Читать книгу The Older Woman - Cheryl Reavis - Страница 9

“H appy is the bride the sun shines on.”

Specialist 4 Calvin “Bugs” Doyle sat staring out the second-story window. There had been no sun today, and it was still raining, a relentless kind of drumming on the roof that left him no room for anything but feeling sorry for himself.

The melancholy had come down on him all at once and without warning. He hadn’t expected it. He’d been significantly discouraged for weeks, of course. Months, even—but it was nothing compared to the sadness he was feeling now. Man, did he want to go somewhere and cry in his beer. If he’d been able, he would have been in some off-limits dive right this minute, knocking back a few and wallowing in the whiny lyrics of a good old country-western song. And when he had enough of a buzz on, no doubt he would have joined right in, singing his sorry heart out—probably over the very vocal protests of his fellow patrons until he eventually got tossed out the door.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the wedding was going to happen. What with the bride’s misgivings and the groom’s perpetual physical rehabilitation, the actual ceremony had been a long time coming. So long that he’d been recruited to help plan the damned thing. The problem here wasn’t that he was uninformed. The problem was did he or didn’t he still have it bad for Rita Warren?

He must, he finally decided, because he’d made the considerable effort it took to get himself to the church, just so he could watch her get married to another man. He must, because he’d made a point of not saying or doing anything stupid the whole time he was there. He must, because the bottom line here was that he really did want her to be happy. And wasn’t that a hell of a note? He’d seen Rita through thick and thin—mostly thin. If anybody deserved a little sunshine on her back door, it was Rita. Even he realized that.

He smiled slightly to himself.

Rita, Rita, he thought, shaking his head. There is nobody like you, girl.

He had at least managed to give her a chaste goodbye-and-good-luck kiss—albeit under the watchful eye of his superior officer and, as it happened, her new husband. Lieutenant McGraw was one more lucky bastard. He’d survived a Black Hawk helicopter crash and he’d gotten the girl, while he, Calvin “Bugs” Doyle, the only other survivor of the same crash, remained, simply and always, said girl’s “friend.”

He took a quiet breath.

Get yourself together here, Doyle.

He had always known the rules of engagement. There was absolutely no reason for him to feel so down about this thing. He understood the situation. Rita had never for one minute led him on. She had always been straight with him, even when she’d been so abandoned and penniless she’d had to move in with him for a while. She had lived with him—on her terms—and she had been grateful for his help. But she didn’t love him, not like that, not the way he had wanted.

Just friends.

No. Best friends. He knew everything there was to know about Rita Warren. Everything. The good and the bad, and it hadn’t mattered to him. Unfortunately, what he knew hadn’t mattered to her, either. It was the lieutenant’s knowing she’d worried about.

But it had turned out all right for her, and he supposed, when everything was said and done, being a friend was better than nothing.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how beautiful Rita had looked today. He didn’t want to think about the honeymoon, either. He was so tired, and his legs were beginning to hurt. If he didn’t get up and walk around soon, he’d regret it. He had mistakenly believed that finally getting both of the leg casts off would make the pain situation better. Wrong. No casts just meant that the muscles in his legs had to work harder. Which meant more pain.

The wind shifted, and the rain beat against the windows.

“Happy is the bride the sun shines on.”

The truth was this bride had been happy without the sun—without much of anything, if you got right down to it. The groom’s parents hadn’t exactly given their blessing, and Rita didn’t get much in the way of a family send-off—unless you counted her little girl, Olivia. Olivia had a ball getting all dressed up and blowing kisses and scattering rose petals. Except for Olivia, Rita didn’t have any relatives she or anybody else would want to claim. The closest thing to a bona fide well-wisher she had was good old “Bugs” Doyle—and he could have gone either way. Even so, he had still dragged himself to the wedding.

Just for her.

A sudden sharp pain made him jerk his legs to try to get away from it. The cane he needed for walking slid off the nearby straight chair and clattered to the floor. He swore under his breath, but he made no effort to get it. He stared out the window again, breathing deeply they way he’d been taught, trying to fight down the intense burning ache before it got the best of him.

