Necessary Secrets Page 8

  The distraction was perfect. No thinking required. She could focus on combining pickles, mixing jams and inventing new barbecue sauces…and not Rick. Or the injustice she and the military had heaped on him. There wasn’t anything she could do to help him anymore. And the baby would be fine for the time being. All she had to worry about was herself, and she refused to do that tonight, not with this overloaded refrigerator wrestling for her attention.

  “Insomnia or nesting?”

  She leaped away from the open door, dropping the squeeze bottle of sauce as she whirled around. “Holy—” Seeing Jon, she caught her expletive. “That’s the second time today you’ve scared the daylights out of me. I suggest a pair of cowboy boots for you. With metal heels.”

  Jon glanced down at his sneakers. “Sorry. I saw the light on and wondered if you needed anything.”

  Scooping up the bottle, she tried to calm her racing heart with a fortifying breath. Like her, dark circles had begun to settle under his eyes, giving him a tired, haggard look. He’d had a few sleepless nights himself.

  She returned to her task, refusing to allow sympathy to seep in. She’d relent, burst out, maybe even blubber forth a stream of tears of all she’d really done and expect sympathy back. There wouldn’t be any. God, no, she’d be a fool to think that. “I’ve done the dishes and was thinking about cleaning this fridge.”

  “I can help.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. “Before you kick me out, let me say something. I’m all settled in, but I can’t just sit around doing nothing. Lawrence is reading one of his baby books and Purley and Michael are watching TV while making sarcastic remarks about my new Stetson. I know you don’t need it, but I’d like to help. Please?”

  She shut her mouth. Well, didn’t that seem genuine? True, Lawrence preferred to read instead of watching TV, and Purley could keep up the acerbic remarks until the cows came home, so maybe Jon did want to help her. The genuine ring to his voice was a nice change to the anger he’d directed her way. Could he want the company? Could he be lonely, thinking of Rick and automatically seeking his one connection to his dead brother?

  Sympathy washed through her, surprising her with its intensity. She could relate to Jon’s loneliness. “Sure. Why not?”

  He took the items she passed him and began to stack them on the table. Each time she handed him another jar, she felt the brush of his fingertips. Each touch drew out some tiny arc of electricity. Dry air. Nothing more.

  “So, do you think you’ll miss your work this summer?” she asked him.

  He stopped, his hand outstretched and still holding a bottle of lemon juice. Looking thoughtful, he nodded slowly. “T.O. in August is miserable, but yes, I’ll miss it.”

  “I’m surprised. Everyone looks forward to summer vacation.”

  He set the bottle beside a large container of milk. “Lately I’ve spent my vacations working with some kids at the local youth center. We hang out, tinker with some dirt bikes, play pool. The kids like that.” Lit only by the light from the refrigerator, his expression turned wistful.

  “Mentoring?”

  “The kids don’t like to call it that, but yes, mentoring.”

  His dark eyes warmed and softened when she nodded.

  “But they like it just the same. In Bosnia, a number of platoons, including ours, pitched in to fix up a school and playground. The kids got really excited. So many have lost fathers. Mothers, too.” A poignant memory returned. “The language barrier didn’t matter. I remember we played soccer with them once. They ran circles around us.”

  “I bet that didn’t matter, either.”

  “Nope.” Despite the cool air radiating from the open refrigerator, Sylvie felt warm. And a little guilty she was taking Jon from such noble work. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”

  “It helps the kids. That’s what matters.”

  Such integrity deserved to be rewarded, she thought.

  Unwilling to let that idea mature, she pulled out the largest container, but it jammed under the wire shelf above it. With her wrist, she tried to shove the shelf up, but the whole awkwardness of the movement made the task impossible.

  “Here.” He leaned over her, his arm extended in front of her as he lifted the upper shelf. All she could see was a wide bicep and the dark dusting of hair on his arm. The sleeve of his plain T-shirt strained over his muscles.

