Page 12 of A Veteran's Desire

I spin around and march to the house, unzipping my coat to let the cool air calm my heated body.

5

GRANT

The farmhouse is warm and smells like a home-cooked meal. I shrug off my coat in the entryway, and while Hannah finds a hook for it, I check the locks on the front door. Or lock, since there’s only one. It’s an old-fashioned turnkey. No deadbolt, not even a chain.

I start a mental note of security items to take care of, and a front door that won’t budge with a hefty kick is first on the list.

There are no security cameras or a doorbell camera, not even a sensor light. I add it to the list in my head. I’ll get a team on it tomorrow and get this place secure.

Soft chatter comes from the dining room, and it stops as soon as I enter behind Hannah.

An elderly man who can only be the grandfather sits at the head of the table, and next to him is a sister I haven’t met but know to be Abby, from the photos in the cafe and from what Hannah’s told me.

She’s the second oldest, and she looks after Pops and what’s left of the farm. She’s a beekeeper, and her hives supply the fresh honey for the famous Sweet & Strong honey cakes.

Rachel is across the table, and on either side of her are colorful kids’ plates, one with half a sausage and a pile of ketchup. Her kids aren’t in the room.

I note the exits. One door we came through leads to the hallway, another door to the kitchen, and a third to a room warmly lit that appears to be the living room. I’ll need to check the windows in each to make sure they’re secure and any other entry points to the house.

Hannah does the introductions, and I shake the old man’s hand. He’s got a firm grip and a sharp eye.

“I hear you’re looking out for my girls.”

“Yes, sir.”

He releases my hand but keeps his gaze firmly on me. “Do you think whoever vandalized the cafe could come here? Try to hurt us?”

“We don’t know it was vandalized,” pipes up Rachel.

I wonder what her angle is. It was pretty clear to me, and everyone else, that it was vandalized. Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism, and her way of coping is denial.

“Take a seat.”

Hannah pulls out a chair, and I sit down. She hands me a bowl of mashed potatoes and then sausages and green beans, and soon my plate is piled high with food. Hannah takes her seat across the table, and it’s hard to keep my gaze from her. From upstairs comes the sound of children giggling. Hannah tilts her head toward it, a soft smile spreading across her face.

One of the kids says a rude word, and I catch Hannah’s eye. Pops doesn’t hear, but the two of us struggle not to smile.

For one brief moment, I let myself enjoy it: the laughter, the warmth, the easy chaos of a family meal.

Then I think of Mason.

Of his widow sitting at a table without him. His child growing up without a father while I sit here enjoying everything Mason will never have again.

My hand trembles around my fork. I set it down before anyone notices and reach for my water.

“So, you’re an ex-military man.”

Pops is eyeing me, and I get the feeling the old man doesn’t miss a thing.

“That’s right.”

“Where did you serve?”

It’s better to ask where I didn’t serve. We were spun up all over the globe. Most places I can’t talk about. So I stick to the facts I can share.

“I was in the 3rdSpecial Forces Group. Our main region was West Africa.”