Beth Andrews – The Marine's Embrace (страница 8)

Scrambling to her feet, she ducked her head to hide her blush, pretending great interest in slapping at the soil on her clothes.

Though they weren’t expecting any guests today, they did, at times, get a walk-in, so she lifted her head and smiled as he approached, then felt that smile slipping.

Dark. That was her first impression. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt clung to broad shoulders, a wide chest. Dark hair that reached his collar, the ends lifting in the breeze. A dark, full beard, just beyond the point of trimmed and heading into scraggly. Dark eyes surrounded by thick, sooty lashes, the lids heavy.

Eyes she couldn’t look away from. Eyes that seemed to assess—and dismiss—her before he even blinked.

She shivered. Hugged herself.

Dangerous.

Not exactly the most reassuring—or kind—assessment, but there it was, born of some inner knowledge she hadn’t even realized she possessed.

Which was ridiculous. She could hardly claim to know whether he was dangerous or not based on being in his company for a few seconds. Just because he had a hard expression, hooded eyes and was in serious need of some professional grooming didn’t mean he wasn’t a perfectly nice man.

And no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that, some primitive, maternal instinct had her glancing at her son to make sure he was safe. Had her edging to the side, putting her body between Mitchell and the stranger coming toward her.

The man turned, too, his hard gaze flicking behind her to see who she was protecting. Beneath the beard his face was lean, almost gaunt, his complexion sallow, as if he’d recently been sick. It was then she noticed the scars, pink and angry looking, along his temple and high on his cheek.

It was then that she noticed the empty sleeve on his right side.

She jerked her gaze back up to his face as he reached her. Cursed the fairness of her skin, knowing her blush was not only visible but probably neon bright.

“Hello,” she said, trying that smile again. He nodded. She waited a moment, but that gesture seemed to be his response, so she forged ahead. “May I help you?”

“Is this Bradford House?” he asked.

“It is.”

“I’m looking for a room.” He paused, his expression tightening. “One that’s accessible.”

She stared at him blankly, trying to figure out why his deep voice tugged at her subconscious, the cadence and the way he said Brad-ferd instead of Brad-ford strangely familiar. “They’re all accessible.”

How else would people get in and out of them?

He looked at her sharply, as if she was a few petals short of a full bloom. But it wasn’t until he set a large duffel bag on the sidewalk, the movement causing him to wince and fight to remain balanced, that realization dawned.

She really was as dim as everyone thought.

He hadn’t just lost an arm and suffered injuries to his face, he’d hurt his leg, as well.

“You mean handicap accessible?” she blurted out.

Another nod, this one short and sharp. “Do you have one available?”

His words were clipped. A challenge. As if she’d refuse him.

She wanted to. She wanted to tell him they were fully booked, recommend King’s Crossing or the Holiday Inn.

The thought shook her. Shamed her. Refusing to rent him a room was illegal. Not to mention immoral and hateful.

But her wanting to turn him away had nothing to do with his physical disabilities and everything to do with her instincts. They were shouting at her, begging her to please, for once, listen to them. To trust them. To believe them when they said that while the man before her might not be a con artist, thief or murderer, she still had to protect herself from him.

Dangerous.

Thank goodness she always followed her heart and not her gut. Or her head.

The breeze picked up, blew her hair into her face. A strand stuck to the gloss on her lips and she hooked it with her pinkie, pulled it aside. “We have a room on the first floor that should work for you.”

It had been her idea, she thought with no little amount of pride, to add a handicapped-accessible room off the library. And just in time, it seemed, as the addition had been completed only a few weeks ago.

“Mama!” Mitchell called, racing over to her, his hands black with dirt, his clothes covered in it. He grabbed her hand, started tugging. “Mama, come look. I’m done!”

She stumbled, caught herself. How someone so small could be so strong was beyond her. “Just a minute, honey. Mama’s talking to someone right now.”

Mitch sidled closer and wrapped his arm around her leg above her knee. Then he lifted his head to take in the stranger.

