Wilde Love (Forever Wilde 6)

One night we had to suddenly hunker down in one of the nearby bunkers because there were warnings of mortar attacks. Doc used the opportunity to ask me a million questions about my previous tours, what it was like working in the air assault division, how a Chinook differed from our Huey, why I’d chosen to become a pilot, and anything else he could think of to be actively learning something new while we were stuck between rows of sandbags.

I was used to his inquisitive nature after thousands of hours spent with him on missions and during downtime, so I told him as much as I could remember, and at one point the corporal on the other side of him gave Doc hell for it.

“Jesus, Doc. Give the major a break, will ya? You interviewing the man for a newspaper or something?”

Doc’s eyes went wide with surprise, and then they flicked down with embarrassment. “Sorry, Major,” he mumbled. “Just… making conversation.”

I wanted to punch the corporal in the jaw. Instead, I cleared my throat in a kind of grunt.

“Passes the time as good as anything,” I mumbled, but it was too late. The corporal’s words had made their mark and shut up the sweet medic between us.

But several hours later when most of the men around us had dozed off, Doc spoke again. This time it was in a low voice so as not to disturb anyone around us.

“What do you think of Lynch and Dial?”

“They’ve been competent and efficient as far as I can see. Why?”

He remained quiet for a little while, and I wondered if he was going to tell me about a problem he had with one or both of them.

“It’s just… I don’t know. It’s not the same.”

Ahh.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “Lynch is very upright and by the book. Very different from Moline.”

“Yeah. And Dial is nice and all… but…”

“He’s not Rusnak,” I finished for him.

Doc’s eyes met mine, flush with grief. “I don’t think I can—”

Someone nearby got up, presumably to visit the latrine. As he walked past us, Doc jumped back into a safer topic.

“You never told me why you got an ag degree,” he said, clearing his throat. “I figured a career guy like you’d get a military science degree or something.”

I went along with his need to change the subject. I explained my crazy dream of living on a quiet farm one day where I could keep myself to myself and raise chickens and goats.

Doc chuckled. “You should see the chickens my mom has. Stupidest things ever, but man oh man there are some nice-looking ones.”

He went on about the peahens and the many coops he’d had to build for his mother over the years to keep her stock happy. As he chattered on, I realized how very different we were. Liam Wilde was a people person, eager and sociable, whereas I keep myself to myself for the most part. I hadn’t always been that way. I remembered one time my sister had held her hand up like a stern teacher and said, “Just stop all that nonsense. Weston Marian, you exhaust me.”

She’d been six at the time, and I remembered everyone laughing their fool heads off at her chastising me.

“Why’re you laughing?” Doc asked with his crooked grin. “You think it’s funny when a farm kid gets a walloping?”

“What? Oh, I missed what you said,” I admitted.

“What made you smile like that, Major?”

I wanted to tell him to call me by my name, but after fourteen years in the army and several at this rank, my name pretty much was Major.

“You’re a chatterbox like my little sister.”

Doc’s face softened. “Yeah?”

“Yep,” I said with a smile. “Sassiest loudmouth you ever did meet.”

His grin flashed white teeth in the surrounding darkness. “Opposite of you, then?”

“I reckon that’s about right,” I said with a chuckle. After a beat of indecision, I pulled out the little photo I carried in my breast pocket and showed it to him. “That’s her. It was in my wallet when I left, thank god.”

“What’s her name?” The gentle look to his eyes told me he remembered about why I hadn’t seen her in so long.

“Matilda,” I said, hearing the name out loud for the first time in fifteen years. “But I called her Tilly.”

The silence stretched thin between us but didn’t break. I slipped the photo back into my pocket to keep it safe.

“You should write to her, Major,” he said so softly I almost didn’t hear it. I turned to look at him, unsure of how I felt about him using my rank when we were discussing something so close to my heart.

“Weston,” I corrected just as softly. “And I don’t think I’m brave enough.”

Doc’s beautiful eyes studied me. “You’re the bravest SOB I’ve ever met.”

“Says the corn-fed kid from small-town nowhere,” I teased.