Page 7 of The Darkest Knight

Not sold on the project or the woman leaving a puddle on his nicely polished wood floor, he lost a bit of his frustration knowing this was something his sister believed in enough to contact him. The least he could do was give Reese a little time.

He closed the laptop as she clicked off the phone.

“It’s going to take a bit I’m afraid.” She placed the cell on the coffee table. “Abby and I can wait on the porch.”

“No, you shouldn’t do that.”

She brought her chin up, meeting his gaze in curiosity. “I don’t want to impose.”

“The hell you don’t. You didn’t have a worry when you showed up here uninvited.”

“Big mistake, I know. Goodbye.” She started for the door.

“Wait. It’s chilly out there.” He stepped to the hallway closet and grabbed two towels. He came back and handed them over. “One for you and one for…what did you say her name is?”

“Abby.”

“I can’t stand to see a poor animal cold.”

“Hmph, but you don’t have a problem seeing a human wet and cold?”

He steered clear of that question. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Water? Coffee?”

She hesitated as if she might be thinking she was making a bargain with the devil. “Coffee would be fine.”

His respect for her went up a notch when she bent and dried Abby first. She loved her dog.

“Come and have a seat.” He pulled out a chair from the cherry wood table.

“Are you asking or telling?”

“Suit yourself.” He rounded the island and began setting up the coffeemaker to brew. He grabbed two mugs from the glass cabinet and caught a view of the woman from his peripheral. She looked uncomfortable sitting in the chair, as if she wanted to run away as far and fast as her feet would carry her. He really needed to work on his first impressions. She rubbed the towel over her damp hair and face, then laid it across her lap, planting her tight fists in the material. If he made one wrong move, she was going to punch his lights out. He smiled. Nothing wrong with a woman who was cautious about strangers and situations.

“You were in the military?” he asked.

“Navy.”

“Army Rangers here.”

She nodded. “I did my research.”

And that meant she knew all about the explosion.

He waited for the last drip of coffee into the carafe, poured their cups and handed her one, then went back to lean against the granite counter. He didn’t want to make her any more squeamish than she already seemed by sitting close. “What did you do in the Navy?”

“My team and I were part of a special ops mission in Iraq. We spoke a little Arabic, enough that made us useful. Our job was to speak with the local women to learn more about their culture and any dangers they knew of that our troops faced. We were the only all-female unit. This particular mission was difficult for the male special ops because Iraqi women are hesitant to talk to outsiders, especially men.”

“Because of the cultural and religious limitations placed on them?” She nodded. He looked at Abby, starting to put the pieces together. “You were injured?” He didn’t see any noticeable physical injuries on her, but he realized a majority of wounds were inside where no one could see.

“A few years ago, my unit and I were behind enemy lines working with a mother who had lost her husband and son two days before. We were called in because it was believed she’d be sympathetic considering her family was killed by an insurgent. She was obviously still shaken and wanted no part of helping anyone, not even herself. We weren’t there long before I realized she wouldn’t have anything to do with American troops. I sent my partner out first, remaining as calm as I could as I told the woman goodbye, but before I made it to the door, she pulled a gun that she’d hidden in a floorboard under the table. Things are a bit sketchy, but she shot the soldier who was guarding the door and my helmet was struck by another bullet, piercing the metal. Luckily it didn’t go through, but I was thrown back so hard that I hit my head on the wall. During my recovery, I started having seizures. Several a day at first, but with medicine, they stopped coming as often.”

He skimmed his gaze down her. “Seizures from the head injury?”

“Yes.”

He had a feeling if he stopped asking, she’d sit there in silence and drink her coffee. “Abby has been trained as a service dog?” At the mention of her name, the dog lifted her head and whimpered.

“I’ve been lucky to have her, although I still can’t drive or do certain things that I once did, but at least I’m alive which is more than a lot of families of soldiers can say about their loved ones.” Her gaze met his, holding it for a long time. He could practically see her mind pumping and churning.

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