Fear shivered through her, and she stirred in his arms. They loosened instantly, though he kept her within their circle, his hands still transmitting minute tremors through the fabric of her sweater and deep into her body. That almost imperceptible shaking nearly undid her. She placed her palms on the front of his jumpsuit and tried to laugh. Then gave that up and sniffed loudly, brushing at her eyes. “Told myself I wouldn’t do this.”
Tristan had told himself the same thing. He’d been raised on the notion that real men don’t cry, although eight years in an Iraqi prison had cured him of that notion. He’d heard tougher, stronger men than himself cry like babies, and he wasn’t ashamed of the times he’d done so himself. But he wasn’t about to let himself cry in front of her. He’d learned a lot about self-control in that prison, too, and if it took every ounce he had, he wasn’t going to let Jess see him shed a tear.
He had his reasons for feeling that way, most of which he would have a hard time explaining in words. Some of it was plain old masculine pride, probably, normal guy stuff about wanting to stand tall in front of his woman, particularly when he was feeling anything but. Some of it was protective; he didn’t want Jess to ever have to try to sleep with the images that filled his nightmares. And maybe the biggest part was a combination of those two things. Partly pride, wanting to be for his woman the man he’d once been, the man she expected him to be—a strong man who believed absolutely in himself, and would never give in to weakness. Partly wanting to protect her from knowing about the man he was now—a man who, in the dark and secret places of his mind cringed and cowered in terror, a man who’d cried and screamed and suffered every imaginable kind of humiliation and degradation, and who wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore.
His thumb stroked a tear across her cheek, and his eyes followed it hungrily, as if the salty moisture were some rare and wonderful elixir that could cure everything that was wrong with him. “It’s incredible,” he said, his voice still hushed and disbelieving. “I was prepared—I told myself you wouldn’t, but you do—you look exactly the same.”
She laughed a shaky denial, while her hand fluttered self-consciously toward her face. It changed direction on the way there and touched his instead. He couldn’t control a wince—it had been too many years since he’d felt a gentle touch—and to cover it he caught her hand in his and held it there.
“You look—” she began, and he rushed to interrupt the lie.
“—like bloody hell. I know. I’m sorry, I wish—”
“You don’t.” She’d expected worse. And yet…she hadn’t really been prepared—how could she be?—for this gaunt and bony stranger. He’d always been strong and fit, all muscle and not an ounce of excess fat. Now his body felt hard and alien to her. “But you’re so thin,” she finished, with another shaky laugh.
His face formed a smile, a wry one, beneath her hand. “I guess maybe I have been missing that Georgia cooking. Get me some good ol’ Southern fried chicken, some of your momma’s biscuits and redeye gravy, and I’ll be filled out in no time.” Under her palm, the smile quivered and vanished. “You might have to be a little bit patient with me for a while, though, darlin’. They tell me I’ve picked up an intestinal bug or two, but they’re working on that. Once that’s cleared up, there’ll be no stopping me. Hey, you know, I used to dream about Colonel Sanders? And sweet corn drippin’ butter, and bacon and tomato sandwiches with those great big tomatoes—your momma still grow those in her garden?”
Grief and anger at what had been done to him overwhelmed her. Fighting it with all her might, she drew her hand from his grasp, touched his jaw and then the front of his jumpsuit. Frowning with the effort it took to force calm into her voice, she cleared her throat and carefully began, “Did they—”
“How’ve you been? How’s Sammi June?”
It was a hurried interruption, meant to keep her from asking the questions he didn’t want to answer. Wasn’t ready to answer, she realized, kicking herself, and vowed there and then not to ask again. He’d tell her when he wanted to, when he could, she told herself. If he could.
She answered him in the same false, bright tone, which nobody ever did better than a Southern woman. “Oh, we’ve been doin’ fine…just great. Momma’s fine…”
“Sammi June?”
“She wanted to come…she’s got midterms—”
He looked dazed. “Midterms…my God. She’s in college? I guess…she would be, wouldn’t she? I don’t know, I just keep thinking she’s still a little girl, you know? I guess…she’s pretty much all grown-up, isn’t she?”
The quaver of wistfulness and bewilderment in his voice, in his face, once again was almost more than Jessie could bear. “Oh, she sure is that,” she said, and her voice, still bright, was thinner now, squeezed past the ache in her throat. “She’s taller than I am, if you can believe that. Oh, here, I brought some pictures—” she snatched up the little album she’d left lying on the couch and thrust it at him “—so it won’t be such a shock when you see her.”
He took the album from her, then simply held it, staring down at it as if he had no idea what it was, as if he’d never seen such a thing before. A shiver rippled through her. There was something in his look, a kind of darkness, that frightened her. As if he’d gone away someplace and left her behind. Someplace terrible.
She realized she was babbling—about Sammi June’s classes, the women’s soccer team she was on—just to fill up that silence.
Tristan slowly lifted his head, then looked around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Is there someplace we could go?” Jessie’s heart gave a queer little lurch and she was about to tell him about the room upstairs, the one with the enormous bed in the middle of it, when he abruptly bent down and picked up his cane, then used it to point toward the windows. “For a walk, I mean. Outside. It’s a pretty nice day, looks like.” He looked at her and gave her a smile of apology—that crooked smile she was learning to expect, so different from the old one that showed his beautiful, even teeth and made comma-shaped creases in his cheeks and fans at the corners of his eyes. “I’ve been indoors way too much lately.”
A laugh burst from her that was still frighteningly close to a sob. It was partly relief, she knew; relief that he’d come back from that dark place in his mind. And partly a girlish eagerness to please him that made her think of those first giddy days…weeks, when she was eighteen and newly, wildly in love.
“Sure,” she said, “I don’t see why not. Except—” She’d almost asked him if he felt up to such a stroll, if he was strong enough. Even weak as he obviously was, she knew he’d hate that, and was glad she’d stopped herself in time. Instead she aimed her doubtful look at the windows. “Did you see any media people out there? There weren’t when I got here, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before they find us.”
He gave a snort, and the wry smile flickered on again. “Yeah, your mom said they were camped out on her lawn.”
“You talked to her?”
“First call I made.” His gaze brushed her and he spoke in a diffident, offhand way that seemed almost shy—so unlike Tristan. “It was the only number I was pretty certain would still be the same. I didn’t know if you were—if you’d—hey, I mean I’d understand if you did. As far as you knew, I was dead, right? I mean, legally, even if I was just MIA, after eight years—”
His floundering voice stabbed at her. “Tris, I’m not. Married, I mean, I haven’t—”
“I know that. Your mom told me—well, actually, they did. The Navy, I mean. First thing they did was fill me in on the vital statistics, what information they had.” He paused, and again touched her face with that shy, uncertain