Page 93 of Mountain Defender

And then, before I can respond, footsteps move away from the door.

Reaching for a towel, I quickly start drying off.

I try to tell my gut it has nothing to worry about. Melissa is harmless. She’s the widow of my former teammate. She’s probably hurting after spending the day remembering her lost husband. She needs my support, not my unwarranted suspicion.

In the other room, I hear Rory ask, “Melissa. Are you okay? Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m fine,” Melissa replies. Like Rory said, Melissa’s voice is shaky. She definitely sounds upset. “I just wanted to come see you two.”

It’s fine, I tell myself as I rush to put on my prosthetic, wishing it didn’t have to take so damn long.

I’m reading into things.

It’s like the counselor Rory recently started seeing said. PTSD can make you see threats anywhere, even in the most harmless of places.

Still.

I won’t feel okay until I get out there.

CHAPTER 19

RORY

Shedefinitelydoesn’t lookokay.

But how could she? While the event was a cheerful affair overall, with plenty of laughter and fond memories and even a tabasco sauce drinking competition in honor of Vince, it had to be incredibly hard for Melissa to be there.

Everywhere we turned, there were reminders of Vince. Photos of him as a kid, playing dress-up in his Army costume. More of him as an adult, beaming with his team or standing proud in front of a helicopter. And the ones where he looked most happy, with his arm wrapped around his new bride, his expression so filled with love and hope it brought tears to my eyes just to see it.

It was a celebration of Vince’s life, but it also brought home the tremendous loss. Just thirty-three years old with his whole life in front of him, gone in an instant, leaving his family and friends to pick up the pieces.

Of course she’s not okay.

And judging from the blast of gin that hit me as soon as I opened the door, poor Melissa turned to the false comfort of alcohol to get her through it.

As she stands just inside the doorway, clutching a cardboard box to her chest, I ask again, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? Tea? Water? Soda?”

Definitelynotwine.

“Maybe some cheese and crackers?” I offer. “A sandwich? We didn’t bring much to eat since we’re leaving tomorrow, but I’m sure I can come up with something.”

Melissa stares at me, her eyes narrowing as they move across my face. I can feel the burn of her gaze as it hits the scar on my forehead. And again when it lingers on the one on my jaw. Then she looks at my arms, with several more raised lines exposed beneath the oversized sleeves of Gage’s T-shirt.

“I expected Gage to pick someone prettier,” she says abruptly.

Even though I’ve spent years trying to shore up my guard so these kinds of words don’t hurt me, it’s still a piercing shot to my heart.

She’s drunk,I remind myself.Upset. She doesn’t mean what she’s saying.

“But I guess it makes sense now,” Melissa continues. She pushes past me into the small living room, one side of the L-shaped space that makes up the main part of the cabin. “Since Gage lost his foot. He probably can’t do any better.”

Another dagger slices into my chest. Keeping my voice low and controlled, I say, “Gage will be out of the shower in a minute. You said you wanted to show him some photos?”

As she walks, her foot catches on the carpet and she almost falls before catching herself. The box nearly pitches out of her hands, so I rush forward to grab it before it falls.

Although her words sting, my worry for her is greater. Sympathy settles heavy on my shoulders.

What if I were in her place? How would I feel? What if Gage?—