The army had given him the only family he’d ever had, and the Rangers had given him pride and purpose and confidence. And then three months ago, he’d been discharged with several useless medals and a bum leg. Bitterness—and drink—had almost destroyed him until he’d finally found Amos. Then he had a new mission. Dave had asked one thing of him before that last mission, almost as if he knew he would die. He wanted Josh to do what he could to help Amos, the military dog Dave had handled for four years.
He was doing a pretty damn poor job of that one. Amos usually ignored food and ate the minimum to stay alive even when Josh tried to tempt him with steak.
“We’re a great pair,” he told Amos, hoping for a reaction. A thump of a tail. A lifting of an ear. Anything.
Nothing. Just that empty stare.
He went out onto the porch. Clouds nearly hid a new moon and most of the evening stars. He smelled rain, and a cool breeze brushed over him.
Time to walk Amos. He preferred walking late in the night when no one else was around. He went back inside and called to the dog.
“Duty time,” he said. Dave’s words every time they went on a mission. He remembered when Amos had snapped to attention, eager to go. But now he stood slowly. Years of training said obey, but that was all he did. There was no joy in it. Only reluctance to leave a safe place.
Canine PTSD, according to the diagnosis at the Daniel E. Holland Military Working Dog Hospital at Lackland Air Force Base. Josh was told that after Dave’s death, the dog had refused to obey any orders and cowered when approached. But Josh thought the behavior resulted as much from a broken heart as PTSD. Dave and Amos had been inseparable from the day they were teamed.
“Amos,” he said with more authority, and the dog finally moved to his side. Progress. Small, maybe, but progress nonetheless.
With the moon entirely blocked now, the night was black. There was no light, but neither of them needed it. Josh’s eyes were trained to see in the dark, or maybe he’d been born with that gift. He’d always been able to see better than his team members. They always said he was more cat than human, both for his night vision and the speed with which he could move.
With Amos plodding stoically at his heel, Josh followed Lake Road to where it ended in a path. He no longer moved like a cat, smooth and fast. Hell, an eighty-year-old great-grandmother could beat him in a foot race.
He walked until he feared his leg wouldn’t make it back, then turned toward the cabin. He would read until his eyes closed. Maybe tonight he could actually sleep. Maybe.
CHAPTER TWO
JOSH SLASHED THROUGH the weeds as though they were the enemy. One particularly tall one came in for special attention. Whack!
“Wow,” said a voice from behind him. “You really have it in for that poor weed.”
He swung around, the scythe in his hands swinging with him, and found himself face-to-face with an attractive woman. He was really slipping if someone could move in behind him without his notice. He hadn’t even heard a vehicle approaching. His attention had been riveted on clearing a path to an overgrown brick barbecue pit in back of the cabin. As far as he could tell, it was one of the few undamaged fixtures on the property.
He had gotten up at dawn. Made coffee, poured himself a cup then lured Amos outside. He’d instinctively started pulling the weeds that surrounded and nearly covered the pit. Finding it hopeless, he found the scythe he’d purchased the day before along with a number of other tools. Someone might have been mowing the front but they sure as hell hadn’t cut the back for a long time. It was snake heaven.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the newcomer said, and he realized he must have been staring at her. “I rang the bell,” she continued, “but when no one answered I decided to try back here.”
He went still and studied her. She didn’t wilt under his gaze. A lot of people did. The lady yesterday certainly had.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he said, hoping she would get the message, although she was certainly younger and prettier than his previous visitors. He rubbed his dirty hands against his equally dirty jeans. “What time is it?”
“Nine, or thereabouts,” she said.
He scowled.
“Now I know why June ran away yesterday,” the woman said, her eyes filled with something like bemused curiosity as her gaze ran over his sweaty T-shirt, stained jeans and, last, the sharp tool in his hands. Her eyes were hazel with flecks of green and gold. Mischief danced in them.
Damn, but she was fine to look at. He didn’t much like the sudden hot rush of blood through his veins. He didn’t need that. Not now. “I don’t seem to have the same effect on you,” he said wryly.
“No,” she said. “Takes more than a scowl, although you have a good one. Do you practice it?”
He ignored the question and asked one of his own. “What does frighten you, then?”
“Not a Weedwacker. I approve. This place has been an eyesore.”
He walked to the cabin’s back door and placed the scythe against it. He didn’t need this new...distraction. He had a full day’s work ahead. He had an appointment with the only vet in miles. He also intended to buy more tools and paint. Maybe he would get some fishing gear, as well. Once the barbecue pit was cleaned he could grill fish on it. He was growing tired of cold cuts from the cooler.
“You didn’t say why you’re here,” he said. It annoyed him that he sounded boorish. But then he’d never been good at conversation. Surprisingly, the mischief didn’t leave her eyes. “No,” she agreed, “I didn’t.”
He liked the fact she wasn’t intimidated. He couldn’t say she was a beauty, not in the classical sense. Her features were not that regular. The wide hazel eyes went with a pug nose and high cheekbones. Her hair, the color of rich mahogany, fell to just below her shoulders. It was held back from her face by a clasp. Simple, but on her it looked good. His gaze fell lower. She wore a sky-blue sleeveless vest over a short-sleeve white cotton blouse and dark blue slacks. Neat. Practical in the heat, and yet they complemented her body. Which was fine, too. Real fine. Not reed thin like too many women these days. There were curves in all the right places. He suspected she had great legs under those slacks.
The worn briefcase she carried didn’t quite go with the rest of her. An insurance saleswoman? That would be the ultimate joke. “You another member of the welcome wagon, then?” he said, sarcasm coloring the question. Sarcasm was his armor these days.
“No,” she said.
“God, I hope you’re not with the government.”
“Hate to disappoint you, but actually I am.” She thrust out her hand. “Eve Douglas. I have the dubious honor of being mayor.”
He was stunned for a moment. Then he shrugged, brushed his right hand against his jeans to shed some of the dirt and sweat and took her outstretched one. If she didn’t care about getting dirty...
A mistake. Her hand was slender in his large one, yet he felt calluses on her palm. That surprised him. So did the strength in her fingers. He found himself holding them longer than necessary as the very air around them seemed to spark with electricity.
He didn’t like—or trust—the hot awareness he felt, the instantaneous attraction blazing between them. Or was it all on his part?
He didn’t think so. Not with that startled, puzzled look in her eyes. He released his hold quickly, the warmth from her hand flowing up his arm. Their gazes met.
He was intrigued. She was holding her ground. He imagined he looked his worst, and his worst could be formidable as hell, or so he’d been told. But it didn’t seem to faze her.
He waited, not speaking. A form of hostile intimidation, a psychologist told him when Josh perfected it during unwanted sessions at