Chapter Three
T ris pondered as she drove. She knew she’d be welcomed if she dropped by the ranch, but she didn’t want to intrude. She wasn’t exactly walking on eggshells, but she was afraid she might somehow upset the balance as her brother, Nic, and Jeremy settled into their new lives. When she did see them, they were so happy it tugged at her, in both good and bad ways. Good, because she was so delighted to see her brother, and especially Jeremy, joyful again. Bad because it made her start to question herself, wonder why she felt still so mired in her grief.
Perhaps it was because she didn’t have a child to worry about. She adored Jeremy, true, but that was different. If she’d been in Jackson’s shoes—or now, boots—she wasn’t sure she’d have had the nerve to tear down her life and rebuild it the way he had.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’re just a coward.
She smothered a sigh, then berated herself as she realized she’d almost missed her turn. Fortunately there wasn’t a lot of traffic and she made it, and found a parking place on the street behind her destination, which was unmissable because of the huge sections of military gear, from guns to parts from ships displayed out front. The National Museum of the Pacific War was a Fredericksburg landmark.
It felt odd, to be back to her regular weekend routine, trips mapped out long in advance to fill those days that weren’t taken up with work related tasks, or playing chaperone to some school function or field trip. It wasn’t just a time killer, really. She loved history, and found Texas history especially fascinating, and working her way through a long list of places she wanted to visit and learn about was an excellent way to keep her mind occupied.
Lately she had shuffled the order a bit, though, keeping to more local destinations, just in case Jackson or Jeremy needed her. In fact, she was thinking of broaching the idea of taking her nephew with her next time, not just to widen the boy’s historical horizons, but to give Jackson and Nic a bit more time alone together. Maybe she would.
She always thought of this place as the Nimitz museum, since the famous World WarII admiral had been born practically next door and the foundation that bore his name administered the entire operation. That thought made her smile; the admiral was, in a way, still in command. And to this day the museum followed his orders, to honor the men and women who had served in the Asia-Pacific theater in that war. Today was what they called an outpost presentation, this one titled “Hurry Up and Wait,” describing what life for servicemen and women had been like when not actually in a battle.
She headed for the Nimitz Gallery, along with several other people spending their Saturday in curiosity. The exhibit was fascinating, to her at least, and she felt the usual tug inside at the thought of the sacrifices made by this greatest generation. Many people didn’t care, some thought it too long ago to matter, but Tris always whispered a quiet thank you every time she came here.
She was pausing at the Pearl Harbor exhibit when something different tugged at her. Some odd sense of being under observation, or watched. She looked up in time to see a tall, broad-shouldered man looking at her from a few feet away. A split second later recognition hit.
Logan Fox.
What on earth was he doing here? Yes, Fredericksburg was less than twenty miles from Last Stand, but why here at this museum of all places?
For a moment she stood frozen. It was obvious they’d both seen each other, recognized each other, so wouldn’t it be rude to just…walk away? Or run, since that’s what she suddenly felt like doing?
The very thought made her steel herself. She was many things, including a bit of a history nerd, but she wasn’t withdrawn enough to run away from an acquaintance, was she? Simply because he was…was…
Words failed her, a rare enough occurrence that it should probably be a warning, she thought wryly.
In the same instant they both moved. Toward each other, as if they’d each reached the same conclusion in the same instant. She wondered if her own smile looked as hesitant as his did, as if he weren’t sure she wanted him any closer. Because she wasn’t sure this was wise, either, simply because he was so unsettling, and that was a feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time.
“Mr. Fox,” she managed to say when he stopped in front of her.
That made him draw back slightly. “Ms. Carhart,” he said, sounding and looking a bit wary.
And suddenly she couldn’t help but laugh. “So, is it us, or just this place that makes us so formal?”
That got her a much better smile. “It’s a place not to be taken lightly.”
“No, it is not,” she agreed. “After all, the man has an aircraft carrier named after him.”
“The admiral was a Texan born and raised, and he served like one,” Logan said. “A good example for anyone.” That approving note in his voice warmed her far more than it should have.
“Indeed. And I think he’d be glad at how this place continues to uphold his principles. It’s why I keep coming here.”
He drew back slightly again. “You do?”
She chuckled, but it sounded embarrassed. As she was, for reasons she didn’t quite understand. “I guess I’m a bit of a history nerd.”
For some reason that admission got her the most genuine smile yet, and it was warm and understanding in a way she never would have expected.
“How can you not be, here? Just the Japanese midget submarine that washed up at Pearl Harbor is enough to keep me coming.”
“I was just going to head in there,” she exclaimed, not even trying to hide her delight at his answer.
And so they ended up at the display of the small—relatively speaking, anyway—two-man sub that had been part of the attack.
“I always have trouble with the word ‘midget’ attached to something over seventy feet long,” she said, staring at the long, dark tube.