But the pain wasn’t going away. He had to get up and shuffle around, and he had to do it now. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him that the way to make the hurting less was to do everything he could to make it hurt more, but that seemed to be the way of things. He was walking again—and what were the odds of that, given the degree of his injuries and the ups and downs of his prolonged recovery? He was a work in progress, all right. His only comfort was the fact that Lieutenant McGraw had made it all the way back—pain or no pain. And so would “Bugs” Doyle.

He couldn’t see the cane, much less reach it. He was too tall to be comfortable in a chair low enough to pick up anything he dropped on the floor, anyway. He was going to have to get up—and then get down. And then get back up again. Deep knee bends on legs that had already had one hell of a workout today. If he was lucky, he might finish with this little project by sundown.

It was going to be struggle enough just to push himself out of the chair, but he wasn’t even tempted by the option of yelling for his landlady. The word can’t had been weeded out of his vocabulary years ago in basic training. He had no doubt that little old Mrs. Bee would come help him out here—if he asked—except she probably wasn’t any better at deep knee bends than he was.

Nice old lady, Mrs. Bee. Kate Meehan, one of the nurses at the hospital had arranged for him to move into an upstairs apartment in Mrs. Bee’s house after the doctors finally promoted him to an outpatient. He had no place else he wanted to go. He’d given up the trailer he had shared briefly with Rita, even before he and the lieutenant had ridden the Black Hawk into the ground, and he just wasn’t up to living with a bunch of other soldiers who would feel sorry for him whether they said so or not. He knew the army would keep him on if he wanted, make room for him somewhere—if he could come back far enough. But he didn’t want an audience of his peers on hand for the trip, and he figured somehow Meehan knew that.

The apartment was fairly close to the post hospital, and it was cheap enough for an enlisted man to afford. Meehan had warned him up front that Mrs. Bee’s house was smoke and alcohol free, and that he would absolutely have to promise he’d “behave,” if he wanted her to vouch for him.

Like he could do anything else. His days of dancing naked with a rose in his teeth were pretty much behind him. His hands were more or less working again and didn’t look too bad, but he couldn’t half get around. Regardless of what his old drill sergeant always said, it wasn’t entirely true that where there was a will there was a way. Actually, he would have liked to have raised a little hell, even before the incentive of Rita’s wedding, but the best he could do for recreation these days was to eat, sleep and, with a great deal of effort, strum a little guitar.

Behave? No problem. Too easy.

So now he had a combination living room, dining room, kitchenette and one bedroom on the back side of the second floor of Mrs. Bee’s big Victorian house. No cigarettes. No whiskey. No wild women. Oh, and it would be really good if he didn’t swear.

So far, he and Mrs. Bee were getting along. She didn’t seem to mind his so-called music, and he didn’t cuss where she could hear him. Of course, he was pretty far away from her part of the house, and her hearing wasn’t what it used to be.

He had his own backstairs entrance, but he was welcome to use the front door if he wanted. He’d once made the mistake of coming in the front way when Mrs. Bee and the church ladies were meeting. Talk about getting pounced on. He’d never been so clucked over in his life. One minute he was minding his own business, struggling purposefully toward the stairs, and the next minute he was sitting in the parlor with his feet up, having chocolate cake, salty peanuts, bread-and-butter pickles and some kind of cherry-cola-and-pineapple-juice punch with the “girls.” It was kind of a hoot, really. He even remembered to say “please” and “thank you” and make Mrs. Bee proud. Nice old ladies—except for the one who thought anybody in the military was trash and didn’t do much to hide it when Mrs. Bee was out of the room. Man, could they bake, though, even the snooty one.

But, no matter which way he came or went, he still had to drag himself up and down all kind of steps every day—the prospect of which had made his various surgeons positively beam with approval. Just what the doctors ordered, every one of them. He was okay with the on-going challenge of getting in and out of Mrs. Bee’s house, and he was okay with the self-imposed “behaving.” He had to be if he was ever going to make it back to where he was before the Black Hawk went down.

But first, he had to pick up the damned cane.

He managed to make it to his feet on the first try.

“Not bad,” he said aloud—if he focused on the end result and not the process.

