Having an equal partner was rare.
He homed in on sounds to blot out thoughts—cars roaring past, the road reverberation shifting in tune as they ascended a bridge. A barge chugged in the distance, a long mournful horn echoing.
Inhale. Exhale. Forget. Inhale beach air. Salt water. Marsh. The scent of Nikki's soap. He was being selfish making her wait.
He turned his head along the seat. "I guess you want to know what happened."
"You'll tell me when you're ready." She kept her eyes forward, hands at ten and two, a rock when he needed one so damned much.
"I'm ready to talk whenever you want to pull over."
"Okay then. I know a quiet place not too far from here." A few miles later, she took the next exit off the highway, down a two-lane road along the shore, finally turning onto a dirt road leading to a tiny deserted historical landmark. The small battlefield boasted little more than a couple of mini-cannons, a broken cement bench and a sign explaining what happened here over two hundred and twenty-five years ago.
Shutting off the engine, Nikki shifted in the seat, leather creaking. "How about we sit in the back of the truck and look at the stars?"
She understood him so well it shook him sometimes since he didn't much like people rooting around in the cobweb-filled darkness of his head.
Well damn. Could that have been a part of why he'd run so hard and fast in the other direction after waking up in her bed? Not a reassuring thought in the least since he'd always told himself he stayed away for her, rather than risk hurting her again.
He leaned over to the backseat and pulled a bedroll of blankets forward. "I sleep outside sometimes."
In the back of his truck or the deck of his boat, the solitude and stars called to him. Except tonight he needed Nikki beside him.
Carson turned the key to keep the CD playing, windows down before he stepped outside and dropped the back hatch. He unrolled the bedding, tossing the sleeping bag for cushion and shaking out the extra blanket to wrap around them, trying like crazy to ignore the intimacy of the whole action.
The night wasn't that cold, high forties maybe, with a bit of a bite in the crisp air. He followed her into the truck bed, sitting beside her, draping the blanket over their shoulders, their legs stretched out side by side with a tree bower overhead. A few stars twinkled through, but the overall haven effect blocked out the world.
By instinct, he slid his arm around her waist and she didn't object, simply tucked her head on his shoulder while they both leaned against the cab and stared up at the sky. The time had come to talk. As much as he hated pouring out the horror of the day at her feet, here they were, and he was learning Nikki was a lot stronger than he'd known.
"There was a bombing at the barracks housing our crews. Two injured." His head thunked back against the glass. "One dead."
Her hand fell to his thigh in a steady weight of comfort. "Who died?"
'The young loadmaster, Gabby." So named "Gabby" because the kid talked all the time and now would never speak again. "I had to tell his wife. She's only twenty years old, Nikki. Twenty damn years old and already a widow."
Her fingers squeezed tight on his thigh. She stayed silent. What could she say anyway? There weren't words for this. God knew he'd looked for them when speaking to Gabby's wife, and he'd said something, undoubtedly inadequate. He'd taken flight surgeon Monica Korba and Chaplain Murdoch with him, but ultimately telling her was his responsibility, his squadron, his lost wingman.
Big band tunes from WWII teased from the truck cab, the pair of chipped cannons leaning. Symbols of so much loss.
"I don't know how the commanders during World War II handled all the deaths." His chin fell to rest on top of her head, the scent of her mingling with the ocean air to fill the hollow-ness inside him.
"You said two were injured?"
This had to be traumatic for her, too. These people were her friends. He cupped her shoulder and hugged her closer. "Bronco and Joker."
She gasped, just a slight hitch she swallowed back without looking up at him.
He rubbed her arm until her breathing settled again. "Bronco was pinned by a beam when the barracks collapsed. He's got a few crushed ribs and a punctured lung. Joker caught flying glass in the chest and face. I spoke to Joker's fiancée right before she was supposed to leave for work. She kept trying to find her shoes as if that would make everything all right."
Her arms slipped around his waist and she held tight, offering a comfort he wouldn't ask for but was grateful she thought to give.
He forced down the acrid taste in his mouth insidiously whispering for a shot of something smooth to wash it away. "We finally caught up with Bronco's wife. Since she's a military doc she kept trying to discuss everything in medical terms with Doc Korba, but her hands and voice were shaking so bad while she talked... Bronco's little girl was running around the living room like everything was fine and she didn't have a clue her daddy's on an operating table in another country."
His voice cracked. Damn it. He scrubbed his hand under his nose and started to stand. "We should go back now."
She reached up, clasped his hand and stopped him. "Do you have to return to the squadron?"
"No. There's nothing more I can do tonight." He looked down at her, her old-time music riding the breeze, moonlight streaming silver glints in her hair with a timeless hint of what she might look like in thirty years.