Page 5

He paused at the end of Barb’s walk, resting his weight on the shovel. A gust of wind swept down the block, kicking up a few stray leaves and a crumpled piece of paper that fluttered across the sidewalk and landed beside his boot.

He bent down and picked it up.

It was an empty envelope from St. Luke’s Hospital. Someone had probably paid the bill that had come inside—or it had held a letter with results from one test or another. The return address was familiar enough. There were several branches of St. Luke’s in the Kansas City metro area, but this one had come from the downtown hospital. Polly Cooper’s hospital. The place where she petted his dog, doctored his stupidly impulsive injury and smiled at him.

The place where she was afraid.

Not of him, he didn’t think. He wadded up the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket, shaking his head before he continued shoveling snow. Why the hell wasn’t she afraid of him? Why didn’t she cringe and duck her gaze to avoid contact with his prosthetic eye and the shrapnel scars that crisscrossed the left side of his face like a spiderweb? Why did she have to make him feel like a useful, normal man—helping her to her feet, walking her to her car—when he knew he was anything but?

Normal? Hell. The reminder hit harder than he expected.

He hadn’t slept much, thinking about last night. Everything from his blowup at the group therapy meeting to the silent drive home in his truck. Daniel had replayed every moment, every word Polly had shared with him.

After they’d parted ways in the parking garage—her shy smile barely curving up the corners of her mouth, a flicker of shadows in her pretty green eyes—he’d replayed their conversation on a loop in his head. The way she’d hesitated before brushing off his concern. The way her hand had lingered on Pirate’s back, grounding herself with his warmth. The way that smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Something was bothering her. He knew it. It was something more than a smart woman worried about the dangers of walking alone at night in the city. Maybe it wasn’t the memories of the night Cayden Thornhill had attacked her, but it was something. He’d seen that kind of fear before—quiet, internal—any semblance of normalcy held together by sheer force of will. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to watch her back anyway.

He’d told himself last night that walking her to her car was no big deal. He’d told himself again this morning that shoveling Barb’s walk wasn’t a big deal, either. He was just being a good tenant. Just being useful.

He wasn’t buying it.

Mrs. Maynard was a bit quirky—maybe a lot quirky—and she could be pushy at times. She was lonely and butted into his business more than he wanted anyone to, but she was a good egg. She charged a fair rent and hadn’t given him any grief about the dog. He liked her.

He really liked Polly Cooper. A lot more than he should.

Which was stupid.

Relationships didn’t work for guys like him. He had too much emotional baggage. Too much rage under the surface. Too many pieces missing. He wasn’t a good candidate for happily-ever-afters.

But Polly smiled at him like none of that mattered. That brave, sweet little smile—like she saw something in him worth trusting.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Daniel heard a door slam and muttered a curse, hating the loss of his full field of vision and how easily he startled when something unexpected happened on his left side. But he knew from Pirate’s reaction that there was no threat, even before he exhaled and turned toward Barb Maynard’s front door. Pirate gave a happy bark and darted ahead—straight toward the tiny, fierce woman with white curls and a casserole dish in her hands.

“Sergeant Travis!” Mrs. Maynard’s voice carried like a drill instructor’s. She wore a quilted coat with the buttons only half done, snow boots and a bright red knit cap with a pom-pom bobbing as she marched to the edge of her porch. “Are you trying to give this poor dog frostbite?”

Daniel didn’t answer. He took the shovel with him up the steps, Pirate bouncing between him and Barb like an eager toddler.

Barb swept past him and thrust the casserole dish into his hands. “Meat loaf. Still warm. And I don’t want to hear any lip about it.”

He opened his mouth anyway. “I wasn’t—”

“No lip,” she repeated, one eyebrow raised. “You’re welcome.”

Pirate danced around her boots, tail wagging madly. She crouched and cupped his scruffy face in her mittened hands. “Now, you handsome boy—what are you doing out here naked in the snow? That silly patch doesn’t cover nearly enough of you.”

“He’s a dog. With a fur coat,” he felt compelled to add.

“And I’m an old woman who knows cold when she sees it.” She stood again and dug into the large tote slung over her shoulder. “Which is why I made this.”

She pulled out what he was sure was a hand-knit dog sweater—deep purple with a pale gray stripe down the back, and an opening for Pirate’s harness. It even had a little button-flap on the side for easy fastening.

Daniel scowled. “You knitted my dog a sweater?”

“I did.” She gave him a pointed look. “Because someone around here has to make sure he’s warm. Honestly, Sergeant, you’ve got a lot of admirable traits, but fashion sense and good judgment don’t seem to be among them.”