And now that he was more or less vertical, he could see into the backyard of the house next door— Meehan’s house. Sometimes he could see her, too, mostly when she left for work in the mornings. Sometimes she had breakfast outside on the patio—here lately with some guy Doyle assumed was a new boyfriend, a “suit,” who would arrive with a little white bag of bagels and coffee, chat her up for a little while, make her laugh, then go.

Sometimes, on her days off, Meehan fiddled around out there with plants and hanging baskets and clay pots. She apparently liked growing things—there were flowers all over the place. And wind chimes. The woman liked her wind chimes. He could hear them at night if he cut off the air conditioner and left the windows open.

Occasionally Meehan just sat on a lounge chair by herself and read. She definitely had nice legs, nice enough that it was no hardship for him to pay attention to her comings and goings. She always waved if she happened to see him in the window, but she didn’t bother him. As far as he knew, she’d never checked up on him or anything like that. Apparently, his word that he’d wouldn’t upset old Mrs. Bee had been good enough for her, and he appreciated that.

He hadn’t seen her much the past few days, though. It kind of surprised him that she hadn’t come to Rita’s wedding. He knew she’d been invited, and he knew she liked Rita and Lieutenant McGraw both. In fact, Meehan was one of the few people who had openly approved of the big Warren-McGraw romance—besides him. And he did ultimately approve, regardless of the current ache in his gut. He was nothing if not a realist.

A woman either loves you or she doesn’t. Period.

Doyle shifted his weight and kept watching out the window, mostly because Meehan and the boyfriend had just come out of the house. She was standing in the gravel driveway with her arms folded. She was standing—and the guy was pacing. And talking. Every now and then he gestured with both hands—a “What do you want from me?” kind of thing.

Apparently nothing, Doyle decided, because it didn’t look as if Meehan answered him. She wasn’t even looking at him. She just stood there with the rain beating down on her.

The boyfriend was talking again, waving his hands around a little too much, Doyle thought.

Threatening?

No. Not threatening. Or if he was, he wasn’t making much of an impression. Meehan didn’t seem to be intimidated by him. Still, this was not the Meehan he knew. He’d been a patient on her ward for months. She had a mouth on her. She was tough—tough enough to hand it out and then some if the situation called for it. And it sure looked to him as if this one required at least some kind of comeback on her part.

The boyfriend said something else, then turned and walked to his car.

Meehan stared after him, but she didn’t try to stop him. He slammed the car door and drove away, accelerating too much for the weather conditions in the process and slinging mud and gravel all the way to the street.

Meehan stood for a moment after he’d gone. Doyle thought she was about to go into the house, but she didn’t. Rain or no rain, she abruptly sat down on a nearby stone bench.

Was she crying?

Nah, she wasn’t crying.

Well, hell, maybe she was…

Doyle abruptly pushed himself away from the window. Either way, it was all over now. The boyfriend had gone his merry way, and Meehan’s current emotional state was none of his business. He had enough troubles of his own.

He held on to the furniture to maneuver to where he could get the cane. It hadn’t entirely hit the floor after all. It had caught in the chair rung, and he managed to retrieve it without too much difficulty.

He stood leaning on the cane, out of breath but more than a little pleased that the retrieval hadn’t turned into some kind of major production. He suddenly remembered the drama in the backyard next door and lurched over to the window again. Meehan was exactly where he’d left her.

“Damn, Meehan,” he said. “How long are you going to sit there like that?”

He felt like rapping on the window pane until he got her attention, and then yelling at her to get in out of the rain—as if she was a little kid who refused to take note of the weather until somebody of authority insisted.

But he didn’t rap, and he didn’t yell. He moved back to the chair, fully intending to sit down. He’d had enough of the “damsel in distress” thing with Rita. As knights in shining armor went, he was pretty dented up these days. He felt no need whatsoever to go riding to the rescue. All he felt was…aggravation. He was fully aware that he owed Meehan—for telling him about the apartment in the first place and for vouching for him with Mrs. Bee so he could move in. But, damn it all, he was tired. His day had already been hell, and it wasn’t even dark yet.

He sighed and looked around the room, then at the clock. It was time for Mrs. Bee’s regular Sunday ritual. No matter what, Sunday afternoons were iced tea and cake time.

Well, what the hell.

