Chapter 3
Molly changed the sheets on her bed. She did that on the weekends anyway, but she was expecting company for the night.
The timing was a little awkward with him leaving in the morning and not returning for a month or so.
That made it now or too much later. With dinner that night counting as a third date, that was consistent with Molly’s dating history.
If she wasn’t in the sack by the third date, something wasn’t right.
She’d learned quite a bit of excellent new information.
He had a college education—an English major of all things.
That was almost bizarre. He was articulate and fun with a light playful manner that she liked.
She didn’t need guys taking everything seriously.
She was beyond that. She worked hard, so in her time not working she needed fun, light, easy going good times.
Happy hour and breakfast had qualified nicely.
Interesting and entertaining conversation.
She was really quite interested in him, his family, his history, and his living situation.
She understood she wouldn’t be getting to his wilderness abode any time soon, but there was a big gap in his history that needed exploring.
The longtime girlfriend. There had to be a backstory there.
And Molly never got past his college years.
So there were ten to fifteen years not accounted for.
She guessed he was her age, mid to late thirties.
She had no idea how long he’d been living in the mountains or why was he living there.
It sounded like he grew up in a fairly normal family.
He went to college, for God’s sake. How did he go from college to a hermit’s life in the wilderness? Something definitely happened.
He didn’t seem messed up. To the contrary, he seemed quite together.
The leather work was interesting. He had an artistic side.
He was conscious of his appearance, perfect grooming, wearing leather in the mountains, but shifting to jeans in town so as to blend with locals.
That had caused her to wonder if he was running from something.
Wanting to blend in. Living off the grid.
Not sharing where he lived. Quietly moving through the resort with his mule and dog once a month.
Didn’t want to be seen. What would cause a man to want to be invisible like that?
She would get another ten minutes that night, but she’d already decided she’d be negotiating for more time if she didn’t get the information she needed.
She sent a few emails shifting her morning schedule around so she’d have some flexibility.
She didn’t want to be rushed in the morning, and she loved wake up sex.
Her day went quickly, but most of it was consumed thinking about Bart and the promising evening ahead.
He walked up the path to her front door promptly at 5:00.
That was pretty impressive for a man who didn’t have a watch or care about time.
He was carrying a six pack of beer, a bottle of red wine, and a small leather backpack.
She greeted him, taking the beer and wine, and led him to the kitchen.
When their hands were free, she moved into his arms for a hug.
This time she stayed tight to his body. He was tall, lean, and muscled.
She was the same. They fit nicely together.
She liked feeling the muscles in his back and chest and being close to him.
When she finally pushed back, she looked up for the kiss she knew was coming.
And did it ever come. He pulled her tight and really laid one on her.
She let him take the lead and let it happen.
Lips soft and firm at first, but as the kiss matured, lips opened, and when it ended, mouths were open and devouring the other.
It was a kiss neither wanted to end. Molly felt it in her toes and every other important place.
When she felt his arousal, she moved against it to let him know she could feel it.
When the kiss finally ended, she pulled back, flushed, breathing elevated, and studied his incredible blue eyes.
You could learn a lot looking a man in the eyes, and she liked what she saw.
She saw an honest man, no games, no gimmicks, a man’s man, true and steady.
But there was also pain and distance. Not an easy man to get to know. But, she sensed, a man worth knowing.
They finally broke. He slipped off the small leather backpack.
She motioned toward the bedroom and watched him walk there, leaving his pack on her bed.
The rear view was fantastic, narrow waist, wide shoulders, a true hunk in blue jeans.
The confident walk of a muscled cowboy, but, with the moccasins causing no sound, like a big cat moving quietly through a forest.
When he returned, she said, “The menu changed from burgers to spaghetti. Thanks for the beer and wine. Got a preference for one or the other? Or maybe a drink? Gin tonic? Scotch?”
“Seems like two people named McKinnon and McGuire should have a Scotch.”
Molly loved Scotch. She immediately went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a fifteen-year-old single malt Glenfiddich, showing him the label. He nodded his approval. She poured two fingers in crystal glasses and handed him one, while she led the way with bottle in hand to the lake.
