DUTY & Healing Heat (A 13th Co. Devotion Series #3)

1. The Market Welcome

Chapter one

The Market Welcome

The berry cartons go flying and hit the grass before I can catch any of them.

One carton bursts open on impact with the grass.

Another bounces off my boat shoe, splits open, and berries go rolling under a folding table stacked with jars of honey.

A third lands upside down in the arms of a woman, crushed against her white shirt, leaving a bright red smear across the front of it.

For one second, the Coupeville farmers market pauses to admire my work.

I’ve lived here less than a week, and I’ve already attacked a local woman with produce and become the town spectacle.

Outstanding.

The woman looks down at her shirt, then at the smashed berries, then at me.

I’m six foot three, a retired Navy flight surgeon, and currently wishing I could eject from the middle of this farmers market.

“Ma’am,” I begin, “I’m so sorry. That was completely my fault.”

Her head comes up.

Dark hair. Sharp blue eyes. No nonsense in the way her mouth is curled into a snarl. Maybe five foot six, maybe less, with a body built for sin and a glare built for immediate bodily harm.

“You think?” she asks.

Great. Even better.

The first woman to make my pulse misbehave since I moved to this island looks ready to bury me under the nearest vegetable display.

A small noise breaks out beside me. Not quite a laugh.

Worse.

My teenage daughter, who is trying very hard not to laugh, is failing miserably.

I look down at Ellie.

She has one hand over her mouth, her eyes bright with the specific horror of a fourteen-year-old whose father has embarrassed her in public.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you’re laughing.”

She breaks out in a full belly laugh now.

The berry vendor, a round woman with silver hair and a floral apron, hurries from behind the table with a stack of napkins. “Oh, honey, your shirt.”

The woman takes the napkins without looking away from me. “It’s fine, Mrs. Weaver. Thank you.”

By the look in her eyes, it is most definitely not fine.

One look at her face says fine left the island several minutes ago and has no plans to return.

“I’ll replace the order,” I offer. “All of it. And I’ll pay for the shirt.”

Her eyebrows lift.

Wrong answer.

I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth. Twenty-four years in the Navy taught me to identify a hostile patient. Unfortunately, it didn’t teach me how to handle a hostile woman covered in berry juice.

“You’ll pay for my shirt,” she repeats tersely.

“Yes.”

“And that’s supposed to fix it?”

“No,” I answer, because I’m not completely suicidal. “But it’s a start.”

“It’s a start,” she says, and there is enough acid in those three words to strip paint off a hull.

Ellie shifts beside me. “Dad.”

The warning in her voice is soft, but I hear it.

I glance at her. She’s flushed, embarrassed, and a little amused despite herself. Her brown hair is pulled into a ponytail because she rolled out of bed twenty minutes before we left the house and acted as if morning came as a surprise to her.

Her cheeks already have more color in them than they did in Boston. Her eyes are brighter too.

That, right there. That’s why I moved us here.

Not for berries, or fresh bread, or the absurd quantity of tomatoes currently packed into my canvas bag. We’re here on this island so Ellie and I can learn how to breathe again.

So I keep my voice level.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her again. “I turned without looking. I should’ve paid attention.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” she bristles.

Jesus. All right, lady. I’m trying.

Mrs. Weaver crouches to save what she can from the fallen cartons. I crouch too. I caused the mess, and standing over these two particular women apologizing while they clean up seems like a death wish at the moment.

“Don’t,” Annie barks.

I pause with my hand halfway to a carton.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t help.”

“I made this mess.”

“We don’t need your help. Just take your produce and scurry back to your rental now.”

I sit back on my heels.

Ellie makes another sound.

This one is absolutely a laugh.

I turn my head. “Ellie.”

She coughs into her fist. “Sorry.”

No, she isn’t.

For the first time in months, my kid is amused by something that hasn’t been carefully chosen to avoid hurting either of us.

I’ll take a little humiliation for that.

“We are not…” I start to say, but her acid tongue cuts me off again.

“We are not interested.” She waves me off, exasperated. “Just go.”

She bends, scoops the smashed carton from the grass, and drops it into a box Mrs. Weaver is holding open. The red stain on her shirt has spread, and I try not to look at it longer than necessary.

Not because of the stain. Because of the shape under it.

She catches me looking and narrows her eyes.

I look away, but not quickly enough. Apparently, I’ve chosen death by berry.

“I really will replace everything,” I tell Mrs. Weaver. “Please add it to my bill.”

“You already bought half of my booth.” Mrs. Weaver’s eyes crinkle. “But that’s kind of you.”

The woman’s attention snaps to Mrs. Weaver. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s learned his lesson.”

