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  Not that she’d tell him that. He’d probably go ballistic if she did.

  And she wasn’t up for one of his angry tirades today.

  She surveyed the sweet, furnished rental cottage, with its rose arbor on the side and hanging fern on the front porch. It was just the kind of home she’d envisioned for them when she’d been a smitten college student in Austin and he’d been a strapping army cavalry corporal.

  How could she not have fallen in love with the charming military man who’d painted such a rosy picture of their life together in this idyllic town—especially after he’d made the hour-and-fifteen-minute commute from Fort Hood to spend time with her every chance he got?

  It had felt like a match made in heaven.

  Until the vows they’d taken on that sunny October day a year and a half ago had been put to a harsh test.

  She choked back a sob.

  In hindsight, her parents’ advice to wait awhile before getting married seemed spot-on.

  As they’d pointed out, if it was meant to last, what was the rush? Why not plan a wedding a bit further down the road, after she finished school and her love-at-first-sight romance with Greg had sustained a few challenges?

  But no. From the day they’d met at a party given by a mutual friend, she’d been convinced Greg was her soulmate.

  Rachel pulled the key from the ignition and clenched her fingers around it.

  Maybe the man she’d fallen in love with was still inside his body somewhere.

  Maybe.

  But if he was, he’d retreated behind a barricade she hadn’t been able to breach.

  And after four depressing months in a town that wasn’t living up to its name, she was running out of ideas.

  Yet short of going home and admitting she’d made a mistake, all she could do was hang in and pray their situation would improve.

  With a weary sigh, she pushed the door open and circled around to the back of the house. Jolted to a stop at the shovel and empty rose container.

  Had Greg read her note and actually planted the bush instead of wadding up the slip of paper and tossing it in the trash?

  She hurried to the back of the yard and the in-progress garden where she spent her happiest hours.

  The bush was there, in the spot she’d marked.

  Her spirits took an uptick.

  Was it possible they’d turned a corner?

  Trying not to get her hopes up, she continued to the back door, unlocked it, and walked in.

  “Greg?”

  Silence.

  A niggle of unease raced up her spine.

  “Greg, are you here?”

  More silence.

  It was a foolish question, anyway. She had the car, and he wasn’t inclined to do much walking, despite the urging of the physical therapist.

  Dread pooling in her stomach, she walked down the short hall, stopping on the threshold of the master bedroom.

  He was lying on his back in the dim room, fingers linked over his stomach, eyes closed.

  His body was so motionless, her lungs locked.

  Had her fears finally come to pass? Had he crossed the line and decided to escape from his problems once and for all?

  No.

  His chest was rising and falling.

  He was still with her—in body, if not spirit . . . or heart.

  Fingers curled into tight balls at her sides, she refilled her lungs. “Thank you for planting the rosebush. It will be much happier in the garden than in that pot.”

  Several endless, silent seconds ticked by.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.” Her attempt at humor had zero impact on the rigid set of his mouth.

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Rachel.”

  He never was—unlike the old days, when his ready laugh had brightened her world.

  “I had an errand to run on my break and decided to swing by and have some yogurt.” Not far from the truth. She did need to eat some lunch. “I noticed the rosebush as I walked around the back. I appreciate your . . .”

  “I didn’t plant it.”

  At his harsh cutoff, she blinked. “What do you mean? It’s in the ground, exactly where I asked you to put it.”

  “Our neighbor did it.”

  “What neighbor?”

  “Ned’s grandson. I think he said his name was Ben.”

  She tried to make sense of that. “Why would he plant my rosebush?”

  “Because your husband couldn’t!” He pushed himself upright and swung his right leg to the floor, the stump below his left knee protruding over the edge of the bed.

  Rachel gave the room a quick scan.

  The utilitarian tube that functioned as his new leg, along with the hard, flesh-colored shell that fit over his stump, were jumbled on the floor in the corner—as if he’d hurled them from the bed.

  Above them, the mar on the paint confirmed her suspicion.

  The rosebush story was less simple to sort out.

  “How did Ned’s grandson get involved in this?”

  He glared at her. “He must have seen me struggling. When he offered to help, I figured the sooner I got done, the sooner I could move on to a few beers.” He swept a hand over the three cans lined up on the nightstand that she hadn’t noticed until now. “So I said fine. Then I fell while he was here. Or I would have if he hadn’t caught me.” Bright spots of color reddened his cheeks. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I know it—”

  “No!” His bellow reverberated off the walls, and she flinched. “You don’t know anything! Not what it’s like to lay here at night needing to pee and hoping you can get onto your crutches before you wet the bed. Or to live with the reality that you’ll never lead a group of soldiers into battle again, or win a marathon, or be a firefighter.” He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t know squat, Rachel.”

  “I know you.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Or I thought I did. The man I married wasn’t a quitter.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s long gone.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe it.”

  “No!”

  At her uncharacteristic vehemence, his eyebrows rose . . . and her heart stumbled.

