Like I thought, she focuses on the Army picture immediately. I set the suitcase just inside the small laundry room door and stand back, watching her look at the photo. Her hand rises, hovering an inch away from the glass, as she tries to pick me out of the crowd.
I give her ten seconds, then offer help. Between the fact that we’re all wearing the same clothes and my hair was buzz cut, I look different. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “I found you right away. Most handsome guy in the group.” She looks back at me with a wink. “Call it a gift.”
I come closer. I’ve looked at the photo so many times I have it memorized, but I want to see what she sees. I’m on the left, sandwiched between Shepherd and Bensimmon. Some of us smile, others are straight-faced.
I hear Dakota’s sharp intake of breath when I reach over her shoulder and brush my fingertips over the glass. I’m so close I can feel the heat rising from her bare shoulder. “This was taken pretty soon after basic training. A bunch of boys trying to be men. We thought we were invincible.” A sharp pain flits through my chest. I point at Shepherd. “He didn’t make it home.”
Dakota gasps, her hand lifting to cover her mouth. “Wes, I’m so sorry.”
I nod. “It was awful. Especially”—I point at another guy—“for him. Hunter. Everyone was close, but some people just click and become brothers. Those two were brothers.” I lost touch with Hunter after he exited, but heard from Jason that he moved to Phoenix. I’ve made it a point not to keep in touch with Army buddies, but maybe it’s time. Maybe I can talk to them without it setting me back mentally and emotionally. Maybe I’ll give Hunter a call one of these days.
Dakota sniffles. I take my hand from the picture and touch her jaw, gently turning her head so I can see her. Her eyes are wet with tears, and one escapes, traveling down her cheek. Her capacity to feel anguish for a person she never met astonishes me, and something in my chest constricts.
My fingers are still touching her jaw, and my voice comes out husky. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
She shrugs. “Too late. I’m really sorry about your friend.”
I take a step back so she can turn all the way around. “He knew the dangers when he signed up. We all did.”
“It doesn’t make it any less sad.” Her face crumples and the unshed tears fall.
I can’t take it. I pull Dakota into my arms, hold her against my chest, and try like hell not to drown in her overwhelmingly sweet scent.
Her tears don’t last long. Soon she’s pulling away from my chest and wiping under her eyes. “Sorry about that,” she laughs softly and her cheeks bloom light pink. “I was just thinking about your friend, about what you’ve been through, and the next thing I knew I was crying.”
“Follow me.” I incline my head. She follows me to the kitchen. “I have just the thing for that,” I tell her, pulling the chilled wine from the fridge.
I hand her a glass and pop the top off a beer using a metal opener screwed to the wall. “Cheers.” I hold out the bottle and she clinks her glass against it.
“Alright,” she says. “I guess I’d better start what I came here to do.” She makes a face and walks over to her suitcase, bending down and unzipping it.
“I’ll make some dinner while you’re doing that.” I start the oven and open the fridge again, removing ingredients and setting them on the counter.
“You cook?” Dakota asks, stepping over the open suitcase and into the tiny laundry room off the kitchen. It’s just big enough for a side-by-side washer and dryer and sink. There’s also a door that leads to the back deck, and it’s nice to have when it rains and my boots turn into a muddy disaster.
“I cook a few dishes well, and a lot of other dishes poorly.” I grab a knife and begin dicing an onion.
Dakota’s laugh trickles out from where she’s bent over shoving clothes into the machine. “Are we having one of the dishes you cook well, or one you cook poorly?”
“Shit, I hope it’s the former, but I’ve been cooking for one for so long I may be wrong about it.”
Dakota adds a scoop of detergent from the box on top of the washer and closes the door. She regards the dials and then chooses a setting and hits the start button. She steps back into the kitchen. “Are you telling me you’ve never brought a woman here and cooked for her?”
“Never.” I scrape the diced onion from my cutting board into the cast iron pan. It sizzles in the butter, and my stomach turns over with a growl. Dakota drags in a breath. “Oh my God, that smells good. I definitely miss cooking. I’m like you. A few good dishes, many others not so well.” She peers into the pan, waving her hand over the steam to bring more of the smell to her. “Why haven’t you cooked for a woman? It’s quite the skill, you know. Assuming you prepare one of the dishes you cook well, any woman would be putty in your hands.”
I crack two eggs into a bowl and look at her. “Including you?” My heartbeat falters, my breath slams into my throat. Where did that come from?
Dakota handles it like a champ. She barks a laugh with her wine glass poised at her lips. “I guess I walked right into that one.”
I laugh with her, but it feels false. “You said it, not me.” But… what would happen if she was putty in my hands? How would that go? Pushing away those thoughts, I focus on my task. I add the ground beef and wash my hands, then add the bread crumbs, cheese and seasonings.
Dakota leans against the counter, watching. “Meatloaf?” she asks, and I hear her trepidation.
I look at her from the bowl where I’m combining the mixture. “You’ve never had my meatloaf. Trust me.”
“I have no choice but to. All my clothes are here.”
“Good point.” I form the mixture into a loaf and slide the pan into the oven.
Dakota makes a face at my messy hands. I have a teenage moment where I lunge at her with upraised, slimy hands and she shrinks away, laughing. “Gross,” she moans. “Wash your hands twice.”
We sit on the front porch while dinner cooks and the first load of laundry is going through. The sun has officially set, but its memory lingers in the sky, a steady fade. It will be a little while longer until the stars stamp it out with their brightness.
“It’s beautiful here, Wes.” Dakota looks out at the trees. “It feels like nothing bad could happen. Like you’re tucked away from the world.”
“Crime can happen anywhere.”
Dakota scoffs. “Out here? Someone would have to be out of their mind.”
“It would be unwise, that’s for certain. They’d encounter people hellbent on defending themselves.”
“Has anything like that happened?”
“Not really. We’ve had some nasty fistfights between the cowboys. One pretty angry cowboy who tried to steal an HCC truck after my dad fired him.”
Dakota’s eyes widen. “And? What happened?”
“My dad shot out a tire, then pulled the guy from the truck and held him down until the police showed up.”
Her head moves slowly back and forth. “Your dad is a badass.”
I smile. “Yeah, he is. That was twenty years ago though. He’s getting older.”