“I’m going to need more than ten minutes.”
They were settled in the Adirondacks by the lake.
It was a warm spring evening, but the cool air would be falling soon.
The dogs were in the woods. Molly and Bart both nursed the smooth, aged Scotch.
Molly was still aroused from the kiss and thinking about later.
She was pretty sure she’d already bought some extra time.
“You’re getting awfully personal.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
She gave him her most wicked grin and offered her glass for a toast, “To getting very personal.”
“Okay, but I’m reserving the ability to defer.”
“Fair enough. We have ten or fifteen missing years, and I’d like to know more about the long-term relationship.”
“I’ll do the best I can, but some of this might be for another time.”
“Later is fine.” She paused and took a drink. The Scotch tasted good and was already creating a warm buzz.
“So what’d you do after college?”
“Went into the army.”
That stopped Molly. That was the last thing she expected. The US had been at war in Afghanistan and Iraq. The only guys who joined the army were ones with nothing else to do. College graduates got jobs. They didn’t volunteer for the army during wartime.
“Tell me about that. Why the army?”
“It’s a family tradition going back generations to Scotland. The McKinnons feel an obligation to their country. The men in our family serve their time. Mom’s deal was college. Dad’s deal was military service. You weren’t a McKinnon man until you’d served your country.”
“Wow.” Molly absorbed that. A third generation ranching family in Montana whose kids were named after TV western characters and whose men joined the army.
“So tell me about that.”
“Brett and I enlisted together but were sent to different locations for boot camp. There’s a weeding out process that happens at boot camp. At the end of six months, we were both referred to the Rangers.”
“The Rangers are the army’s elite fighting corps.”
“Yes.”
“How do you qualify for that?”
“Run faster, jump higher, fight better, shoot straighter, and demonstrate certain tactical skills.”
“So you and Brett are good athletes, and it showed in basic training.”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay, well, congratulations. How long did you serve?”
“Enlisted for four years, but it turned into six. The army has a way of convincing you to extend.”
“I’ve heard that. Where’d you serve?”
“We had a full year of advanced training in the states—shooting, fighting, survival, electronics, medical, tracking, the full package. Then we were dispatched to Afghanistan.”
“Were you and Brett in the same group?”
“We were never in the same unit or company. But we served at the same time.”
“Did you have a specialty?”
“Sharp shooter.”
Molly thought about that before she said, “Sniper?”
“Yes.” When Molly used the word, she felt the conversation take a turn, a heaviness in the air.
He was still answering, but she could feel a layer of tension that hadn’t existed before.
She pictured a soldier lying on his stomach behind camouflage aiming a special long distance rifle with a fancy scope methodically killing enemy soldiers, one by one.
It gave her the shivers. What would that do to a man?
“Is this hard to talk about?”
“This part is okay, but I’ll start deferring pretty soon.”
Molly took a drink and paused. Okay, this was getting heavy. Did she want to go on? It was pretty clear that this was a difficult subject.
She asked again, “Are you sure you’re okay to talk about this?”
“My therapist encourages me to talk about it with people I trust. I will trust you until I have reason not to. So far, I’m enjoying our time together, and, yes, I trust you. So, you’re welcome to ask a few more questions.”
“You have a therapist?”
“Yes, for soldiers who come home with severe PTSD, the VA has a recovery program that includes a therapist. In my case, I’m required to meet with her at least four times a year.”
“So those would be four times you’d come out of the mountains.”
“Yes. I’m on a military disability. So long as I’m on the disability, I have to participate in the program.”
“Where’s your therapist and what’s her name?”
“Joint Base Lewis McCord near Tacoma. That’s where I did my recovery, and that’s how I ended up in Washington State. Her name is Gloria.”
“How long were you in the program?”
“A year in the residential program. I’m still in the program but now have more freedom. I’m required to see my therapist and undergo periodic testing.”
“Oh, boy. So this gets pretty heavy.”