LITMIR.BIZ

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the scars, he focused on his breathing. In his peripheral vision, he saw her turn momentarily to one of the metal cabinets.

      “Your key,” she said handing it over the instant he completed the information. Then, chin up, spine stiff, she led him out the door. “If you choose to eat with us,” she said, locking up the office, “breakfast is at eight a.m. each morning, except Sunday when it’s at nine. Lunch and dinner are your responsibility. However, I will set out refreshments and snacks at four p.m. on the dinner table.” She nodded to the dining section where a long table, stationed in front of a wall-size, country-paned window, faced the circular drive. “You’re also welcome to use the guest living room, back deck or sit on the porch gliders. The rest of the house is off-limits.”

      “Does the cabin have a kitchen?” he asked. Standing in her kitchen with its floor to ceiling cupboards, he noted the bow of her mouth, the way it tilted at the corners as though anticipating that fun she mentioned.

      “Yes, both cabins are fully outfitted.”

      He glanced at her commercial Sub-Zero refrigerator, imagined the food inside, the ten summer guests seated around her table, chatting, laughing, asking each other questions. Though a stab of guilt pierced him, he was infinitely glad the current cold temperatures would give him an excuse to stay in the cottage and refrain from her listed amenities.

      He headed for the mudroom, intent on leaving for the privacy of his cabin.

      She followed. “I’ll show you the way.”

      Before he could say, I know where it is. I booked the smaller cabin, remember? she zipped past him, grabbed the umbrella and was out the back door, her baked cookie scent swirling in his lungs.

      Dane stepped onto the deck. Thankfully, a wet gust of wind eradicated her from his nostrils and he inhaled deep to ensure no trace remained. He did not want her image branded into his brain.

      Yet he trailed her and that silly umbrella across the strip of wet lawn, up a flagstone path, to the log building sporting another rain-drenched flag, although smaller than the one welcoming visitors onto the veranda of her house.

      Kaitlin O’Brien was a patriot.

      He couldn’t get inside the safety of the cabin fast enough.

      Before he heard it all again. The roar of the improvised explosive device, an IED. The shattering glass. The deafening blast ripping metal, wood—bodies—into a trillion bits.

      Before he heard Zaakir’s screams, saw the flames destroying—

      Stumbling on the first step leading up to the porch, Dane grabbed the newel post. The familiar knot in his throat had him swallowing. Not now. Not while she’s watching.

      “Dane?” She hurried back down the stairs. “You okay?”

      “Must’ve slipped,” he lied.

      She looked at the step he’d stubbed with his toe. “I’ll have someone put down some new weather stripping right away.”

      Ashamed of his deception, he shook his head and took the steps two at a time. “No need. I’m just tired, is all.” Half turning, he looked back. She stayed on the stairs, her fine dark brows puzzled, the rain a wet curtain around her and the pumpkin umbrella. “It’s okay,” he assured. “And thank you for letting me in a day early.” He inserted the key, opened the door.

      Guilt pressed hard, crushing his chest. Still, the up-bringing he’d had before he’d left the island for the military had him hesitating. He nodded politely. “Goodbye, Kaitlin.”

      “I’m not going anywhere.”

      He studied her for a moment. He should explain. He should tell her he was a loner. That life had changed him, Iraq had changed him, war had made him see things in ways she would never understand. He should present some guarantee he wasn’t completely crazy. To ease the uncertainty in her eyes.

      You don’t need to fear me, he wanted to say. I’m not one of those types.

      She hoisted the umbrella higher, took the lower step. “If you need anything…”

      “I know where to find you.”

      She offered a smile. “Enjoy your stay.”

      As he watched her walk through the drenched woods, he wondered what she’d say if he told her joy was no longer part of his vocabulary.

      Chapter Two

      Two days later, the Do Not Disturb sign remained on the exterior doorknob of Dane Rainhart’s cabin.

      Kat could see her commercial yellow-and-white notice from the corner window by the enamel sink where she scrubbed egg from her son’s plate. She had walked Blake to the end of her wooded lane ten minutes ago, then returned home the moment they heard the school bus rumbling along Shore Road.

      Since his tenth birthday, Blake no longer appreciated his mother waiting in full view of the other bussed kids. Yet, he hadn’t wanted to let go entirely of their ritual. Thus, they waited in the lane’s bend, and when the bus approached, Kat turned back, out of sight. Sometimes, she caught herself blinking to dispel the sting of tears; soon even this small daily routine would disappear forever.

      Nothing stays the same, she thought.

      Boys grew into young men.

      Husbands died before their time.

      And former childhood infatuations became grim-faced loners.

      The dishwasher loaded, she made a decision. This morning, she would knock on his door. Whether or not he welcomed the intrusion, she needed to change his bedsheets. Her guest rooms never went a day without clean bedding and a thorough sanitizing, but she had respected his privacy for two days because of the sign, because his motorcycle hadn’t moved out of the carport.

      However, the time to freshen up the cabin was at hand. Yes, he’d signed on for three months, but that didn’t mean she would disregard her business. Sign or not, she’d give the place a scrubbing.

      As she tidied her own house and worked in her office, she prepared herself mentally.

      He’s not the same as he was twenty years ago.

      Neither are you, Kat.

      At ten o’clock, she gathered sheets, towels, wash-cloths and two new soap bars from the storage room into a laundry basket. Slipping into her tall, green farm boots, she took a deep breath and stepped out onto the deck.

      The air smelled of wet earth and rotted leaves. Gray clouds flecked the sky, though a mellow sun crept among the barren branches. Somewhere, a squirrel chattered and higher up the slope a crow cawed.

      The cabin looked lifeless.

      She strode up its stone path.

      At the porch steps, she faltered. What had occupied him for two days, in four hundred square feet of floor space?

      Not your concern. Pressing her lips together, she knocked on the door. And waited. Fifteen seconds, thirty. Another knock, louder this time. Fifteen more seconds.

      She was about to lift her hand a third time when the door cracked open. Shadowed in the dim interior and the porch roof, he appeared grimmer than he had getting drenched on his Harley.

      “Good morning,” Kat said with forced cheer. Mercy. The man’s potency hit like a hammer. The way he stood there, dressed in all black…sweatshirt, cargo pants, socks…

      Tongue-tied, she nudged the basket higher.

      His gaze dipped. “Thanks, but I do my own housekeeping.”

      “The rental price includes housekeeping.” When he didn’t slam the door shut, she took heart. “I’ll be no more than ten minutes, and I won’t be in your way.” When he continued to block her access, she drew a long breath. “Look—why don’t I leave these with you? When you’re done, leave the dirty laundry in the basket on the porch and I’ll

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