LITMIR.BIZ

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said softly. She’d truly enjoyed her time with the feisty old man. She’d never known her own grandfathers, but she liked to think they would have been like Martin McLaughlin.

      “You mean that,” he said, sounding not quite amazed, but at least surprised.

      “Yes,” she answered simply.

      After a long moment he lowered his gaze and said quietly, “Thank you.”

      Something crashed and his head snapped toward the house. He winced at his own movement. The medics had bandaged his foot—a minor cut from a sliver rather than a shard of broken glass. His shoulder had a wound on the edge of needing stitches, which he had refused. The medics had suggested they take him to the hospital to be checked for any sort of head injury. He’d refused that, too, saying he’d had a concussion or two in his life and knew the signs.

      She hoped he was right, and he’d just moved too quickly.

      When his expression cleared she spoke again, hoping to distract him from the fact that the crash had been another chunk of his roof caving in. “He was so very proud of you, and your service.”

      His gaze seemed to soften for a moment, but his voice didn’t when he finally said, “He was the only one.”

      She blinked. “That’s not true. I didn’t even know you except by name, and I was proud.”

      He drew back slightly at that. As if he didn’t like the idea that he’d been a topic of discussion.

      “Well, Tate, I’m glad this wasn’t any worse.”

      “I’m sure. Could have been big enough to take out a chunk of your place, too.”

      Lacy sighed inwardly. Acerbic was one thing, and given what had happened he had the right, but it was the middle of the night, she’d stayed up too late reading and she was tired of working so hard to simply have a civil conversation when she was only trying to help.

      “In which case you’d probably be dead, and I’d have missed the sheer pleasure of meeting you.”

      His mouth quirked. It wasn’t a smile, not even close, but it was an improvement over the understandably grim expression he’d been wearing.

      “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little...”

      That was an improvement, too, she thought. “Of course.”

      He nodded. Then he turned and started walking toward Quinn and the uniformed man. Only now, when the sunrise had brightened the sky, did she see the thick, long scar that wrapped around from his spine to his side, just above his waist. A second, thinner scar ran up the back of his left shoulder, his neck and twisted into the hair at the back of his head. Short hair, still almost military short, but long enough that she could see the new hair growth near the scar was coming in a silvery white rather than dark like the rest.

      That scar had the reddish tinge that said it was newer rather than old. The thought of the kind of injury that would have left that, that had actually made his hair change color, made her shiver despite the early sun’s warmth. She guessed that was the injury that had sent him home from overseas. Guessed his recovery had been long and hard.

      And then to come home to this, on his first night in his grandfather’s house... She’d be on her knees, probably wailing, she thought with a grimace. And he was merely a little cranky.

      Martin McLaughlin had said his grandson was smart, tough and brave. She supposed the scars were proof enough of that, if she’d needed any after the medals Martin had shown her.

      I think the boy sends them to me because I know what war is.

      I think he sends them to you because he loves you and wants you to be proud of him.

      She’d forgotten that conversation until now. And again she felt the tug of sadness since she genuinely had liked Martin and truly would miss him.

      He’d also said the grandson who shared his birthday had a generous soul, a good heart that had been hurt too often and was a gentleman to the core. She remembered smiling at the word rarely used these days. Those qualities she wasn’t so sure of, but it was hardly fair to judge him under these circumstances.

      Martin had definitely been right about one thing. His grandson was a hero. And for that he deserved all the patience she could muster.

      She walked over to where the man who had rolled up in the car labeled Battalion Chief was standing with the Foxworths and Tate. She got there just as another man in turnouts walked up. The chief frowned when he saw the dog at the man’s heels. She supposed they were worried about the dog getting in the way, or perhaps messing up whatever investigation they had to do. But the firefighter quickly forestalled his boss.

      “Yeah, I know, Chief. But in fact, he probably just saved us a lot of time.”

      The frown deepened. “How?”

      “We found that propane tank here, right? Well, he just led me right to what’s left of a second five-gallon propane tank a few yards from the house. In really bad shape. Looks like that might have been our explosion.”

      The man drew back. And Lacy saw that Quinn Foxworth was frowning, as well—although clearly not surprised that his dog had apparently provided a major clue to the cause of this middle-of-the-night chaos.

      “Those things don’t blow up easily,” he said.

      The chief nodded. “Not without a leak and some pretty extreme heat.”

      “The arson guys and the lab’ll have to figure it out.” The man grimaced. “Maybe in a month, if we’re lucky. They’re pretty backed up.”

      “I’ve got some friends with access to the fed’s lab, if that’ll help,” Quinn said, and Lacy guessed his tone was purposefully neutral.

      Lacy saw the chief’s gaze shift to Quinn. “Heard about you Foxworth folks. Word is you know what you’re doing and you don’t get in the way.”

      “A reputation we’ve worked hard to build,” Quinn answered.

      “Brett Dunbar’s a friend of mine,” the man said.

      Quinn smiled. Widely. “And of ours. A good friend. As is his girlfriend.”

      Both men nodded, connections established. Lacy was pondering the interesting way things worked when something occurred to her.

      “I saw someone out here, just after midnight,” she said. “I was up reading, and when I turned out the light I looked outside and saw someone in the yard.” She glanced at Tate. “I thought it must have been you, still getting settled in.”

      He shook his head, and finally spoke.

      “It wasn’t me. I was tired, crashed early. And my grandfather,” he added, “would never keep a leaking propane tank, even a small one.”

      The chief considered that for a moment. “When was the last time you saw him?”

      Tate grimaced. “A while before my last deployment. So a couple of years ago.”

      Lacy bet he wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye. She felt awful for him, but glad for Martin that the illness that had taken him had been quick. He would have wanted it that way.

      “How did he seem?”

      “Fine. Like always.”

      “How old was he?”

      Lacy realized where the man was going, and hastened to head him off. “Martin McLaughlin was sharp as a tack until the very end. We should all be so clearheaded and active now, let alone at ninety-three.”

      The chief shifted his attention to her. “You knew him?”

      “Yes. I was there, and talked with him barely an hour before he passed, and he was still mentally together.”

      Tate went very still. “You were...with him?”

      She

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