And burst into tears.

* * *

HE’D FLOWN HALFWAY across the country, almost fell on his ass in front of a bar full of people, humiliated himself by begging for a job and made a kid cry.

Yeah. He’d say his day was now complete.

Zach scratched the underside of his jaw. The beard itched like hell, but at least it hid the scars scattered across the side of his neck and jaw. Not that he’d grown it for vanity. He just hadn’t mastered using a razor with his left hand, and as much as his life might suck, he wasn’t so bad off that the idea of slicing his own neck held any appeal.

The kid sent up a high-pitched wail that probably had every dog in the neighborhood cowering. He pressed his face against the woman’s leg, his little body shaking.

Christ.

The woman knelt, said something to the kid—her son, if the resemblance was anything to go by—who quieted for a moment. Until he glanced at Zach again and cried louder than before. Kid had some pipes, Zach would give him that.

“Maybe I should go,” Zach said.

Color washed up the woman’s neck into her face, the red contrasting with her strawberry blond hair. “No, no. Please. I’m really sorry for this. Just...give me a moment.” She picked up the boy. Zach was surprised she could lift him when it looked like a stiff breeze would knock her over.

“It’s okay,” the blonde murmured, and he could have sworn she was talking to him as well as the kid. “Everything will be all right.”

The thought irritated him. He didn’t need her reassurance, didn’t need anyone spouting off about how he should look on the bright side and be hopeful for the future. He needed a damn room.

And she wasn’t doing her kid any favors, either, lying to him. How did she know everything would be all right?

She pressed a kiss against the side of the boy’s head and jiggled him the same way he’d seen his aunts, cousins, mom and grandmother do with the countless babies and kids in his family. As if bouncing the hell out of them would impart some comfort or maybe shake some sense into someone who couldn’t even tie their own shoes.

Then again, he was having some difficulty with that task himself. Maybe his mother was right about not casting stones.

The kid clung to the woman, his pudgy arms around her neck, all but squeezing the life from her. At least the jiggling and murmuring were working. His cries quieted. Though they didn’t stop.

She sent Zach a tight, embarrassed smile over the kid’s head as she rubbed the child’s back. “I’m so sorry. Really. Let me just get him settled down,” she continued, walking backward. “It’ll only take a minute. You can wait in the entryway if you’d like.” She turned, took a step then paused long enough to look at Zach over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

And she took off, speed walking down the sidewalk then jogging up the porch steps before disappearing into the house—hotel...bed-and-breakfast...whatever—leaving the door open behind her.

Leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

He started to rock back on his heels only to remember that wasn’t such a good idea given the pain in his leg, the unsteadiness of his muscles. The walk from O’Riley’s to here hadn’t helped, nor had carrying his duffel, which all went back to not having a choice.

His current life motto.

There used to be a time when he could run for miles at top speed in full combat gear with fifty pounds of supplies, weapons and ammunition on his back.

Now he could barely make it a mile carrying what little clothes he owned, his toothbrush and a few personal items.

New normal.

Leaning to the left, he picked up his duffel. His head swam. Ached. Nausea rose, but he swallowed it down. Headaches were just one of the lingering effects of the severe concussion he’d suffered during the blast that had taken his arm and leg.

He needed to sit down, preferably someplace dark and quiet. He stared at the doorway. No sign of the blonde. She expected him to follow her, to wait while she tried to convince her kid Zach wasn’t some monster. Good luck with that.

He turned slowly, started back toward the street. Tidy houses with lush, thick lawns lined the road. Birds chirped. A dog barked.

He never should have come up the walk, never should have spoken to the blonde. As soon as he’d seen Bradford House, he’d known it wasn’t for him. The Victorian was too cute, with its tall windows, huge wraparound front porch and neatly trimmed lawn.

A place where couples came for romantic weekend getaways. Where groups of women stayed when they ditched the men in their lives. Somewhere for people who wanted to be charmed by the manager, who wanted to sit with other travelers, chat, learn about their lives.