Page 8 of Trapped with the Covert Ops Soldier

He muttered something under his breath. “Please,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “Could you please come over here so we can have a regular conversation?”

She put the stick in her sack and picked up the oars. They were warm and worn under her hands, and the short trip to the dock was enough to loosen up the muscles in her back. Smitty moved to meet her and she tossed him the rope. He tied it off, then held out his hand to help her out of the boat.

She took it without hesitation.

He probably didn’t understand how significant that was. She hadn’t touched anyone voluntarily, outside of her office hours, since the day she got home.

Hugs made her want to back away. Handshakes gave her a bellyache. Sitting too close to anyone made her nauseous.

She stared at their joined hands. It was...pleasant. No panic or fear or rage. No pain or sickness or shakes. Abby breathed a little easier at this minor miracle.

“You...okay?” he asked, his voice sounded oddly cautious. Hesitant. Tentative.

She glanced up. Smitty was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before, or maybe it was horror at her new loud hobby making his eyes so careful.

She smiled at him. At least, she made an effort to smile. “I’m so far from okay I’d need a map to get there.”

His face never changed. Not even a little. He waited, patient and peaceful for her to explain, but she didn’t have a clue where to start. Her memories were tangled with so much trauma and terror none of it made any sense.

Smitty always had a good grasp on reality. Given the crap they’d been through, maybe too good. A chuckle trickled out from between her lips.

His face didn’t change.

How wonderfully absurd. She burst out laughing, bending over at the knees, and tears slid down her face. Smitty kept hold of her hand the entire time.

“Where’s that dynamite?” He looked over her shoulder into the boat.

She held out the bag with her left hand.

He took it and looked inside. “Geez, Abby, where’d you get all this?”

“If I told you I’d have to...” Her voice died before she could say the words. Killing was not an act she could joke about. “...do something bad to you.”

“Kinky.” Now he sounded interested.

She laughed again and plopped herself on the ground.

Smitty shook his head and walked away, setting the bag of dynamite in the back of an old, battered, and malnourished Jeep. He was on his way back to her when Sheriff Johnson’s truck drove up to the dock. The Sheriff stepped out, looked at her sitting on the ground still chuckling, then looked in the boat.

“He actually got you to give up the dynamite?”

Now that was a truly amusing statement. She sniggered. “When did you get to be such a stick in the mud, Sheriff?”

He shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “Shortly after I turned eight years old.”

The poor man. “I need to get you a sandbox for your office.”

He grunted. “Not a bad idea. My wife thinks one of those Zen rock gardens would be good for me.”

“I thought it was a goldfish?”

“Different self-help book.”

“Ah.”

Smitty joined them. “How long has this been going on?” he asked the Sheriff.

Sheriff Johnson sighed. “Since a week or so after she got home from Syria.”

---