Warrior's Second Chance. Nancy Gideon

flicker of contentment.

      Maybe that’s why he was here. To grind out that relentless ember beneath his heel so he could move on.

      Move on to what?

      The only direction he’d ever wanted to take was the one Barbara D’Angelo was heading. She was his North Star and home was wherever she resided.

      Sheer foolishness, of course. But the poet’s soul that used to dwell inside him was as hard to crush as that poignant flame of hope.

      Last chance. Last chance to just walk away and head north, preserving his memories in vacuum-sealed museum quality and his emotions in their static state. The first he could continue to take out, to dust off and admire with a dreamy wistfulness, and the other he could simply continue to endure. But if he stayed and made Barbara D’Angelo’s business his own, all that would drastically alter.

      Go. Don’t be a fool. Nothing has changed.

      But then that poet’s heart and a fool’s footsteps carried him onto the plane and back into her life.

      She said something. He couldn’t hear the words over the sudden loud humming in his head that rivaled the drone of the turbine engines. The surroundings faded out into soft focus until only she existed in a sharp field of vision.

      She hadn’t changed at all.

      She was still slender, stylishly dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a two-piece sweater of sparkly silver thread. Blond hair framed her face in a youthful cut that just brushed her shoulders. And that face…mind-stunningly beautiful. A face that launched a thousand dreams, though none of them came true.

      But of course, when she turned toward him, standing so close he could hear her sudden inhalation, he noticed the patina of age that settled over her with grace and protective care. Her eyes were a soft gray, malleable yet enduring like pewter. Her mouth was all sweet curves and wistful angles. High cheekbones and a delicate jaw lent her a classic loveliness, but all those attributes that made her gorgeous didn’t make her glow. That came from the inner beauty of Barbara D’Angelo. Her goodness shone through, transforming mere breathtaking to an ethereal perfection.

      Those gray eyes widened. Those tender lips parted in shock. She didn’t move. He didn’t think she even breathed.

      “Hello, Barbara.”

      It took her a moment to say his name. She looked so startled, he doubted she remembered her own. Then she said it in a quavery whisper and his heart rolled over.

      “Hello, Tag.”

      Her surprise bled away into a palette of emotions, all of them as bittersweet as the moment. Delight, guilt, relief, remembrance, and finally, pain. Each dawned with stunning intensity, like a spectacular new sunrise or sunset. He stood and simply marveled.

      How had he ever thought he could confront the past with a stoic demeanor? He was shaking inside like a schoolboy. She still had that effect on him. Reducing him, while at the same time making him want to be more.

      Get a grip, man.

      Thirty years had passed. This was not the same girl who’d sent him off to war with promises she couldn’t keep. This woman had been another man’s wife, the mother to his children. And he was suddenly, brutally, aware that he couldn’t reverse time, that he couldn’t return them to that golden slice of innocence where she would rush into his arms and return to him his happily-ever-after dream. That dream had died when Robert D’Angelo returned from leave wearing a grin and a wedding ring.

      He’d been a fool to come. What had he been thinking?

      His jaw tightened. Disillusionment lent a saving detachment to his outward appearance. Get tough, get through it and get out alive. His motto from Southeast Asia still served him in a crisis. He’d survived worse. He’d survive this moment with grace under fire and escape before his heart was a repeat casualty.

      “I didn’t think… I wasn’t sure… I mean, I didn’t know if you’d—” She broke off the uncharacteristic stammer to demand, “What are you doing here? Why did you come?”

      He read shades of meaning in her bewildered questions. After all these years. After abandoning our friendship. After no word for so long. Then her gaze toughened to, How dare you just show up now? Her confrontational glare helped him reinforce a wary stance.

      “I heard about Robert.”

      Anguish cut across her stare, crushing the momentary rebellion. Her right hand moved to cover her left, where she still wore a ring. She wet her lips, the gesture achingly vulnerable. Then the edge was back, a tight, honed look he’d never seen from her before.

      But then a lot had happened since the last time they were together.

      “That was over six months ago.” The accusation was unmistakable.

      “I’ve been kind of isolated.”

      “For the last thirty years?” Her gaze narrowed into an impressive demand for atonement. One he couldn’t make.

      One he shouldn’t have to make. One he sure as hell couldn’t tell her about. Even if he knew. His own gaze chilled.

      “You might say that.”

      His mild answer wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Her response crackled with raw feeling.

      “It was a nice funeral. You should have been there.”

      “I would have been there, had I known. For Robert. For you.” That last was said more softly than he’d intended.

      Anger and hurt built like thunderheads. Her glacial stare flashed lightning. Her voice rumbled thunder.

      “Thank you for the sentiment. I’ll let my family know that my husband’s best friend who fell off the face of the earth for thirty years sends his condolences. And in person, at that.”

      “Your friend, too, Barbara.”

      “My friend,” she mused as if trying to fit that concept together with the disparity of his absence.

      “I’m—”

      “Sorry?” Her voice notched up an octave. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Not about anything. You don’t have the right to be sorry.”

      “I was going to say I’m here now. Or would you rather I not be?” His cool tone had her reining in her anger.

      “Yes…no.” Clearly flustered, she stabbed her fingers back through her baby-fine hair and then fisted them. “I don’t know. It’s so…unexpected you being here. I don’t know what to think or feel.”

      “I didn’t mean to crowd you, Barb. Maybe I should go.”

      “No.”

      She took an involuntary step forward, her expression sharp with alarm.

      “Please take your seats,” the stewardess urged with a smiling forcefulness.

      Without another word, Barbara abandoned her aggressive stance to slide into the window seat and fasten her seat belt. McGee settled beside her and did likewise. But what held them tighter, more constrictively, were the questions, the confusion over why they’d been brought back together.

      Chet Allen.

      Chet had arranged this meeting. Barbara fought back a surge of renewed despair. He’d brought Taggert McGee back into her life. Why? After so many years, why now? Why now, when she was just starting to get a new routine on track, would he derail it so abruptly with this ghost from her past? What kind of sadistic revenge was he manipulating her into, first by threatening her daughter and granddaughter and now by forcing her to deal with what she’d been trying to deny?

      The fact was that Tag McGee was her daughter’s father, and despite the pain, the betrayal, the emptiness of loss, she’d never loved another the way she had loved him. Perhaps Chet had no idea what he was stirring up with his cryptic invitations.

      Or