Page 14 of Shelter for Shay
“I put you in the downstairs room.” Shay pushed open a door near the living room, around the corner from the stairs. “You can use the powder room down here, but you will have to come upstairs to shower.”
“Not a problem.” He tossed the bag inside the room, giving it a quick glance. It was neat and tidy with a double bed in the center. He shouldn’t complain, but damn, the floral motif with the pom-poms hanging from the side of the dresser was a far cry from his bedroom. Not to mention the pink walls. He winced.
“Yeah, my mom hasn’t changed my bedroom since I left for college.” Shay laughed. “I’m staying upstairs so I can be closer to my mom.”
“That makes sense.” Moose nodded.
“My mom’s bedroom is the first one on the right,” Shay said. “I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner if you need me.”
Moose hadn’t expected Shay to leave him standing there with his breath caught in his chest, but that’s exactly what she did. He took the steps slowly… methodically. He stood outside the door for a full minute before raising his hand to knock.
He’d spent his entire adult life living on adrenaline. Had he not found his chickens, he would have been one of those thrill-seekers who teetered on death’s door. When he’d joined the military, he had no idea how badly he craved discipline and direction. He’d barely gotten a taste of it sitting in Margaret’s office, but it was enough to know he wanted something more. Something real.
Days after he finished boot camp, he’d known he’d spend his life in the Navy and he’d wanted desperately to become a SEAL.
However, not once during his career had he ever been afraid. He knew he could die. That was part of what he’d signed up for and while he didn’t welcome it, he honored it. Duty, honor, country. It was all part of the gig and one he valued and respected.
But in this moment, he was truly terrified… of walking into goodbye.
“Come in,” a frail voice echoed.
Moose pressed his palm flat against the frame, lowered his head, and let out a slow breath. Then he pushed the door open.
Margaret was small in the bed, dwarfed by the pillows and machines, her silver hair splayed out like a halo. But her eyes—when they opened—were sharp and warm and unmistakably hers.
“Matthew,” she whispered.
It hit him like a punch to the ribs.
He stepped into the room slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. He stopped just short of her bedside, feeling suddenly like that broken sixteen-year-old again. The one who’d sat across from her in a folding chair in her office, arms crossed, full of bitterness and shame.
She smiled, and it softened everything.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come. I know you’d been injured.”
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” he said hoarsely. “Besides, I had to. I owe you so much.”
“You always were stubborn. Always tried to take the focus off yourself. You don’t owe me a thing.”
He pulled the chair closer and sat down, eyes never leaving hers. She’d always had a way of calming his racing pulse with a simple glance. A kind word. Or just her quiet presence.
“That last letter,” she said. “Shay read it to me. You made me cry, you know.”
Moose gave a crooked smile. “I wasn’t trying to, but everything I said was the truth.”
“I believe that, even though you used to be such a good liar. Then again, you needed to be.”
He let out a quiet breath and looked down at his hands—scarred, calloused, and still trembling. He’d never experienced this kind of thing before. Sure, he’d experienced death. He’d buried more than one brother-in-arms and that never got easier. It sucked and he resented it every single time it happened.
However, he’d never had to say goodbye. Not like this and he didn’t know what to do, how to act, or what to say.
“From the first time I walked into your office when I was a freshman, I hated lying to you, but it’s all I ever knew.” He lifted his gaze. “I’ve seen a lot of darkness,” he murmured. “But noneof it touched me the way those years did. Before the Navy. Before I got out of here.”
“Because what happened to you as a kid… that was survival,” she said gently. “Everything after that? You chose to fight. That makes all the difference.”
“I know I say thank you a lot in my letters, but I’ve never really had the chance to say it in person.”
“You just did.”
