’d kept it together and acted all happy anyway, but everyone else tried not to look at them too hard. It hurt too much to think about that kind of loneliness.