Noreen looked up at the ceiling, either counting to herself or cursing, it was hard to tell. She refocused on Connie. “C’mon.”

  When Connie didn’t move, Noreen took three quick steps into the room, snagged Connie’s arm, and began to drag her out of the room toward the stairs.

  Noreen’s room was small, tucked partly under the eaves of the old house. The closets were low built-ins decorated as Connie would expect, but never had herself, with posters of bands. In contrast, a big quilt draped the bed nearly to the floor, lending the room a deep, homey feel. An old rug showed age, wear, and care. It was the insides of the closets that were a surprise.

  They weren’t packed with glitz or leather or any of the other variations Connie had expected. They weren’t packed solid with a disorganized array of items. Neatly arranged, there was space to see what hung in each spot, and the clothes were beautiful. Jewel tones that would offset Noreen’s complexion. A neckline with an elegant, draped design to it. Pastels that would accentuate and warm her tones. A small rack of cozy sweaters and practical but feminine shoes.

  Connie would expect someone of Noreen’s beauty to have closets of slinky or… Well, there was more to the girl than was initially evident.

  In moments Noreen selected a forest-green top and handed it to Connie.

  Connie stripped off her top, because it was clearly expected.

  “Give me a break, girl.”

  Connie froze. “What?”

  “You can’t wear a sports bra.”

  “Why not?”

  Noreen dropped onto the bed. “What hole have you lived your life in?”

  “The US Army and it isn’t a hole.”

  “A deep and dark one, apparently.” Noreen turned to a small dresser and dug around. Then she held out a pair of bras. “Blue or sunshine yellow?”

  “What’s wrong with—”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Noreen muttered at the ceiling before focusing back on Connie. “First, it will make you look nicer, give my brother something he’ll enjoy looking at from across the table. Second, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, crap! Second, if he gets that blouse off you, he should find something more interesting than a faded-out sports bra.”

  Connie looked down at herself. “That’s not going to—”

  “Don’t!” Noreen stopped her. “If it doesn’t, fine. I’ll sleep better. But you don’t want to promise something that might make you feel guilty later and end up being weirder around me than I’m already making you feel. Take the blue one. It’s a good thing we’re the same shape.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “What, you want the yellow one? They’re both fresh washed if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  Connie took the blue one. There was no possible way she was the same shape as this perfectly proportioned girl. Yet with only a few minor adjustments, it fit her neatly. The green pull-on blouse hugged her form and left Noreen nodding.

  “Now a skirt. How are your legs?”

  The first one she pulled out of the closet would barely cover Connie’s underwear, a red leather miniskirt made with less material than her gun holster. She couldn’t answer.

  “Kid-ding!” Noreen made it sing-song. “Wanted to see your face. I bought this the day after I broke up with Jeff to punish him.”

  Connie could feel herself smiling. “Did it work?”

  “It was awesome! Six months and he’s still begging to get me back.”

  “Does he stand a chance?”

  “Not one tiny-ass bit. Total slimeball. I was young and foolish when I fell for him.”

  “Young and foolish six months ago?”

  She grimaced, “Don’t remind me.”

  “This is you.” She held out a mid-length skirt with broad strokes of forest colors. They washed across the fabric and reminded Connie of that first refreshing break after a hot summer.

  Connie stripped off her slacks and Noreen whistled. “Damn! You got serious legs, girl. You sure you don’t want the mini?”

  Connie laughed. “Not one tiny-ass bit.” She pulled on the skirt and swirled right and left. It made her feel light, even… she couldn’t find the word.

  “You clean up nice, girl. You are all woman. Wouldn’t think it with what you usually wear.”

  Feminine, that was the word. She felt oddly feminine. This was a long way from jeans and a work shirt.

  “You’re fixing Grumps’ tractor.”

  “Yes.”

  Noreen’s tone had shifted. Enough for Connie to stop admiring the skirt and look up at her.

  “Why?” Noreen’s voice was carefully neutral.