“That’s optimistic,” she says under her breath.

Ellie loses another laugh beside me.

I look down at her. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m sorry.”

“At least try to pretend to be supportive.”

“I can’t.” She laughs harder. “My nervous system just won’t cooperate.”

The woman hears that. Her eyes flick to Ellie, and the edge of her expression eases by a fraction. Not soft. I don’t think this woman does soft. But slightly less homicidal.

Mrs. Weaver taps the card reader beside her cash box. “Let’s get you settled up before she decides to press charges.”

“Oh, I should,” she says.

“Don’t give her ideas, ma’am. Please,” I say to Mrs. Weaver with a wink.

The woman’s gaze cuts back to me. “Trust me, I don’t need help with ideas.”

Damn. I’m about done being nice.

Ellie looks up at me, the teasing gone from her face. Good. Let her see this too. Let her see me screw up, own it, and keep my temper.

Beth and I always promised honesty with Ellie, and with each other. Honesty even when it’s not pretty, convenient, or safe. Honesty because that’s what keeps communication open and families healthy.

That didn’t stop when Beth died. In fact, it’s more important than ever now.

“Listen, I’m trying to stock a kitchen and take care of my daughter.”

“By wiping out Mrs. Weaver’s berry stand?”

“So I bought a lot of vegetables,” I snark. “Sue me.”

I suddenly feel the eyes of half of the town watching. The vendor across the aisle smiles in open amusement. A man at the bread stall has fully stopped bagging rolls. Two women near a table of soaps pretend to compare lavender bars while angling themselves in our direction.

I’ve become the floor show.

I hand Mrs. Weaver my card. “Add the damaged berries.”

“No,” the woman says. “You will not.”

Mrs. Weaver opens her mouth.

I look at Mrs. Weaver. “Is she in charge?”

Mrs. Weaver smiles. “Usually.”

The woman doesn’t smile.

Not even close.

“Then I’ll cover the dry cleaning costs for your shirt.”

“There isn’t any. It’s washable.”

“Are you always this difficult?” I ask, shaking my head. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“And you and your ‘right thing’ can just move along now.”

Ellie coughs into her fist.

Mrs. Weaver runs the card and slides it back to me with a receipt. “All settled.”

I look at Annie. “Fine. I’ll get out of your way.”

“Look at that. He is capable of catching on.”

I nod once, then gather the bags Mrs. Weaver has packed for us.

“Mrs. Weaver,” I say, “thank you very much for being so pleasant and helpful.”

“You’re welcome, honey. Come back when you’re less dangerous.”

“I’ll work on it.”

The woman adjusts the berry cartons against her hip. The red smear across her shirt is impossible to miss, but I manage to keep my eyes on her face this time.

Progress.

“I am sorry,” I tell her again. “For the berries. The shirt. The spectacle.”

She gives a dismissive nod. “Watch where you’re going in the future.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The second ma’am leaves my mouth, I know I’ve made another grave error.

Her brows lift.

Ellie grabs my sleeve. “Time to leave.”

Agreed.

My instinct when something is broken is to fix it. Replace. Repair. Stabilize. Move forward. It’s part of my DNA, whether it’s a Navy ship, operating room, or the house Ellie and I left behind in Boston.

Only some things just can’t be fixed.

A wife taken too early.

A daughter you can’t shield from the unfairness of death.

A home you sell because living with the memories becomes impossible.

I pick up my bag and Ellie shifts the produce bag on her shoulder. “Can we maybe stop being local news now?”

“That would be my preference,” I say.

Ellie loses the battle, and laughs hard and starts to move towards the parking lot. The sound hits me dead center. A real laugh. Light. Her hand flies over her mouth the second she realizes it escaped.

Ellie tugs my sleeve. “C’mon, Dad. Time to retreat.”

I look back at Mrs. Weaver. “I’m going to take my daughter’s advice.”

“She’s a smart girl.”

“She gets that from her mother.”

The words tumble out easily today.

They don’t always.

For a while after Beth died, every mention of her name was either guarded, like walking on eggshells, or felt like swallowing glass and slicing myself open from the inside out.

Here, in the middle of a market, with my daughter beside me and a furious woman holding berries in front of me, I say her name and survive.

Ellie looks at the ground, but she smiles a little.

I take the heavier bag from her before she can argue, then shift my own bag to balance the weight.

Mrs. Weaver clears her throat and smiles a little too hard. She nods and starts talking to the woman as we walk away.

“Annie, I have another pint in the back.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “Her grandson’s coming over this afternoon and he loves berries.”

“Spelling bee boy?” Mrs. Weaver asks.

“Yes. He placed second and thinks the world is ending because of it.”