  Strong arms. They could easily be her Achilles’ heel. Strong, capable arms that could wrap around her when she needed them the most.

  She shut her eyes and pulled hard on the deep bowl. It gave, and she stumbled backward. The bowl hit the door shelf and dropped.

  One of those strong arms caught her before she could bump to the floor. “Whoa. All right?”

  She blinked up at him, finding only concern in his now warm blue eyes. Tearing away her gaze, she peered down. Between their feet, the bowl rattled and spun like a dying top, the red sauce inside swirling around the transparent lid in a wild Spirograph design.

  Jon’s palm splayed over her back, lowering her gently to the sitting position. Cradling her in warmth.

  “Thanks. I shouldn’t have been so impatient.” Her words sounded stilted and foolish to her ears, and as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t seem to steady herself.

  Finally she grabbed the door and tried to pull herself out of his arms. He didn’t let go. “No.”

  Her heart pounding in her chest, she wondered if he’d spoken the word or had she imagined it? A part of her wanted to tell him she was fine and it was all right to let her go, but his arms felt so good around her. Tight, firm, trustworthy.

  It seemed so foolish to be sitting here, in his arms, battling the urge to simply stay there forever. She reached out with her right hand and laid her flat palm against his warm chest. Concern deepened in his eyes as he searched her face. Her lips parted when she felt—yes, felt—his gaze settle on her mouth.

  What would his lips feel like on hers? As warm as his arms? Warmer than his chest? Would his kiss overpower her like his arms seemed to be doing right now?

  “Sylvie?”

  He said her name again, all long and smooth like her only silk nightgown, the one she just realized she’d been saving for some special occasion that would never come. She was pregnant, unmarried, looking forward to life as a single mother. Who’d want a knocked-up old soldier with a bad attitude?

  Finally she whispered, “Yes?”

  He pressed his lips into a tight line, and she forced her gaze back into his eyes. He still held her, a bit more firmly now, and his brows crinkled together slightly. Was he also thinking of how her lips would feel?

  “Sylvie, tell me about Rick. What was he doing when he died?”

  A sluice of cold doused her foolish ideas. She tried to push herself free of him, but as if expecting her reaction, he held her tight.

  She stiffened. “Is that what you call wanting to help? I don’t really appreciate the ulterior motive. But I guess it’s not unexpected. Are you going to ask me about Rick each time we’re alone? Or just when I’m in your arms?”

  “Sylvie, it’s a valid question—”

  “It’ll certainly be at those prenatal classes, too, won’t it? I’m practicing my breathing, you’re pumping me for information on your brother.”

  He pulled her back into a tighter embrace, as anger flared in his eyes. To think she’d admired them a moment ago.

  “Nice of you to think I’d be that crass. How about I promise you I’ll be a perfect gentleman during the classes, if you tell me, right now, how Rick died? Don’t you think I deserve to know?”

  She tried to twist herself out of his embrace. “I told you I can’t say anything more. Even after the investigation is complete. You’re a cop. You should know that.” She bit her lip and frowned. “Let go of me, please.”

  He released her, guiding her up to ensure she’d caught her balance.

  She straightened her shirt and flicked back an annoying strand of ha
ir. Oh, she should just blurt out everything to him. It wasn’t fair and she didn’t care for the injustice, but…

  But what would Jon say if he knew the truth? From the one decision her captain had made that night to the damn incorrect grid reference and straight to the unexpected ambush. Then on to what she and Rick had done later—the truth wasn’t something to be proud of. Even Jon, who so obviously loved his brother, might be ashamed.

  Everything had been working against them that night, everything from her captain’s decision to send her, right to the miserable, horrible weather.

  But still, she had to say something to him. “Jon, you already know everything there is to know. We were ambushed. Rick was shot. He died shortly after. The military isn’t keeping anything from you that would give you any more closure. Rick’s dead.” She struggled with her words. “Please bury him.”

