Page 4 of Guarded By the Lumberjack
Unruly hair that's more salt than pepper curls above his collar, the lower half of his face covered with thick whiskers even more gray than his hair, and dark eyes intensely bore into me like he's reading my soul.
This man looks like he's still every bit the Navy SEAL he once was. Like he's kept up with his training and the only thing he's let go since retiring was the haircut. They could call him back up tomorrow and he'd probably be ready to go.
"What are you doing in my garage?"
I notice his right hand is still out of sight, appearing to lay casually somewhere inside the cab of his truck. But I was married to a military man for close to a decade before Tyler was killed in action. I remember the caution, the hidden weapons always close at hand.
I try to smile, but the cold is setting in. Or maybe the stress. Or maybe it's the man regarding me with cautious curiosity that has my body reacting in ways that have me confused.
"I think you knew my husband."
Calvin
Her husband. Fuck.
I feel like an asshole. The worst kind of old man; the kind that leers at a woman who's far too young for him and is in obvious need of help, and only sees the feminine shape of her curves under her soaked clothes.
From the moment I caught my first glimpse of her in the rear view mirror, my body has been spinning out of control with need. Now that I'm standing in front of her and have my first real look, the only thought my brain can hang on to ismine.
"His name was Tyler," the woman offers, tentatively. "Tyler Cook."
The primal drumbeat pulsing in my veins picks up at the word"was."
"He was a SEAL in your--"
"I remember him." I cut her off with a slow nod, images of a confident young seaman in my command, what-- I do the math in my head, cross-referencing with location and missions-- must have been twelve years back now, coming to mind.
"Oh. Good." She licks her lips and worries the lower one between her teeth, pulling a faded beach towel tighter around her shoulders like a shawl.
"He always spoke very highly of you," she says softly, her gaze dropping to the concrete floor between us. "You're the only person I could think of who might help me."
With my brain partially back online, I usher my mysterious guest into the house where I can find her some dry clothes to put on.
After a shower, she joins me back downstairs, finding me in the kitchen microwaving a frozen pizza and halfway through a glass of bourbon that was poured fuller than usual to begin with.
Her name is Penny and she brings back memories of a kid in his twenties; the homegrown, farm boy type, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Tyler Cook was smart, and he was brave, with the kind of cockiness that comes with youth. Mostly, I remember he was in love with his girl back home. Talked about her every chance he got.
Now, it seems, that girl is sitting at my kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea while she talks about a husband that came home from his last deployment in a box.
That's not why she drove across five states to find me though.
"The local police think I'm making it up." She stares into the cooling mug in her hands and lets out a heavy sigh. "Friends, family, neighbors; everyone thinks I'm either paranoid or looking for attention. My family staged an intervention and demanded I go back to counseling."
"What about your in-laws? What does Tyler's family think?"
I push my attraction to the distraught woman in my table into some far corner of my brain, running the cutter through the pizza and forcing my focus onto the details of her story.
"Sorry. Not much of a cook," I apologize as I set the nuked pizza on the table. "Wasn't expecting company, or I'd have been more prepared."
Penny looks at the pizza, with its unidentifiable toppings, the burnt edges and the soggy middle, like it's a gourmet meal. I open the freezer door to pull out another one and pop it in the microwave. If she's hungry, I want her to eat.
"Tyler's family and I kinda fell out a while ago," she confesses quietly. "I don't think they approved of me moving on after his death. It was like they were allowed to keep living, but I was supposed to stop everything and just sit with it forever."
Three years, she told me. Three years since uniformed soldiers showed up on her doorstep to tell her that her husband was dead. Three years to absorb the news and adjust her expectations of the future she'd planned on living.
"So you started dating again, I take it?"
My attempt to sound casual turns my voice gruff instead. It's none of my business if she's dating again. She should be. She's young and beautiful and she deserves the happy ending that got stolen from her.