He needed the exercise. He could just make a trip downstairs—and more than likely, by the time he got to the front hall, Meehan would have come to and gone inside. And then he wouldn’t have to worry about it. He could stop in the kitchen and shoot the breeze with Mrs. Bee instead, hopefully talk her out of a piece of that cake with the pineapple-and-coconut-cream icing he liked so much.

He’d kill two birds with one stone—three if you counted keeping himself occupied so he wouldn’t think so much about the disconcerting state of his health—four, if you threw in Rita.

Sounded like a plan to him.

It took him a while to get down the staircase. The effort made his legs hurt a lot more than he anticipated, and he kept having to stop and get over it. He didn’t see Mrs. Bee anywhere. The front door was wide open, but the screen was latched. She hadn’t gone out on the porch.

He could hear the rain beating down on the granite steps outside. Mrs. Bee didn’t like air-conditioning in her part of the house, and it was hot in the front hallway. An old brass-and-wood ceiling fan wobbled overhead, but it was way too muggy and humid for it to help much.

He stood for a moment at the kitchen door, then hobbled inside to the far window. The toe of his left shoe kept dragging on the red and white linoleum tiles. Not a good sign. He was a lot more tired than he thought. He finally got himself situated in front of the window and moved the fruit-print curtain aside so he could see out.

“Is Katie still out there?” Mrs. Bee asked behind him.

“Yeah,” he said, relieved that a little old lady creeping up on him like that hadn’t made him jump.

“It’s none of our business if she wants to sit in the rain,” Mrs. Bee said, peering past his elbow.

“Right,” he agreed without hesitation. His opinion exactly.

“But…”

He could feel Mrs. Bee looking at him, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t dare. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have been watching out the window, too, and no way in hell was he going to walk into a loaded opening like that.

“Calvin?” Mrs. Bee said after a moment. She sounded every bit the schoolteacher she used to be. Class was in session, and he had just been called on.

“No way, Mrs. Bee,” he said, trying to stay ahead of her.

“Somebody really ought to do something.”

“You don’t mean ‘somebody,’ Mrs. Bee. You mean me.”

“Yes, Calvin, I do. I can’t go. It will look as if I’m meddling. If you go, it’ll just look as if you don’t know any better.”

He glanced at her.

“Well, it will,” she said. “Men don’t know about these things—especially soldiers. It’s all that hunt the hill, get the hill, way of doing things. She knows you, Calvin. She likes you. She’s not going to be offended if you go.”

He didn’t know about any of that. All he knew was that he’d had more than one occasion to see Meehan when she was “offended,” and it wasn’t something he cared to repeat.

“Mrs. Bee—”

“It’s just so…worrisome,” she interrupted. “Katie sitting out there in the rain like that. She had that bad spell of pneumonia last winter. She ought not be out there in the wet.”

“It’s July, Mrs. Bee. I think she’ll be all right.”

“Maybe,” Mrs. Bee said. “Maybe not. Couldn’t you go and shoo her back inside or something? It might be, if she saw you coming, she’d just get up and go in by herself, anyway—and you wouldn’t have to do anything. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

No, he didn’t think, but he didn’t say so. His legs hurt. He was tired. And pineapple-coconut-cream-cake hungry. He looked out the window. It was raining as hard as ever, and Meehan was still sitting there. He drew a quiet breath and glanced at Mrs. Bee. Her whole frail little body was saying one thing and one thing only—Please!

Ah, damn it.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go shoo her. She’s not going to like it—I’m going to catch hell for it. But I’ll go.”

“I’ll get the umbrella,” Mrs. Bee said, scurrying away.

He peered through the window again, hoping that Meehan would be gone. She wasn’t.

Mrs. Bee came back with a big multicolored golf umbrella. He took it and hobbled toward the back door.

“You’re a good boy, Calvin,” she said as he stepped out into the rain.

Doyle opened the umbrella. He could feel Mrs. Bee’s eyes on him all the way across the backyard. Which was just as well, because he probably wouldn’t have gone otherwise.

It was hard walking on the rough, wet ground, but he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to get this over with. Which he did. It would take him too long to hobble down Mrs. Bee’s driveway to the sidewalk and then around the hedge and back up Meehan’s drive to where she was still sitting on the bench—the key word here being “still.”