  What on earth had prompted her heated—almost belligerent—rebuttal?

  Until now, she’d absorbed all the verbal abuse he’d dished out, pussyfooting around the hard issues, giving him space to deal with anger and grief over his loss, afraid that if she took a hard stand, she’d further damage his delicate psyche.

  Yet the kid-gloves treatment hadn’t worked—and she was sick to death of being patient.

  Apparently some of the advice she’d picked up while scouring the internet for guidance had sunk in.

  And with their relationship deteriorating anyway, what did she have to lose by taking a harder-line approach?

  Steeling herself, she marched over to the bed. “I have a few things to say.”

  “Then sit down so we’re on the same level.”

  “No. You stand up.”

  A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “I need my stuff.” He gestured to the corner.

  “How did it get over there?”

  He glowered at her in stony silence.

  But no response was necessary.

  They both knew the answer to that question.

  Instead of retrieving his prosthesis as she would have in the past, she strode to the small side chair in the corner, picked it up, and placed it in front of him. Once seated, she twisted her fingers together, hoping she wasn’t about to make a big mistake.

  “For the past eight months, I’ve watched you struggle to accept the new reality—and I’m not seeing any progress. I’ve listened to you complain, endured your bad moods, let you vent your anger and hostility and resentment on me. Well, I’m done. Things need to change around here. We’re supposed to be partners in this marriage, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. I’m trying to ke
ep my end of that bargain. You need to keep yours.”

  His features hardened. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  A spark of anger ignited in his eyes. “What gives you the right to make that judgment?”

  “I know you. I’ve seen how hard you can work and how goal-driven you can be. If you applied the same single-minded focus to rebuilding your life that you used to woo me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Our life might be different than we planned, but it would be good . . . and happy.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You have both legs. There’s nothing holding you back from doing anything you want to do.”

  “There’s nothing holding you back, either—except anger. You need to get over it and move on.”

  “To what? All I ever wanted to be was a firefighter like my dad and brother. No chief is going to hire a man with a fake leg.” He threw the prosthesis a venomous look.

  She wasn’t going to dispute reality. Facts were facts.

  “There are hundreds of other jobs that don’t require two perfect legs.”

  “Firefighting is in my blood. It’s been my goal since I was a kid.”

  “Goals can change. I have a variety of interests. You must too. Pick a new field and pursue it. You have two years of junior college—go back to school and get a bachelor’s degree.”

  “I’m not college material. And who’s going to support us? You?”

  “The VA is covering most of our expenses. My job is nothing more than a supplement.”

  “I didn’t sign up to be a parasite.”

  “Then what’s the plan? Are you going to mope around for the rest of your life?”

  “I might.”

  She let a few beats pass while she gathered up her courage.

  “Then you’re going to do it alone.”

  At her firm, quiet statement, Greg froze. “You’re leaving?”

  “That’s up to you.” She stood, returned the chair to its place, and walked to the door, her legs quivering as she angled back to him. “I still love you, Greg. You—not your leg. And I’ll help you in any productive way I can. But the next move has to come from you.”

  For one tiny second, she hesitated. His prosthesis was across the room, in the corner. Retrieving it would be a struggle for him while maneuvering on crutches.

  But he’d caused that problem himself . . . and cleaning up avoidable messes for him wasn’t productive.

  It was enabling.

  Shoring up her resolve, she turned, left the room—and kept walking until she reached her car.

  After she slid into the driver’s seat, her trembling fingers fumbled three attempts to insert the key.

  Once she succeeded, she expelled an unsteady breath and rested her forehead against the wheel, doubt gnawing at her already shaky composure.

  Had she been too hard on him?

  Was she wrong to set some ground rules?

  What would she do next if this didn’t work?

  The answers eluded her.

  All she knew was that countless articles she’d read on the net over the past few months had emphasized the need for tough love in certain cases.

  Like this one.

  Greg hadn’t been happy about it—but as long as there was a chance it might work, she had to stick with the program.

  Even if it broke her heart.

  5

  She needed a taco.

  Bad.

  Marci scrolled through her email, stopping to read yet again the note Ben had sent her after the article about Ned appeared in last week’s paper.

  It was cordial, complimentary, appreciative—and totally impersonal.

  If she’d had any doubts about the finality of their parting at the wharf, his polite communiqué dispelled them. It was clear he had no intention of seeking her out.

  Which was excellent news, given her aversion to dating at the moment—wasn’t it?

  Yes.

  Of course it was.

  The best strategy would be to forget about him—and she would, as soon as she convinced the right side of her brain to get with the program.

  In the meantime, a stroll to the wharf and some spicy fish tacos should distract her from imprudent fancies on this first day of May.

  She rose and moved over to the window, wedging herself against the frame as she peered toward the far end of the wharf.

  Rachel eyed her. “What’s up?”

