A Broken Christmas Read online

  He took a breath.

  Denton’s grip tightened.

  Kyle turned his head. Hating what he must do, hating God Himself for failing to spare Denton this horrific end, Kyle touched the muzzle of his gun to Denton’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.

  The gunshot that ricocheted through the room filled Kyle’s eyes with tears. He dropped his head to the blood-soaked floor and yielded to brief sorrow. Denton was a damn good man. He had deserved better than this.

  The sudden sound of voices beyond the door pulled Kyle from grief, reminding him someone would be coming in here. Not friends this time. Enemies bent on making sure he didn’t see the next sunset. If they found him, he’d be in the same place Denton had been. He could only assume the reason he wasn’t already was that they’d stumbled onto Denton first.

  He turned his head to inspect his body once more, and the reality of his injuries settled on him fully. He couldn’t walk. Already, he felt light headed from loss of blood. His right arm was toast.

  Like Denton, he wasn’t coming out of here. He might make it longer, but he didn’t stand a chance in hell of getting out of the village on his own power. They’d cut him down the minute he crawled into the street.

  No, they wouldn’t cut him down. They’d take him down and turn him into sport before he’d be granted death.

  Like hell.

  His heart thumped hard as a vision of Aimee’s beautiful smile drifted up from the depths of his memory. He held onto that vision as he tightened his grip on his pistol and shuffled it closer to his head.

  Like hell he’d become a playing field for their sick games.

  “Drop it!” Walsh’s voice bellowed from the pile of rubble. “Drop the fucking gun, Kyle.”

  Chapter One

  Ft. Bragg, North Carolina

  December 22, 2011

  She wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Aimee Gardner’s nervous heartbeat pounded the thought through her brain. She wasn’t supposed to be standing on the tarmac with the other military wives who waited for their husbands to climb off the transport. She didn’t belong any more, no matter how her heart yearned otherwise. Kyle had seen to that. Him and the divorce he had insisted he wanted. Denied even the opportunity to speak to him, she’d refused to sign the papers, but the state gave Kyle his divorce. Still, her heart hadn’t let go.

  It never would. She loved that stupid, headstrong buffoon too much. And she loved the noble, fearless, soldier even more.

  Jet engines whined to a stop, and the plane came to a standstill. Aimee’s grip tightened on Conner Walsh’s forearm as her heart leapt into her throat. Would Kyle walk off? Or would he be in a chair? She knew only the vaguest details, bits and pieces Conner had gathered from his commander, about Kyle’s extensive surgeries and rehab in Germany. They’d saved his leg. His hand, too. But Aimee knew Kyle well enough to understand whatever had caused those injuries had done far more internal damage than Kyle let on.

  He’d cut Conner off. Refused to take even a phone call from his best friend. A standard job gone wrong wouldn’t have divided two men who’d spent almost ten years guarding each other’s backs. Guarding each other’s secrets. Something more had happened out there in that desert. And nobody was talking.

  Least of all to her.

  “Hey. Here he comes,” Walsh murmured.

  Aimee rose on her toes, trying to get a better look over the small gathering. Her vantage point at the back of the crowd, however, only gave a brief glimpse of khaki and beige caps exiting the plane. “Where?” she asked.

  Conner pulled her to the left and pointed through a gap in the excited crowd. “Right there.”

  Her searching gaze landed on Kyle, and her heart swelled to painful limits. His cane didn’t matter. The limp he bore with quiet dignity didn’t change a thing. Kyle was home. Home. Seeing him alive—every instinct in her body ordered her to run across the asphalt. To throw her arms around his neck and kiss him until they were both breathless and panting. Like she had the last time he’d returned. And every time before that, for the last six years.

  Reality, however, kept her feet from moving forward. There would be no happy reunion. The minute Kyle saw her, he’d be as pissed as a snake and every bit as ready to strike. He’d wanted his divorce so badly he had stayed in Germany just to effect North Carolina’s mandatory year-long separation. Claimed when he left for his tour last October that he had no intention of returning. He didn’t want her here.

  The papers said it all. But Kyle had yet to say a word of it to her.

  No, when he saw her waiting to take him home, when he realized she hadn’t moved out of their house, he’d be furious.

  Nerves kicked in, and she clutched at Conner’s arm again. “Oh, Conner. He’s never going to forgive me for this.”

  Conner tossed her a smirk. “Well, that’ll make two of us. We can commiserate over beer, and maybe you’ll decide I really am the better looking one.” He nudged her with his elbow. “You can always marry me, you know.”

  Aimee couldn’t help but laugh. Conner’s good humor always had a way of making grey skies into blue. Since the night she’d met him, on Kyle’s arm at a formal military ball, Conner Walsh had been trying to convince her she’d made a mistake. None of it serious. No, Conner’s loyalty to Kyle ran deeper than blood. But the jest had entertained all three of them many times.

  Conner pulled her in for a sideways hug and kissed the top of her head. “Okay, hate to do this, but I’m gonna get.”