Oh, he had the “hunt the hill, get the hill” mind-set, all right.

And what the hell was wrong with Meehan that she would be sitting out in the rain like this?

He’d find out soon enough, he guessed, if he kept going. He could see her plainly through the hedge. She seemed to be completely lost in thought. He could have yelled at her at any point, but he didn’t. He just kept slogging along, pulling the cane out of the mud with every step. She didn’t even notice him until he was right on her and held the umbrella over her head. Nice touch, the umbrella, he thought. Gave the trip—ill-advised though it may be—a purpose.

Meehan looked up at him. She didn’t say anything; neither did he. And she wasn’t bawling. That was a plus.

With some effort, he continued to stand and hold the umbrella over them both—a futile gesture at this point in her case. She was wet to the skin.

She frowned. Just enough of one to let him know he was on dangerous ground here. Not exactly news.

Hunt the hill, get the hill.

“So,” he said pleasantly. “What’s new?”

She gave a sharp sigh. “Bugs, what are you doing here?”

“Holding the umbrella,” he said reasonably.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? Well, let’s see. I want a cold beer, for one thing. And I want somebody to drive me to some loud, smoky, possibly sleazy place where I can get one. Maybe a big thick steak with a pile of fried onions, too, while I’m at it. Since that’s not going to happen, I guess I want to stand right here—until I can shoo you back into the house.”

“I don’t want to be ‘shooed,’” she assured him. “And you can mind your own damn business.”

“Oh, I know that. I tried to mind it, believe me. It didn’t work, though. See, you’re not exactly what I would call behaving here—or does the ‘behave and don’t upset Mrs. Bee’ thing just go for me?”

“What are you talking about!”

“Mrs. Bee! She’s all worried about you sitting out here in the rain like this.”

“She doesn’t have to worry.”

“Yeah, well, maybe so. But you know how she is. And I hate to say it, but I was getting a little uneasy about you myself. This is not like you.”

“What did you and Mrs. Bee do, watch everything out the window?”

“Pretty much,” he said. Personally, he’d always found it a lot easier to just tell the truth in most situations—unless it involved some gung-ho officer. It was too much trouble keeping stories straight. He suspected that Meehan was the same way, especially when she was working. He had always believed whatever she said, anyway. The whole time he was in the hospital, whenever he needed to know what was what with the pain in his legs or the burns on his hands or why he was running yet another fever, she was the one he always wanted to ask, because he knew she’d tell him straight.

He kept looking at her. She was upset, all right, and once again he was glad she wasn’t bawling. He didn’t know what to do when women cried—strong women, that is. Women like Rita. Or Specialist 4 Santos. Santos was a damned good soldier, but she always bawled when she had to make a jump. He didn’t know why, and he wasn’t sure she did, either. She would cry like she wasn’t crying, and nobody knew what was up with that. The jumpmasters certainly weren’t crazy about it. But, she always lined up like everybody else and hopped right out the door when she was supposed to. It was just…damned unsettling.

Tears weren’t a big deal with most women. But Rita and Santos—and Meehan, if she happened to break down—were an altogether different situation.

He kept checking Meehan out, just in case. She caught him at it, and she started to say something but didn’t. She looked away, down the driveway in the direction lover boy had gone.

He waited.

And waited.

The rain beat down on the umbrella. A car went down the street, its heavy bass speakers pounding. Somebody somewhere threw something heavy into a metal trash can.

“So did you get dumped or what?” he asked finally—and that got her attention.

She stared at him a long time before she answered. “Yes,” she said finally.

“Yeah, well, it’s been that kind of a day,” he said with the assurance of a man who’d been there.

He maneuvered the cane so that he could press one hand into his thigh. Both legs were beginning to hurt like hell. He tried to shift his weight a little. It didn’t help a bit. When he looked up again, Meehan wasn’t frowning anymore. It occurred to him that she was a lot nicer looking when she didn’t frown.

“Did you go to the wedding?” she asked.

“I went,” he admitted.

“Everybody was all dressed up, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. I looked so good it’s a wonder the ceremony even took place.”

She gave a slight smile. It faded almost immediately.

“So how was it?” she asked a little too gently for him to maintain his bravado.

“It was—” he stopped and took a breath “—it was hell. Mostly.”