  Because Connie could. Because it got her out of the house when the people pressure built too high and squeezed in on her. Because… “It wanted fixing. He’s a man surrounded by home and family. It seemed like something I could give to him.”

  Noreen studied her for a long moment, started to speak, then changed the topic before she voiced it. “Shoes. You need shoes.”

  “No heels,” Connie had tried her grandmother’s once, that was enough.

  “You sure? Your legs in heels. They’d be awesome. And John being so damned tall…”

  “As my commanding officer recently told, er, someone: Not no way, not no how.” Would it have been a breach of black-in-black operations to say that Emily Beale had been shouting it at the President of the United States? Probably.

  Connie opened a cupboard in search of shoes and stopped dead.

  “Hey! Don’t!” Noreen rushed over and slapped the door shut.

  Connie gently pushed her aside and reopened the cupboard.

  “Class-A uniform in Army green. ROTC.” She turned the left sleeve outward to see the patches sewn there. “Noreen, that’s a Ranger Challenge tab.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “With a Superior Cadet award on the left breast along with Dean’s List, Shooter, and a Cadet Captain epaulet.” Connie turned to face her.

  The girl was looking at her feet.

  Connie reached out and lifted her chin.

  Noreen was blushing furiously enough to be easily evident on her dark skin.

  “You don’t blush about this. Not ever.”

  Her eyes were wide and watery.

  Connie could only imagine the heckling and teasing such a beautiful young woman had taken wearing this to class and around a college campus in this day and age. She thought back to her own first uniform. How hard she’d had to fight to get it. How many back-breaking hours she’d spent working harder. Working smarter. In pain beyond speech. Heckled by every bonehead that had ever worn civvies. Harassed by any man-jerk who thought he could get away with it.

  “Noreen!” She snapped it out, and the girl jerked upright. “Don’t you ever dare be embarrassed about that uniform. If you do, I’ll come back and kick your ass worse than the Ranger trainers.”

  Noreen cracked a weak smile. “They were pretty damn tough.”

  “And they’ll hand that out tenfold in the regular Army. But you earned it. If you ever doubt it, that’s a Ranger Challenge tab right there on your sleeve.” Connie didn’t have to close her eyes to picture her own badges. Even as a technical specialist, you didn’t get through five years in active duty and into SOAR without earning at least a few insignia the hard way.

  Her proudest possession, the SOAR patch, was rarely worn by any flier. In public, an SOF soldier wanted to blend in. On a mission, no one wanted to be downed and captured while wearing one. Enemy forces were not big fans of the US Special Operations Forces. Rangers wore their insignia everywhere. SOAR, Delta, SEALs, not so much.

  “What do your parents say?”

  “They’re so proud that it’s killing them not telling Johnny.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  She shook her head in misery. “Graduation is tomorrow. I’m a semester ahead, so they’re going to have a special ceremony tomorrow at the banquet. Please keep it a surprise? Please?” The young woman slid back into the girl begging a favor.

  Connie pulled her into her arms and held her tight. She kissed Noreen on the cheek and whispered into her ear.

  “He’s going to be so proud of you, he’ll just about die.”

  37

  John watched Noreen hug Connie before his sister closed the front door behind them. He took Connie’s hand and led her down the front steps, but came close to falling down them himself because he was too busy puzzling over what he’d seen.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing.” Connie climbed up into the truck easily, despite the skirt that flashed a fascinating bit of leg he’d never noticed in camp shorts.

  “You did something. Whacked her on the head? Alien abduction? What? This morning she lectured me on how she didn’t trust you. Now she’s hugging you like I don’t know what.” John climbed in and cranked the engine over. He turned the heat up right away. She was gonna freeze without pants despite wearing his sister’s long coat.

  “Your sister’s a smart girl.” They pulled out of the driveway onto the road. Two miles later he turned left on the highway.

  “You’re not going to tell me squat.”

