A Veteran’s Second Chance (Wild Heart Veterans #5)

1. Savanna

SAVANNA

My day begins as it does every morning, with a fat black and white cat sitting on my chest.

“Morning, Panda.”

His amber eyes stare at me, and his purr ramps up a notch. I run a hand over his cold fur. He’s been outside.

When I went to bed last night, Panda followed me into the bedroom, jumped up on his side of the bed, and after an extensive cat bath, curled into a soft ball and tucked into my side.

It’s the same routine we have every night, and during the night, he woke from his catnap and headed outside to do whatever it is cats do at night.

“You always come back to me though, don’t you?”

I scratch his ears and he meows, chatting back to me in his own cat language. He nudges my forehead affectionately, further proof that pets are more reliable bedfellows than humans.

Panda jumps from the bed, and I get up after him. When I take too long pulling on a robe and visiting the bathroom, he meows pitifully, as if waiting a few minutes for his cat food means starvation.

“I’m coming, buddy.” I crouch down to rub his fur, and he pushes his back into my palm and purrs louder at the touch.

Panda turns in excited circles as I prepare his breakfast, and he almost knocks the bowl out of my hand when I put it on the floor.

“All right, buddy. Calm down.”

With Panda’s breakfast sorted, I run a trickle of water over a cloth and do my daily rounds of my other house guests.

“Look at how shiny your leaves are, Tilly.” I run the cloth gently over the thick leaves of my rubber plant. “Paige was right about that plant food. It’s doing wonders for you.”

Tilly sits on my kitchen counter alongside Peter Parker, the spider plant who is not doing so well. His tendrils are flat, and two of them hang loose, as if someone or something has been playing with them.

“Did you do this, Panda?”

My cat looks up at the sound of his name but admits to nothing.

I trim Peter’s leaves, give him some water, and make a mental note to search for bookshelves on my break. Peter needs a higher shelf where he’ll be out of harm’s way.

I pop two pieces of toast down, then see to the plants on the windowsill. My sun-loving family is what I like to call my collection of succulents and cacti.

My toast pops out of the toaster at the same time my phone rings. The ringtone lets me know it’s Cassie, my sister.

“Hey!” I put her on speaker and place my phone on the bench so I can grab my toast. “How did it go in…” I check the calendar on my wall where I mark off the cities where my sister will be. I like to keep tabs on her so I know which time zone she’s in. “…Berlin?” Which explains the morning call.

“Great. It was an intimate venue, and I love those. Europeans are so open to all types of music.”

“Even American country music?”

My sister is the Cassandra Hart, country singer sensation. In parts of America, she sells out the big venues.

“They don’t know me here. It feels like it did when I first started out. Small venues and anonymity.” She lets out a long sigh. “Maybe I’ll move here.”

I slather butter on my toast and bark out a laugh. “Come on, Cassie. You love the spotlight.”

She chuckles. “You know me too well.”

Panda jumps up on the counter, and I grab him before he gets his face in the butter dish.

“Hey you, get down from there.”

But instead of jumping down, he heads straight for Peter. “And leave Peter alone.” I grab my cat and drop him gently on the floor.

Cassie’s tone changes. “Do you have someone there? Is it a man?”

“No.” I crouch down to pat Panda, but he saunters away with his tail in the air. “I’m talking to Panda.”

“I thought you said Peter.”

“Peter’s my spider plant.”

Cassie lets out a disappointed groan. “Oh, Savvy. Are you still talking to your plants?”

I bite my toast. “Of course. It helps them grow.”

“You really need to get out more. Meet someone to talk to who can talk back.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Cassie means well, but our lives are completely different. She’s a musician on the road, meeting people all the time. She can’t understand why I like the quiet life.

“Nah, I’m all good.”

I pull the curtain in the living room, letting the sunshine in, and let out a contented sigh at the sight of the mountain. What a view to wake up to every morning.

“What you got on today?” Cassie asks.

I check the calendar. “It’s bonfire night tonight. See, I have friends. I have a life.”

I pull a chunk of beef out of the freezer. Hailey, one of the veterans’ wives up the mountain, has just had a baby. I’ll make a pot roast later to deliver to them.

“I got to go; I need to get ready for work.”

I hang up on Cassie and rumple Panda’s fur as I head to the bedroom to get ready.

“Behave today, all right.” But Panda makes no promises.

Later that evening, my eyes are red from the smoke of the bonfire that’s burning in the backfield of Jake’s Retreat, the veterans’ center where I work.

Every Thursday, Joel, who runs the place, puts on a bonfire and barbecue, and everyone’s welcome.

The veterans visiting the center mill around, as well as the more permanent locals, and some veterans come down from further up the mountain.

I’m speaking to Hannah, my friend who runs the bakery in town, and wondering if it’s too early to leave. Panda awaits, and my comfy jammies, and if I leave now, I can watch an episode of Love is Blind, my guilty pleasure.

“I’m going to head home. We’ve got a new cohort of veterans arriving tomorrow.”

It’s always busy when the new patients arrive. They’re usually transferred from a military hospital, often from Germany. As the physiotherapist at Jake’s Retreat, it means a new schedule, new injuries and, no doubt, a new bunch of obstinate men who resent being injured.

“A buddy of mine’s coming tomorrow,” says Jace, a rugged-looking ex-Green Beret.

I like Jace as a person, and I’m glad he’s found peace with Kayla, but dang, he was a difficult patient. I hope I don’t get another one like him again.

“Logan Winslow.”

The name is a jolt from the past that makes my body go cold. Jace is talking, but I don’t hear the rest of his words. I’m glad we’re in a group, and it’s dark, so no one sees my reaction.

I haven’t heard that name in over ten years. It shouldn’t affect me; I’m not the young girl I was when I last laid eyes on Logan. It might not even be the same man.

I hear myself saying goodnight, and I walk quickly across the ground to my car. But all I can think about is how there is no way that can be the same Logan Winslow.

Suddenly, I can’t wait to be back in my house with my cat and my plants, who don’t talk back and definitely won’t break my heart.