“Poor old Bugs,” she said.

He grinned. “At least I ain’t sitting out in the rain over it.”

To his surprise she laughed. She had a nice laugh. Definitely she should laugh a lot more than she did.

“I allow myself to do one really stupid thing at least once a year,” she said after a moment.

“And this is it, huh?”

“This is it. I wish I could think of some really cool way to get out of it.” She was still smiling a little, and she made an attempt to stand up. He tried to move out of her way. The pain in his legs intensified, and he couldn’t keep from bending forward.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, dodging the umbrella before he clunked her in the head with it.

“Hurts,” was all he could manage.

“Well, no wonder. Coming out in the rain like this.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault…would that be? If you don’t mind me…pointing that…out.”

“Okay, okay. Do you want me to help you?” she asked, he guessed because she’d been around enough banged-up soldiers to know that assistance wasn’t always welcome.

“No.”

“How long has it been since you took something for pain?”

“About three…weeks…” he said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not taking the prescription the doctor ordered for you?”

“Can’t stay awake. You know…me. Don’t want to…miss anything.”

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“I’m hurting…not…hungry,” he said. Which wasn’t precisely the truth. Not a lie exactly, more a matter of priorities. He’d planned on eating. He’d been about to zero in on Mrs. Bee’s cake with the pineapple-and-coconut-cream icing—but he got sucked into coming over here. And that fact just added to his current aggravation.

“You’re exhausted, is what you are. You’ve done too much today, and you’ve probably been feeling too sorry for yourself to eat—”

“I ate, I ate!”

He tried to take a step or two and was pitiful at it. “Okay,” she said. “That’s enough. You’re getting the shakes. Just stand here a second and then we’ll hobble that way.” She pointed toward her back door.

“No…thanks,” he managed to say.

“You should have taken a pain pill—especially today.”

“I don’t take them, Meehan, unless I have to. Just special occasions. When it hurts…really bad.”

“Well, what do you call this?”

“A minor setback…brought on by people not…behaving.”

“Very funny. Now go that way.”

“I’ll be okay in a…minute.”

“I said go. It’s closer than trying to get back to Mrs. Bee’s. You’re going to fall on your face. You’ve let the muscles in your legs go into spasm—”

“Right,” he said. “I…let them. Just for the…hell of it.”

“Oh, quit whining and let’s go. You can get off your feet for a little while and then you can run along home and give Mrs. Bee your report.”

She wouldn’t take no for an answer. He hobbled in the direction she was pushing him—but he didn’t like it.

“Take the…umbrella,” he said at one point.

She took it, but his not carrying the umbrella didn’t help him walk much better. She had to hold it way up in the air to keep him covered.

“Try putting your hand on my shoulder,” she said.

“It won’t…help.”

“Do it.”

He did as she ordered, bearing down hard with his next step. “This is all your—”

“Fault,” she finished with him. “I got that part.”

“So how come he…dumped you?” Doyle asked bluntly. The question was entirely inappropriate, but pain apparently made him reckless. Besides that, he actually wanted to know, and this seemed like as good a time as any to ask.

“It’s none of your damned business,” she said for the second time.

“Right. But since I’ve gone to all this trouble, I ought to at least be able to…give Mrs. Bee the details. We live for drama and pathos.”

“You and Mrs. Bee need to get out more.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he said, glancing at her. He’d made her smile again. Maybe the bust-up with the boyfriend wasn’t as serious as it looked out the window.

Still, she’d been sitting out in the rain all that time.

“Maybe you can work it out,” he said.

“Work what out?”

“The thing with the boyfriend.”

“Don’t think so,” she said, catching the back of his shirt when he began to list.

They finally reached the patio. She managed to open her back door and hold it with one foot while she closed the umbrella. He shuffled dutifully inside. The house obviously had central air, because the room was cool and quiet. There was a television, an easy chair, a whole row of plants under a big window, and a couch with a startled white cat on it. He didn’t like cats, or so he assumed. He’d never been around any, except the wild “barn” cats that used to live on his grandfather’s farm when he was a little boy. That relationship had been very one-sided. Every day, he’d toss them the table scraps his grandmother allotted them, and every day they hissed and spat and ran like hell.