  His expression darkened. “I did. Much later than I should have. I met my brother’s body and his escort at the air base in Ottawa, only to find out it was scheduled to be autopsied and I’d have to wait another long, blasted week. I attended the memorial for him at your home unit. Damn it, Sylvie, it wasn’t enough!”

  “Well, it’s just going to have to be!” She spun around and began to yank the rest of the items from the refrigerator, more determined than ever to finish this idiotic, useless task.

  Her hands shook. Do something. Keep busy, don’t think of how you’d asked to be Rick’s final escort, only to be turned down.

  They refused her. An escort had to be the same rank as the deceased. And she still had to be interviewed. She had the company stores to run. She was needed elsewhere. Those and all the other excuses they’d piled on her just weren’t good enough, but she’d had no choice but to accept them.

  Jon would have to do the same with her answer.

  She plowed past him on her route to the sink with a bowl of something she couldn’t recognize, determined to throw it out. Throw it all out. Every last bit of food that had been in the damn refrigerator for more than a day.

  And sometime during those determined trips, Jon slipped back outside.

  Alone finally, she sank down in front of the refrigerator and let the tears stream down her face. What she wouldn’t do to let everything out and get this crying jag over and done with.

  Forever.

  Nesting. Hormones. Grief. Pregnancy. All the possible reasons for Sylvie’s angry cleaning spurt spun around inside Jon’s head, slipping past the pain and frustration he still battled.

  He was sure she knew way more about Rick’s last hours than she was telling. Although, as much as he hated to admit it, strong-arming her wasn’t going to induce her to reveal it all. But he refused to wait for the final watered-down military report. Of course he wouldn’t be told the truth. Did they think he was stupid? Rick’s CO and the Padre and that liaison officer, Major Tirouski, who’d been assigned to the investigation, all assumed he would accept their well-filtered version when they were ready to give it to him.

  Jon stopped halfway to the bunkhouse. Turning, he could see Sylvie in the kitchen window, viciously scraping the contents of some bowl into the small compost bin beside the sink.

  He would have to be more patient. He should be more patient. Sylvie had lost someone dear to her, and she had the right to grieve as well.

  Not for the first time, he considered Rick and Sylvie. Together. Lovers. A strange pair, he mulled, his stomach tightening with suspicion. Where did they see their relationship going after Bosnia? She’d been his boss. Even in today’s liberated, Ombudsman-filled military, eyebrows would have lifted at an older supervisor bedding her subordinate.

  Damn, that term didn’t sit well with him. Nor did the police-inspired impression that something more was going on.

  He pushed the gut feelings away. He should concentrate on discovering the truth about Rick’s death. And ignore the unsettling vision of Rick and Sylvie, oddly paired lovers.

  When he’d pulled her in tight, he knew in a blinding flash why Rick had been attracted to her. She had the kind of lean, strong muscles that, when held, melted into an arousing pliancy he hadn’t expected. Add that to her eyes, as wary and innocent as a deer’s, the way her lips parted and that tempting tongue moistened them, and he knew exactly what had lured Rick to her.

  Then, as he began to fully grasp the attraction, another blinding truth glared out at him.

  She was Rick’s, and Jon didn’t steal other men’s women, like that bastard had done with his wife.

  So what the hell was he doing in her house, cradling her in his arms, getting his life and emotions all wrapped around her, a woman who carried another man’s baby?

  “Just for the summer,” he muttered out loud.

  But as he moved toward the bunkhouse, the words hit the night breeze and slapped him back insolently.

  The screen door slammed shut and Sylvie looked up from her ledger book to see who’d entered the campground office. Tuesday mornings were usually quiet.

  A man in a combat uniform stood there, peeling off his sunglasses and beret in one brisk, smooth movement. She flicked her gaze down to the rank on his shoulders. Major. The sewn-on name tag announced his name. Tirouski.

  “Warrant Officer Mitchell?”

  She closed her ledger book. “I’m just Sylvie Mitchell now, Major.”

