Boots on the Ground: The Homefront Trilogy, #1

1

Grady’s eyes widened as the door opened. He’d expected a middle-aged, stout woman with a sensible haircut and a white coat. Wasn’t that how fancy-ass doctors looked on TV?

Okay, truth be told, he never watched those tearjerker medical dramas. Even so, he doubted any of the actresses could compete with the tall, pretty, blue-eyed blonde standing in front of him.

And you are— She turned a page in the manila folder she held open in her hands. John Reid, correct?

Yeah, although I go by my middle name.

She ran her finger across the form. Grady. She looked up at him for the first time, and if he hadn’t been so caught off guard by her lively, intelligent gaze, he would’ve had the presence of mind to return her warm smile.

Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Laurel Hayes. She sat at the small desk pushed against one wall and clicked a ballpoint pen. What can I do for you today?

He cleared his throat, trying to shrug off the punch of desire so strong that it seemed to have knocked the air clean out of his lungs. He’d spent the majority of his thirty-one years as a contented bachelor, and he couldn’t remember the last time his head had been turned so immediately and with such intensity. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever responded to a woman the way he had when she stepped into that fluorescent-lit examining room.

I’ve been offered a job with the city road crew, and they’ve asked me to get a letter that says I’m fit to work. Something to do with liability.

She frowned. I’m an orthopedic surgeon. I don’t—

They asked me to see a specialist, on account of my shoulder. He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. I had a combat injury a couple years back. This is the army doc’s statement that I was fit to return to duty, but the city wants something more recent.

Laurel scanned the document, her expression changing as she absorbed what to him was only medical jargon. After a second she shrugged. Okay, no problem. Take off your shirt, and I’ll have a look.

As he tugged open the first snap below his collar, she tapped the folded paper. Says you were in the Thirteenth Infantry down the road at Fort Preston. When did you leave the army?

About ten days ago.

So you’re a newborn civilian.

Sure am. He pulled off his shirt and folded it beside him on the examining table. My contract expired a couple weeks after we got back from Afghanistan, and after thirteen years I decided it was time to find a new job.

She froze in her progress toward the table. You were in Echo Company. They just rotated back from Kunar Province.

Yes ma’am.

We heard you guys had a bad war. I’m sorry.

Thanks, he muttered, in reality not at all grateful to be reminded and as always unsure how to respond. Evidently the local media in Meridian had vividly relayed every tragedy in their ill-fated nine-month deployment, and he was already sick of replying with pat phrases like We’re all glad to be home or I was one of the lucky ones, because he had no idea where home was, and he sure as shit didn’t feel lucky. He knew people were simply trying to be kind and didn’t want a level of detail that would derail their Hollywood-softened image of brothers in arms, but damn if he didn’t feel like he was lying every time he acknowledged their well-wishes with a nod and an appreciative smile.

I guess you’re planning to stick to the area if you’re joining the road crew. Laurel stepped up to the table, and he exhaled with relief at the change of subject. Are you from Kansas originally?

Texas. But I have no real ties down there, and Meridian seems like a nice town. This morning I signed the papers on a place out in the county, only about twenty acres and not one of them ready for cattle, but eventually I’d like to get a little ranch setup going.

Sounds idyllic. She leaned in to touch the round scar below his clavicle on the right side. Tell me about this.

The scent of her perfume—light and fresh, like a cold slice of watermelon on a hot day—went straight to his head faster than a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. He swallowed hard.

Couple years ago we were rolling through a remote village and took some enemy fire. This is the exit wound. Entry is around the back.

Laurel nodded as she peered at the twin scar above his shoulder blade, and he continued, I’m told it was a real clean shot, no damage to the artery. Recovery wasn’t as bad as I expected. Doesn’t give me any trouble now.

Are you sure? The physician’s report says you have limited mobility in the joint.

It’s stiffer than the left, but I can lift the same weight on both sides.

Without another word she put her hands on him, her practiced, confident fingers palpating the muscles around the old wound, tracing bony ridges, testing and prodding and pushing until he had to grit his teeth against his burgeoning arousal. He tried to relax as she gently rotated his arm, but the firm grace of her touch and the nearness of her body combined to send a scorching lust ripping through him. He caught his breath and held it, trying to cool his raging pulse.

There was something about Laurel that jolted him, like spotting a bright pink flower growing in the middle of a junkyard. Her body was a series of perfect feminine curves, she had the straight shoulders and long neck of an honest-to-God princess, and the deliberate, precise way she spoke reminded him of those talking-head political debaters on CNN. Yet there was kindness in her eyes, tenderness in her movements, and nonchalance in the way she’d loosely swept her butter-colored hair back into a clip that suggested there was a lot more to this well-heeled doctor than met the eye.

Everything feels fine to me. You can pop that back on. She indicated his plaid shirt as she dropped her hands and crossed back to the desk. Grady thrust one arm through a sleeve, his brain whirring from the loss of her touch and the compulsion to get it back.

Go on, ask her out, he coached himself. You’ll never see her again otherwise—what’ve you got to lose? This was what leaving the army was all about—building relationships, finding a home.

He began to button up his shirt. Did you grow up in Meridian?

Laurel was writing in his file, and she nodded without looking up. Born and raised. The Hayes family has been here since the town’s inception, and we don’t tend to leave it for very long.

He thought he detected a wry twist to her tone, but discarded that as something much bigger clicked into place. Are you a Hayes as in Hayes Field at the high school?

And Hayes Avenue, and Hayes Memorial Library, and Hayes House, that nineteenth-century building where the historical society runs programs. She shot him a rueful smile. My mom is on the city commission, my dad’s a retired judge and my brother is an attorney.

Not Blake Hayes Associates, near Main Street?

One and the same.

Sounds like they should’ve named the place Hayesville instead of Meridian, he commented quietly, his heart sinking. He’d make a fool of himself if he asked her out now. Laurel was the closest thing this Kansas town had to royalty.

They considered it, actually. She turned to him with a bright, professional expression. I’m satisfied you’re fit to work. You clearly know your limitations, and if you can get that shoulder through a deployment, you can get it through a job digging up concrete. I’ll have my secretary type the letter, and I’ll add that the relevant supervisor from the road crew is welcome to contact me directly if they need anything else. Sound good?

Perfect. I appreciate your taking the time.

My pleasure. She swept up the file from the desk and put her hand on the doorknob. Good luck with your ranch, and welcome to Meridian.

He dipped his head in response, then jerked it back up when he didn’t hear her leave the room. She stood by the door, poised to depart, but there was hesitation in her posture and reluctance in her face. He raised his eyes to meet hers and caught the barest glimmer of what looked like hot longing in their blue depths before it disappeared. Then she was through the door and gone, and Grady was alone in the small room, blinking in disbelief and mentally compiling a long list of reasons why he had to be wrong.

But as he checked out at the front desk, crossed the parking lot in balmy May sunshine, slid into the driver’s seat of his pickup and slammed the door shut, he was more certain than ever that he’d read bald, hungry desire in Laurel’s expression.

As if, he muttered, shoving his key into the ignition. She might like the look of him, but that was the extent of it. She probably had a rich boyfriend who drove an Italian sports car and bought her diamond necklaces and took her to the opera, not to