  “What?” Wide-eyed she stared into his baby blues. “You’re not leaving me here, are you?”

  “You think I’m going to confront that?” He jerked a thumb in Kyle’s direction. “I’ve made more than enough effort, babe. You’re on your own.”

  Oh crap. Being stranded by Conner hadn’t been part of her plan. At least not until she and Kyle had returned to their house.

  Ruffling her hair, Conner turned her loose. His mischievous smile softened with sincerity. “Good luck, Aims. Maybe you can kick some sense into him.”

  The statement Conner had made mid-summer drifted back to her mind. Major says he’s pretty fucked up, Aims.

  Her gaze pulled back to Kyle. Why had he wanted out? Yes, things had been difficult since her miscarriage the previous March, but the only explanation she’d received was from his lawyer—Kyle didn’t want her hurting anymore. All attempts to discover more, to dig deeper, yielded utter, maddening silence.

  Well, time to get some answers. She had a week before New Years. Two before she started the ER nursing job in San Antonio. Either she’d change Kyle’s mind, or she’d understand. One way or the other, she wasn’t leaving North Carolina without some sort of closure. Six years of marriage didn’t just up and vanish overnight.

  Taking a deep breath, Aimee summoned her courage and stepped beyond the crowd, out onto the tarmac, putting herself smack dab in the middle of Kyle’s path. There, she pulled off her knitted hat and struggled to maintain a jittery smile.

  ****

  Kyle came to a dead stop, his heart kicking hard. Aimee. What the hell was she doing here? They’d been divorced for two months now. She should be gone. Away from Bragg, away from this life.

  Away from him.

  Hair the color of rich milk chocolate glinted in the bright winter sunlight as it whipped around her face. Her smile had always reminded him of youth, and as he stared at her, the same old warmth stirred in his blood. God, she was a sight for sore eyes. What he wouldn’t give to feel that soft body pressed against his, to taste the hungry kiss she always greeted him with.

  Silently, he cursed. Those days were over. He’d spent one too many nights feeling like an ass for not being able to confide the deepest parts of himself and, unintentionally, driving a wedge between them. Each time he changed the subject, each time he diverted her questions away from what he’d seen in war, he knew he wounded her. Hurting Aimee was the last thing on this earth he wanted to do. She’d suffered enough when they lost their child.


  He had realized then former combat-nurse Aimee Garland wasn’t as strong as she wanted everyone to believe. For two months, she’d hardly left the bed. The third saw her in heavy therapy. Not wanting to distress her further, he’d pulled inside himself, keeping his own grief silent. When he deployed, he realized she worried about him more than she admitted. He didn’t want her sitting home alone, her imagination running rampant, when he went weeks without a means of contacting her. Sometimes months. She didn’t need that when she’d just begun to heal.

  Having seen more than he could bear of Aimee’s grief, he’d done the only thing he knew to do. Though it killed him, he set her free.

  Now why the hell was she still hanging around?

  Walking up to him.

  Reaching out for his bad hand.

  Kyle took a step forward, forbidding her to touch the deadened nerves in his fingers. Looking straight ahead at the open hangar where families reunited, he asked, “What are you doing here, Aimee?”

  “I came to see my soldier home.”

  Hers. How he wished that were true.

  Leaning his weight on his cane, he resumed his shuffling walk toward the parked golf cart that would take him to Bragg’s front gates and a taxi. Even if things had been different, if he hadn’t forced her into a divorce his heart didn’t want, she’d never look at him the same once she realized he wasn’t the man who deployed fourteen months ago. He could walk, yes, but only for short intervals before destroyed nerves screwed with his balance and lifting his foot turned into dragging it behind. The cane helped some. Yet the same damage in his right hand forced him to use his left, and he hadn’t mastered that coordination. Everything felt off. Discombobulated.

  Broken.

  Kyle sucked in a sharp breath as Aimee slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Elegant fingers gripped firmly, offering unexpected support. A gust of wind stirred her hair into his face, bringing the scent of her fruity shampoo to his nose. He resisted the instinct to inhale deep and savor the sweet fragrance. It held such familiarity. Such damning comfort.

  It also stirred to life all the memories he’d tried to bury. Good things that he didn’t deserve—not after killing his friend. His friend, for God’s sake. Why the fuck had Walsh dragged him out of that hell hole? Kyle deserved to die with Denton, Parker, and Jones. He’d had the suspicion. Failed to act on it.

  Aside from the unforgettable fact he’d pulled the damn trigger, he had been responsible for not clearing out of Saif’s hut the minute he suspected something wasn’t right.

  “Kyle?”

  Aimee’s quiet voice pulled him out of his dark thoughts, and he realized he’d stopped walking. His right leg was behind him again, his foot angled out perpendicular to his body. Damn it. Not even fifty feet, and he already managed to look like a fool.

