“Always,” Kenny said as he hugged her too. And then Jake came in, with Izzy by his side and yes, the house was filling up. It wasn’t exactly a typical Christmas, but hers growing up had always been fairly quiet.
PJ looked at Jake. “Have you heard anything?”
“They’re on their way home, I think.”
“What does that mean?”
“He and Saint left the hospital—”
“Why were they in the hospital?” Jamie and PJ demanded in unison.
“And they’re fine,” Jake finished.
“Because you say so?” Jamie asked.
“Yes,” Jake said coolly.
“Can we get back to the hospital thing?” PJ prompted.
“No. I’ve said too much already.”
“Now what?”
“You were in the military, so you should recognize this part. We wait.”
PJ snorted. Jamie felt her belly tighten into what she hoped was only one of those Braxton Hicks contractions. “I’m going to go lay down for a while.”
“You okay?” PJ asked and Jamie nodded, avoiding Kenny’s face. She didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was, and so she went into the rooms she and Chris had been using on the first floor, more like a private suite with a living area and separate bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her legs a little so she could stare at her swollen feet.
She’d done research on the Internet about how to turn the baby naturally—there were several techniques, including acupuncture—and she’d try any of them.
They’re on their way home, I think.
Chapter Five
‡
Jamie couldn’t sleep hours later, found herself pacing restlessly as if on guard. It had started to snow hours before and it was a heavy, blanketing blizzard with diagonal icy hail that scratched the windows and rattled the house with its fierce winds.
She rubbed her hand on the glass door that led out to the back terrace as if that could help her see through the snow. She started a little, blinked, then stared a little harder as she spotted something—someone—moving through the blowing snow.
A mirage. A fantastic, tall mirage, his jungle print cammies cutting a path through the white stuff. As he got closer, she saw the blood and dirt and once he came close enough, paint on his face.
She was the one who remained frozen because was so sure this was a dream. The best kind.
And then, after what seemed like hours, he was at the glass door. He saw her, cocked his head as if waiting for her to realize this was all very real and finally—finally—he opened the door and stepped inside.
She took several steps back to let him in. Cold air enveloped her, refreshing, like some kind of renewal. And then he shut the door behind him and said, “Hey.”
“You look—”
“Wet,” he finished and she laughed softly, not wanting to break the spell. She reached up instead and uncovered his head first, the wool cap giving way to reveal the ever-present green bandanna he wrapped his hair in every time he was on a mission. “I walked ten miles in the snow, uphill. And don’t think this kid will ever hear the end of it.”
His different color eyes stood out in stark contrast to his very tanned skin. She reached out and stroked his cheek, just to make sure he was real. “You just got in?”
“About an hour ago. Roads are impassable.”
“Not for you.”
“Not for you,” he countered as her fingers skittered over the buttons on his jacket before skimming the icy material off him, letting it falls to the floor.
He stood patiently, this familiar act becoming something of a ritual between them. It was like she had to catalogue everything when he came back—every smile, every scratch—and he let her, without complaint.
Her pace quickened as she touched the cold skin on his biceps. She needed to get him warm, wanted him skin to skin with her. At this moment, that was her only mission and the only one that mattered.
She pulled the shirt over his head next, his dogtags clinking and coming to rest on his bare chest, and saw where the blood had come from. The gauze that covered his size was large, but clean.
“It’s nothing,” he told her and she didn’t press even as she continued to memorize the other, numerous bruises and scrapes littering his upper body. He wore them as if they were nothing. He bent and took off his boots, but only because she couldn’t. And then she helped him off with his pants next—he eased them off and laid them on a chair carefully because they were heavy with some of his gear.
“Rough trip home?”
“Not so bad,” he said.
“Why are there chicken feathers coming out of your pocket?”