  “I’m trying to see if Charley is cooking before I trek down there. Mondays are iffy.” She squinted. The serving window on the truck appeared to be open. “I think tacos have trumped painting today.”

  “Lucky you.” Rachel refocused on the half-finished article displayed on the screen in front of her. “I was in the mood for one of his creations myself an hour ago, but the truck was shut up tight.”

  “Want me to bring you back an order?”

  “No, thanks. I got a bowl of soup at The Myrtle instead. That will hold me until dinner.”

  Marci returned to her desk to retrieve her purse, giving her assistant a discreet scan.

  Rachel needed more than a bowl of soup to fill out the hollows in her cheeks.

  But an infusion of hearty food wouldn’t erase the smudgy half-moons under her lower lashes that grew darker with every passing day.

  Apparently the situation at home wasn’t improving.

  She slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “No worries. I’ve got it covered here.”

  Marci left her office behind, inhaled the tantalizing scent of cinnamon rolls as she passed Sweet Dreams Bakery, and crossed Dockside Drive toward Charley’s.

  Her favorite taco chef raised a hand in greeting as she approached, treating her to one of his trademark all’s-right-with-the-world smiles. “Good morning . . . or should I say afternoon?” He perused the sky. “Afternoon it is. The sun’s on a downward slide.”

  She twisted her wrist. “For the record, it’s one-thirty. How do you manage without a watch?”

  “Why would I need one?”

  True. Charley marched to the beat of his own drummer and set his own schedule—which accounted for the erratic hours at the taco stand.

  “I see your point. Unfortunately, most of us can’t live without our watches.”

  “More’s the pity. Life’s too short to spend it yoked to a clock. So what are you having today—a late lunch or a very early dinner?”

  “Knowing how filling your food is, probably both. What’s the fish of the day?” Not that it mattered. She’d never met a Charley’s taco she didn’t like.

  “Mahi-mahi, with a chipotle lime sauce.”

  “Yum.”

  He pulled some fillets out of a cooler, set them on the grill, and began chopping a tomato. “I enjoyed your article about Ned in the paper last week.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I bet Ben was pleased with the tribute.”

  “He seemed to be, based on the note he sent.”

  “Considerate of him to invite you out on the Suzy Q for the final farewell.”

  Marci furrowed her brow. “How did you know about that?”

  Grinning, he pulled out three corn tortillas and laid them on the grill. “It’s a small town. People talk. I listen. Right, Floyd?” He tossed the remark toward a seagull pecking around on the nearby pavement.

  The bird nudged his feathered companion, and the other gull cackled in what almost sounded like a laugh.

  “I agree, Gladys.” Charley opened a bottle of his homemade sauce.

  “You talk to seagulls?” Marci’s lips twitched.

  “As long as they talk back.” He winked at her. “One-sided conversations aren’t much fun.” He removed the tortillas from the heat and flipped the fish, his manner growing more serious. “I expect Rachel knows all about that.”

  She scrutinized him.

  Had her clerk confided in the taco-making artist?

  “Has she talked to
you about her . . . situation?”

  “We’ve chatted now and then. But Greg’s only been by once since they arrived.”

  “I think he keeps to himself.”

  “Not the best idea when you’re feeling blue.”

  Marci assessed the man as he began assembling her tacos. Did he know more than she did about Greg’s mental state—or did that comment just reflect Charley’s keen intuition?

  Best to proceed with caution.

  “I feel bad for both of them. I can’t imagine being hit with such an immense challenge that early in a marriage.”

  “I hear you. Storms can throw us off course whatever our stage in life, but they’re harder to weather if you’re inexperienced or unprepared. As Ned would have said, in a rough sea, it takes a lot of hands working together to get a boat back to safe harbor.”

  “My hands are available—but Rachel isn’t receptive.”

  “That could always change. You might still get your chance.” He lifted his arm and waved at the city manager, who was crossing the street toward them. “It seems you aren’t the only one having a late lunch today.”

  Brent Davis strode up to the truck and sniffed. “I could smell your tacos all the way to city hall.”

  Charley chuckled. “You must have a world-class nose.”

  “My mother claims I do. Wherever I was in the neighborhood as a kid, I could smell her chocolate chip cookies baking and always managed to arrive at the back door as she was pulling them out of the oven. Put my order in the queue, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Brent turned to her as Charley wrapped her tacos in white paper. “Hey, Marci. How’s the world treating you?”

  “No complaints. Anything new at city hall?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” His smile faded.

  “Care to share?”

  “As long as it’s off the record.”

  “Sure. The Herald isn’t the New York Times. I’m not trying to scoop anybody.”

  “New York wouldn’t have any interest in this story—but Hope Harbor will. We had an inquiry from a law firm in Eugene on behalf of a client who prefers to remain anonymous. This client has an interest in buying the Pelican Point lighthouse, and they were asking a bunch of questions about zoning regulations.”

  “What kind of questions?” Charley set her bag on the counter, faint vertical creases scoring his forehead.