  Her silence was eloquent. He glanced over and she was staring straight ahead. Staring and smiling like the cat that ate the blasted canary.

  Shit, he wasn’t going to get another word out of her on the topic.

  Well, he’d wait her out. She’d have to give in eventually.

  “I bet we could get the tractor running tomorrow.”

  Or not. “Grumps would like that,” was all he could answer. Damn her. She was way too smart to just slip around her guard sideways.

  He’d thought about taking another swing back to the topic of his sister anyway as they arrived at Dave’s, but was distracted by the aroma. Straight out of high school, he’d gone Army and Dave had gone cook.

  “Best steaks in all of Oklahoma.”

  “Do they serve whole sides? I’m starved.”

  “Smell that,” he pulled open the door. A warm wave of broiled steak and garlicked mashed potatoes, of winter squash and herb dressings washed over them. They stood inside the softly lit entry and inhaled the smell of heaven.

  “That’s so good!”

  “Wait ’til you taste it. Let me take your coat.”

  He took her coat and made half of the turn toward the coat check. Then he cranked back, turning his whole body like a tracked tank, to face the spectacle that was Connie Davis.

  Her clothes clung to her in sumptuous delight. They accented curves he’d never seen, not even in the minimal camp clothes of desert heat. The lines of form were accented in shadows of a green so dark that her eyes shimmered with the warmth of window lights guiding you home after working the fields long past dark.

  The neckline didn’t plunge, but it felt as if it did. Where he was used to seeing her dog tags, a simple golden necklace with a teardrop jade stone the color of her eyes accented the fine definition of her collarbone and her long neck. Then the skirt made her light and airy. And legs. He wondered if his heart was going to pound this loudly all night. Connie Davis had amazing legs.

  By the end of the soup course John’s brain came back into gear. Or at least partly into gear. Enough that he paid more attention to her conversation than her eyes in the table’s candlelight. He was in so much trouble.

  “Doesn’t feel right, does it?”

  John had to think if he’d missed the beginning of a topic change while drinking in the woman across from him and admiring the massive slab of Oklahoma beef spread before him. No. Connie’s comment was out of the blue, except it wasn’t. He knew what she meant.

  “You’re right. Funny how it hits you at strange times. It’s about six a.m. there. Crews are probably dragging into Bati about now after flying through who knows what shit in the ’Stanis.” For a moment he inspected his plate and his appetite was gone. All those friends crawling hot and sweaty into the shower after a whole night of flying. Hopefully none of them on the way to medevac or the morgue.

  “Suckers.”

  He jerked up to look at Connie in surprise. He could see by her expression that she was joking. Covering over the heavy thought with something light. She’d found some way around the pain that plagued every SOAR flier when on leave and their friends weren’t. Knowing that not being there increased the risk for all of the others. Knowing there was a teammate that you might never see again because they’d been shot while you were gone.

  “Yeah,” he said, trying to think of why they were suckers. “Because, ah, there’s no way they were smart enough to eat this good a meal last time they were stateside.”

  “Exactly.” Connie punctuated the thought by waving a fork at him with a small scoop of mashed potatoes from heaven on it, though neither of them ate for a few moments as they sent good hopes winging back halfway around the globe.

  Then they chewed in silence for a while.

  “I didn’t start out aiming for the Army.” For Connie, this was actively gregarious, starting a conversation topic on her own.

  “So…” He sliced into his porterhouse, which he could’ve done with the side of his fork. Dave was so frickin’ good. “Where’d you start?”

  “Where did you?”

  She’d been doing that to him all night. By now she knew about his boyhood passion. He’d built go-carts, racing bikes, later rebuilt motorcycles. He’d paid for his own cars by fixing other students’ cars for half the garage rates and still pocketing a tidy sum. Then the Army gave him the chance to work on helicopters and he was a lifer.

  But Connie’s past remained elusive. This time he waved a forkful of steak at her.