“I have trouble with the idea of being inside a six-foot-wide tube with no windows,” Logan said, rather dryly.
She glanced at him, at his height and those shoulders, and she couldn’t blame him. “I imagine it would feel a little…sardine-ish.”
To her surprise he didn’t just smile, but audibly chuckled. “Exactly.”
She felt suddenly more comfortable, in fact even at ease as they wandered through the exhibit. Even though she’d been here before, it felt…new, especially when he said something that made her think about something in a different way.
He paused when they reached the Medal of Honor display. Just as she always did, never any less amazed at the incredible, impossibly courageous actions of Marine Staff Sergeant William J. Bordelon.
“I read it every time I’m here,” Logan said as he studied the citation, so quietly she wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it, “because I’m amazed anyone could do what he did.”
“So do I.”
He looked at her then, and the almost tight smile he gave her was somehow more warming than even his laugh had been.
When they reached the exit, Tris made her usual turn, then hesitated. Feeling the need to explain, she said, “I always walk through the memorial courtyard before I leave.”
It was a moment before he said, in the same quiet way she had, her exact words. “So do I.”
Her breath jammed up in her throat, as if she’d been given some kind of award. She remembered everything she’d heard from others about this man, about how quiet he was, a loner, isolated, kind and gentle with the horses, but pretty unsociable with people. Yet here he was, being quietly sociable, with her. And she decided that it truly was some kind of award, and that it made her happy in a new and strange kind of way.
By the time they reached the courtyard, with its series of plaques honoring those who had served, she wasn’t surprised at all when he paused at the same places she did. Or when he nodded as if to himself looking at then General later President Eisenhower’s words about hating war as only a soldier who has lived it can.
She gave him a sideways look. He caught it and she said, in the spirit of that award he had no idea he’d given her, “This place…it makes me feel incredibly proud and completely humbled at the same time.”
He blinked. Started to say something, but stopped. She waiting guessing silence might be her best prod with this man. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a little rough.
“I never put it into exactly those words, but…yes. That’s what it does.”
They walked in respectful silence back out to the street, where she struggled to think of something, anything to say. The best she could do was, “It was nice to have company who appreciates this place.”
It was apparently the right thing, because it got her the widest smile yet. Then, a bit awkwardly, he said, “I was thinking about…maybe…getting some coffee or something.”
She wasn’t sure if that was an invitation or not. But from all those things people had told her, she realized he probably wasn’t very practiced at it. She realized she was reading him as if he were one of her students—and laughed inwardly at the idea of taking this man for anything less than the six-foot specimen of pure masculinity he was—and that made her say impulsively, “I’m not settling for anything less than some Clear River ice cream.”
To her surprise, he laughed, a less hesitant, almost relieved one this time. “Personally, I’m a fan of their peach cobbler.”
“Well, if you’re going to get that serious, we’d better hurry. That stuff sells out fast.”
And so she found herself walking with him up toward Main Street. The classic diner-style shop was a quick two-block walk, and there were enough pedestrians now, during the last weekend of the Bluebonnet Festival, to make it difficult to carry on a conversation.
When they reached the familiar, bright red doors, Logan pulled one open and held it for her. Like the Texas gentleman he was at the core.
Fortunately it was a little early for the popular place to be jammed yet, and they found one of the booths free. The cobbler—she weakened and went for it too—was as good as ever, its fame well deserved. And she knew their server, a young woman who had been one of her students a couple of years ago.
“Your brother mentioned you’re a teacher,” Logan said when she’d gone. “At Creekbend?”
“Not now. I originally taught at Creekbend High, but moved to the private school on Hillbend when my husband’s plan for remodeling the school was accepted. We agreed it seemed a conflict of interest for me to stay.”
He lifted a dark brow at her. “Ethical of you both.”
“David was never less than ethical,” she said, proud of the evenness of her voice. He only nodded, and for that, and the lack of platitudes—again—she was thankful. And said so.
He shrugged as if it were nothing. “Sometimes the only thing that gets you through a hell like that is knowing that someone else really knows how you feel, and what won’t help.”
He said it with a certainty that told her this man had some experience with such things. Then another thought struck her as she remembered just who he was. What she’d seen him do with one of the particularly nervous horses on Nic’s—well, and Jackson’s now too—ranch.
Making sure there was a smile on her face now she asked, “Is this how you do it? The horses, I mean? You get through to them that you know how they feel?”
She counted his startled look then as a victory, because she doubted this man was taken aback very often. Then, slowly, he smiled back, and it was a lovely one.
“In a way, yes,” he said, and the tone of his voice matched the smile.
Tris found herself smiling the entire drive back home. And it lasted until she got inside, among all the familiar things that reminded her of why she hadn’t smiled like this in a very long time.