  “Warrant Mitchell,” he continued, as if her correction had never happened. “My name is Major Tirouski. I’m the liaison officer assigned to the committee investigating Private Cahill’s death.”

  She clenched her jaw. What did they expect to discover that they didn’t already know? That the outpost had been relocated, but the information on the new location hadn’t been disseminated? That Ops section had given out the wrong grid reference and sent two innocent soldiers into the mountains to get ambushed?

  Or would they discover some patsy on whom they could dump all the blame. Like her.

  She stood up, as tall as she could manage. “I’ve already given my statement to the military police. There isn’t anything more I can contribute to the investigation.”

  “The committee has a copy of your statement.” He walked up to the counter and perused the office. “So, how’s civilian life?”

  Not really in the mood for chitchat, nor able to afford the time for any, she stared hard at him. “As you can see, I’m busy. This is a hectic time of year.”

  She hadn’t expected the major to be intimidated by her, and he didn’t disappoint her.

  He nodded. “Then, Warrant Mitchell, I’ll be brief and on my way. One of the reasons we do an investigation of this nature is to help families find some kind of closure. Private Cahill had a brother.”

  “Yes, I know.” When he added nothing, she rolled her eyes. “And we both know he’s here working for me. Has been for just over two weeks. So, who told you?”

  “He called and left a voice message telling me where he would be for the summer.” The major leaned forward. “We had hoped your captain or perhaps your regimental sergeant-major might have been able to accompany me here, but you realize that they remained in Bosnia to assist with the handover to the next unit. They’re still there.”

  The subtle accusation of desertion floated just beneath the surface. “Why would you want them to come here with you? The RSM already told me I should have stayed in the military for another fifteen years, the way he has.”

  “So why did you retire?”

  A loaded question. “My retirement was already slated before I went to Bosnia. The early-release incentives were too attractive.” At least she could say that truthfully, even though the decision had turned out to be a bigger blessing than she’d planned. She’d given her statement at the start of the investigation, then asked her CO to repatriate her sooner than scheduled.

  The word desertion had hovered around her all the way home. For a moment she had clear insight as to why Tirouski was really here, and the anger and guilt inside of her flared again. Yes, she’d gotten Rick killed, as good as
killed him herself, but the whole awful night had started with the military’s mistake, and now this major was here to make sure those mistakes were damn well kept hidden.

  That was his only reason for being here.

  The major glanced around the office. “Is Constable Cahill around?”

  Jon and Lawrence were at the far end of the ranch, and though hardly an hour’s ride away, she was glad they weren’t planning to return for lunch. “I believe he’s at the north corner. And quite unavailable.” She leaned to her right and spotted the gray staff car through the window. “You won’t be able to drive out in that. Can I give him a message for you? Have you completed the investigation?”

  “Nearly. But it’s not Constable Cahill I’m here to see. It’s you.”

  She narrowed her eyes and waited for him to elaborate.

  “As you are aware, Warrant, the investigation is covering some sensitive issues, militarily speaking, that is. Of course we hope to discover who ambushed you, and make some recommendations for protocol changes.”

  Right, yeah. And all because one private died in the line of duty? The only thing that concerned them was if the media got wind of their mistake, not that one private died in a theater of operation that usually saw a ten-percent fatality rate. She gritted her teeth. “The only protocol that needs to be changed is to teach certain people how to read a map.”

  The major bristled. “I believe you have already been briefed on how we are proceeding—”

  “Sweeping under the rug, you mean.” Sylvie drew in her breath. “Ops should look at who they’re trusting these days. A man died after we’d been given the wrong directions.” Even though I killed him with a mistake of my own. Despite her unspoken admission, she returned Tirouski’s hard stare.

  “That is none of your concern, Warrant Officer Mitchell.” His words cut through his tight lips.

  “I’m not a warrant officer anymore, Major.”

  “You are still on terminal leave, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so, Warrant Officer Mitchell,” he emphasized her name and rank, “you are still subject to the Code of Service Discipline. That includes keeping sensitive information to yourself.”