  “Nope. I asked you a question, girl. Now you’re going to answer it.” He almost added, “or quit talkin’,” but with Connie he never knew. That might get him nothing but silence for the rest of the night.

  She shrugged acquiescence. “I grew up at a number of different airfields from Podunk, USA, to Ramstein, Germany. My dad got me cleared into the hangars, what with being a single parent and all. He taught me helicopters. I knew an awful lot before I was tall enough to get myself in the cargo door of a Huey UH-1.”

  She spent time trimming a bite from her slab of prime rib and getting a dab of fresh ground horseradish on it.

  “I started high school working part-time for a Boeing maintenance squad as a gofer. Dad didn’t live long enough to see me airframe-certified at sixteen. Sikorsky hired me straight out of school, which was good because Dad’s Army pension didn’t go far.” She shrugged and started chewing.

  He decided to try her tactic and let the silence grow until it filled the room around them. Until they sat in their own private world in the midst of the dark-paneled and candlelit dining room. Until—

  A hand smacked him on the back so hard he had to brace against the table to not face-plant into his dinner.

  He didn’t need to turn to know who.

  “Dave! You son of a—” He caught himself before more than half of the dining room was facing him.

  Dave’s powerful hand clamped on John’s shoulder, but he addressed Connie.

  “Only guy I know who orders my fine porterhouse done Chicago-rare and then orders a root beer with it. Knew who it was the second I saw the ticket.”

  John tried to speak, but Dave ran right over him.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You never know when you’re gonna have to fly. Blah, blah, blah. Heard it a thousand times.”

  He reached out and shook her hand with a grip almost as powerful as John’s.

  “She’s a keeper, John. Don’t be stupid enough to throw this one back in the pond. A real stunner with a serious grip. And doing yeoman service to my prime rib. Damn fine beef, isn’t it, ma’am? What are you doing hanging with this big lummox? Your car break down? You can stay with me while he gets out of his one and only suit and fixes it for you.”

  Dave shook him again, almost knocking him sideways to the floor.

  “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your lady? Nah, you get all tongue-tied every time a good one is slow-witted enough to get caught in the honey trap of those gooey, big browns of yours. I’m John—He’s Dave. No, wait. Reverse that. Unless you’re John and he’s Dave. But then who does that make me?”

  “That would make you a US Army sergeant,” Connie offered. It was easy to return the chef’s smile. Though she had to wonder why she introduced herself as a soldier and not by her own name as a person.

  “I’d introduce you,” John clambered to his feet and wrapped Dave in a bear hug, “if you’d shut your damn face long enough to let a buddy get a word in edgewise.” Dave stood only an inch and a half shorter. They crushed each other around the ribs in a way that would break a lesser man in two and then slapped each other’s backs loud enough to startle the diners seated nearby.

  A lot of history there. Connie felt the pinch. She didn’t have history with anyone.

  John wrapped Dave in a headlock and turned him to face her. “Connie, this useless piece of trash is Dave. Dave, Connie. He was my center for two years of football, we made a hell of a pair.” Dave poked John in the ribs and pulled his head free. “Center. A fancy way of saying that he kept running his hands over my butt to warm ’em up and then fumbling the football anyway which yours truly had to save.”

  He shoved John back into his chair.

  “Now stop messing with the chef. I’ve got steaks cooking. And no, you can’t feel up my butt for old time’s sake. Nice to meet you, Connie. Hang tough one more day, then I’ll take you off his hands tomorrow night.”

  “You gonna grill?” John brightened up more.

  “Wouldn’t be The Night Before The Night Before Sub Fest if I didn’t have my smoker fired up.” And with a running stream of words and greetings at half the tables in the place, he moved back toward his kitchen.

  “The Night Before The Night Before?”

  John dove back into his porterhouse. “The night before Christmas Eve. We always have a big feed out at the Sub.”

  Connie dug into her winter squash. This time she heard the capital S. She’d missed that in the truck.

  “Sub Park. It’s not a small section of another park.”