Tate grimaced. “A while before my last deployment. So a couple of years ago.”
Lacy bet he wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye. She felt awful for him, but glad for Martin that the illness that had taken him had been quick. He would have wanted it that way.
“How did he seem?”
“Fine. Like always.”
“How old was he?”
Lacy realized where the man was going, and hastened to head him off. “Martin McLaughlin was sharp as a tack until the very end. We should all be so clearheaded and active now, let alone at ninety-three.”
The chief shifted his attention to her. “You knew him?”
“Yes. I was there, and talked with him barely an hour before he passed, and he was still mentally together.”
Tate went very still. “You were...with him?”
She glanced at him. “Yes. Your father hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet and I didn’t want Martin to be alone.”
He stared at her silently. In the morning light she realized his eyes were a greenish hazel, like his grandfather’s. The moment stretched, the voices of the others as they discussed the situation fading out somehow. Only when she sucked in a deep gulp of air did she realize she had actually stopped breathing.
“—to board up that hole when we’re finished, if you’ve got something we can use,” the chief was saying.
Tate shook his head, as if he were still fuzzy.
Or as if he’d been as caught by that long moment as she had been.
“I’ll handle it,” he said. It sounded automatic, as if it were a standard response. As if whatever it was, he was used to handling it.
“I’ve got some panels from my greenhouse you could use temporarily,” she said. “I think a couple of them would cover that gap. That and a tarp for the roof would keep the wildlife out, at least.”
His mouth twisted ruefully. “I’ll take the local raccoon over scorpions.”
She made a face. “I think I’d take anything with fur over scorpions.”
He gave her a fleeting smile. Definitely improving, she thought. “Speaking of fur,” he said, looking at Quinn, who in turn was studying him assessingly, “that’s quite a dog. Yours, I assume?”
“My wife’s first,” he said, “but now, yes.”
“Interesting that he headed for an explosion.”
Lacy hadn’t thought of that, but he had a point. Her mother’s ball of fluff would still be cowering under the bed.
“To be expected, once you get to know him,” Quinn said.
“And finding the cause of explosions?” She might just have met him, but she could tell Tate McLaughlin had an idea in his head.
“That, in particular, is a new one to me,” Quinn answered, “but again, knowing him, not surprising.”
“He looks too young to be retired. But he acts trained.”
So that was it. He was wondering if the dog had been a working dog, military or police, she guessed.
“Don’t know. He just showed up on Hayley’s doorstep one day and stayed. So while I wish I could take the credit,” Quinn said with a grin, “he came that way. I’ve only fine-tuned what was already there. He’s a wonder, that dog.”
Lacy couldn’t argue with that. But it wasn’t the finding of the cause of the explosion she was thinking of.
She was thinking of those moments when the dog had somehow managed to make Tate McLaughlin do what he needed to do—sit down. When the man had responded to the dog in a way he didn’t to the sudden influx of concerned neighbors.
If the animal hadn’t been trained as a therapy dog, he surely had the instincts.
And it appeared her new neighbor just might need that kind of help.
As he stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the damage after the fire department had finally cleared out, Tate rubbed a hand over the back of his head. His fingertips instinctively traced the scar that thinned out and stopped an inch or so into his hairline. It wasn’t even tender anymore, and the occasional headache and stiffness in his back were the only lingering aftereffects of that bloody day.
He’d not only been lucky that Sunny had been with him that day, he’d been lucky that Lori Collins, the best damned medic he’d ever served with, had been on duty at the aid station when he’d been brought in. Otherwise he might well be dead instead of back home, relatively intact. If he kept to his physical therapy regimen, he’d be in a lot better shape than many.
His mind skittered away from the memory of two funerals, funerals he’d missed because even though he was stateside, he was still in the hospital. He still felt guilty about that, although he’d done what he could when he was released. He had visited each family of his fallen brothers, shared stories of their talks about home and family, and assured them all of the love their lost ones had for them. It was all he could think of to do, but when he left he felt sadly inadequate. He was still alive, and they would never see their sons, brothers and husbands again.
Survivor’s guilt, they’d told him. He supposed it fit. He’d survived, and sometimes he felt damned guilty about it. Guilty enough that while he was in the hospital he’d seriously thought about trying to re-up when his active duty period ended. But then Gramps—
“RPG?”
Quinn Foxworth’s voice came from close enough behind that it startled him. He turned, looked at the man. Saw he was looking not at the smoldering ruin but at his scars. Normally this would have bothered him, but what he saw in that steady gaze told him this man understood.
“IED,” he answered.
“Sucks.”
Tate nodded. “You’ve been in the sandbox.”
“Not lately. Thank God.” He looked at the hole in the wall of the house. “No wonder this got your attention.”
“Rattled my cage, that’s for sure,” he admitted. Somehow it was easier, with someone who knew.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. And that you weren’t injured worse.”
Tate knew it was true. “I wasn’t in there. I sat down on the couch in the living room last night, and that’s the last I remember until it happened.”
“Still bothers me, that tank,” Quinn said. “It’s not just unusual, it’s darned hard to get one of those to blow.”
Tate looked back toward where the dog had led the firefighter to the source of the blast. “Welcome home,” he said, his mouth twisting.
He wasn’t feeling bitter, but knew he could without much effort. More than one of his buddies who’d come back before him warned him about that, that the everyday problems of life back home could seem either petty or insurmountable, making you ignore them and thus they got worse, or turn bitter because you felt like you’d paid enough already and deserved some smooth sailing.
Tate hoped he was tough enough not to go that route. And he had Gramps’s example to follow, the man who had come home from a long, ugly war with a trunk full of medals, citations and commendations, but had put them in the past and built a full, normal life back home.
“You need a place to regroup?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Tate said instantly,