The cat jumped down from the couch and disappeared.

“Sit down,” Meehan said unnecessarily. He couldn’t have made it any farther if he’d wanted to. He plopped down heavily on the couch where the cat had been.

The pain was less now that he was off his feet, but not much. He leaned back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Meehan had gone someplace, and the cat was sitting on the couch arm.

“Take a hike,” he said to it.

It continued to sit there, giving him its rapt attention. It was kind of unnerving. He’d never had an animal stare at him like that—or at least not one that was up to any good.

Meehan came back with a towel around her neck and one of those small electric blankets for couch potatoes in her hands. He sat there awkwardly, because he wasn’t sure what she planned to do with it and because he was in her house more or less against his will.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” he said in an inane attempt at making conversation. She bent down, plugged the blanket into a nearby outlet. She was wearing shorts, and he appreciated it.

The cat gave an inquisitive, rolling chirp and looked at Meehan expectantly.

“No, he doesn’t,” Meehan said to the cat. “But he would, if he had to.”

She was smiling slightly. He got it right off the bat. She was giving him the business here, and enjoying it. The big tough soldier wasn’t sure what to do about the cat, much less her talking to it.

But she had no idea she was dealing with Doyle, the Supercool. Two could play this game.

“Doesn’t what?” he asked to put her on the spot.

She dropped the blanket over his bare legs.

“Barbecue cats,” she said without missing a beat. “She’s the only survivor of a coyote attack on her and her litter mates. She’s very concerned about whether or not she’s in someone’s food chain.”

“Don’t blame her. Where did she run into a coyote?”

“A friend’s place in the mountains. She was just a kitten, and she took up residence in my shirt pocket while I was there—so I brought her home. She doesn’t get out much, either. Of course, in her case, it’s by choice—I couldn’t get her out the door with a crowbar. I don’t know about you and Mrs. Bee.”

“Well, it’s not by choice with me,” he said. But the real truth was that the two guys he had called friends had been killed in the same helicopter crash. He missed the sorry sons-of-bitches more than he cared to admit, and thus far he hadn’t gone looking for replacements.

Meehan was busy drying her hair with the towel.

“So tell me,” she said out from under it. “Why do they call you ‘Bugs’?”

He glanced at the cat. “I went outside my food chain,” he said. “The survival-training thing.”

“You weren’t the only one to do that, were you?”

“I was the only one to throw up,” he said, and she laughed again. Easily. Pleasantly. He hadn’t been trying to be cute. He’d been telling the truth again—but he was beginning to feel pretty damned witty here.

He stretched his legs out in front of him. He wouldn’t have thought the blanket would help, especially in July, but the pain was already beginning to lessen. “I’m going to have to get me one of these,” he said.

“You can have that one,” she said.

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. I have another. Actually, I have two others. My sisters seem to think I have no other way to keep warm. Take it.”

He looked at her. She meant it.

“Well, okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She disappeared again, and when she came back she had an apple in her hand. “Eat that,” she said, throwing it to him. “Put your feet up.”

She left him sitting there—with the cat. After a moment he maneuvered both legs onto a nearby ottoman. Then, he occupied himself eating the apple and looking around the room. Nice place. Neat. Clean. He could see several framed photographs on a table—little kids mostly. Or maybe the same two kids—a boy and a girl—at different ages.

Hers?

He didn’t think so. At least, he’d never heard anyone mention that she had kids.

The cat finally made her move, stepping carefully onto the blanket on his lap and then standing a moment before cautiously lying down. He sat there stiffly, trying to decide how badly he minded. The cat wasn’t hurting anything, he supposed, not even his bare legs under the blanket. After a moment he tentatively let his hand rest on its fur. It began to purr immediately. He couldn’t hear it, though. He could feel it with his fingertips.

“Just as long as nobody sees me,” he told the little beast before it got too comfortable.

He took a quiet breath. He was so tired. After a while, the cat stretched out across his knees. The added warmth was not…unpleasant.

He closed his eyes. He heard a telephone ringing somewhere and Meehan answer it. The conversation was brief, and, as far as he could tell, nonhostile.

Must not be the boyfriend.

He heard the rain, and a strong gust of wind against the house. And then he heard nothing.