  Bracing his weight on his cane, he hitched his body in the opposite direction until his leg stood beneath him once more, toes pointing forward. He tested the numb limb by bending his knee. It moved, but he couldn’t feel a thing. Only the odd sense of pressure as he set his heel back down. Like someone had permanently injected his leg with Novocain.

  He didn’t answer Aimee. Instead, he moved forward again, sighting in on the closest golf cart.

  “So, I get the silent treatment still? C’mon, Kyle. At least say hello.”

  His gaze skidded sideways, observing her in his peripheral vision. One hand still tucked into his elbow, she kept the other in her coat pocket. She ducked her chin into her collar to keep out the December breeze. For all intents and purposes, she looked adorable. Soft, pretty, and made to snuggle up with by a fire.

  Kyle let out a heavy sigh. “Hello, Aimee.”

  She tipped her face toward him. Long ebony lashes fluttered up, and a smile crinkled the corners of her ale-brown eyes. “It’s good to see you, Kyle.”

  It was good to see her too—too damn good. That angelic, lip-glossed smile had his pulse jumping, cranking his body into one slow, but certain knot. If he broke down and kissed her, she’d taste like bubble gum. And judging by the freezing cold weather, probably like Starbucks Mocha Mint. This time of year, she went nuts on those things.

  Before he could stop himself, a smile pulled at his mouth.

  “You look good,” she commented as they reached the golf carts.

  He chuckled. “Yeah, right.” Shaking off her arm, he eased behind the wheel. He crossed his left foot over his right so he could manipulate the gas pedal. “I hear canes are high fashion.”

  Frowning, she tugged off his cap to run her fingers through his hair. The absent gesture sent delightful chills rolling down his spine, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe. Then, as if she’d realized what she had done, she jerked her hand away and smashed his cap back on his head. “No, you look good.”

  Before Kyle could fully recover from the unexpected intimacy of her fingertips, she rounded the front of the cart and slid into the seat beside him. He blinked. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to the car.”

  The car. His car was still in their driveway. She’d dropped him off the day he shipped out. Her car should be seventy-five meters in the opposite direction, where her veteran’s permit allowed her to park.

  “I’m heading to the gates for a cab, not going to the lot.”

  Aimee folded her hands in her lap and shook her head. “No you’re not. I’m taking you to the house.”

  Alarm bells blared in Kyle’s head. He had survived ten minutes with her. Any more than that, and he’d crack.

  No way would he make it through the twenty-minute ride across town to his house without forgetting he’d divorced this woman. He swallowed down a sudden bout of nervousness and struggled for a casual smile. “Really, a cab’s great. Thanks though.”

  To his absolute surprise, she reached across the seat between them and set her hand on his right knee. The surreal awareness he was being touched combated with the inability to feel more than a slight weight, provoking him to frown at her hand. As his gaze fell on the wedding ring she still wore, he’d have sworn someone kicked him in the gut.

  “No, Kyle,” she said quietly. “I know you think you can do this alone. But there’s no way you can handle that house and those stairs.” She gestured at his cane, driving home her point. “I’m taking you home, and you’re just going to have to deal with me until we find you a nurse.”

  A nurse. A fucking nurse. He gritted his teeth against a rush of fierce pride. “I’m not an invalid, Aimee.”

  “No. You’re not.” With a pat to his thigh, she clasped her hands in her lap once more. “Besides, it’s Christmas. I’m not leaving you alone this year.” Gesturing at the parking lot, she added, “I haven’t moved out anyway, so drive.”

  Chapter Two

  She hadn’t moved out.

  Kyle absorbed the bomb Aimee dropped without so much as a flinch. Over twelve months of doing everything he could to push her away, two months divorced, and she was still living in their house.

  As he eased the golf cart to a jerky stop beside her car and she stepped out, he slid her a sideways glance. Walsh must have put her up to this. Damn him. Evidently he couldn’t get the message either—Kyle wanted to be left alone. But Conner Walsh had a way of screwing everything up.

  How, in the name of God, could he survive living with Aimee?

  “Are you coming?” Aimee called from inside her car.

  More than anything in the world, Kyle wanted to tell her no. Not because he resented her too-accurate assessment of his physical limitations, not because he wanted to move on and forget about her. No, he wanted to tell her she was out of her mind because the idea of going home with Aimee made him jittery.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled with disgust. Coordinating cane, good leg, bad leg, and numb hand, he worked his way to his feet and limped to the passenger’s door. At least she hadn’t opened it for him—he’d have died right there if Aimee thought he was that incapable of tending to himself. His career might be toa
st, he might be crippled, but he was not an invalid.

  And he was not hiring a nurse, damn it.

  Kyle slid into the passenger’s seat with a grimace. The old pain started in his knee, worked its way up to his thigh. Muscles that had taken months to reattach and bind to bone protested the cold. Rebelled against the time he’d spent standing on the plane, just to prove to himself he could.

  “Why didn’t you move out?”

  Aimee keyed the engine and dropped the gearshift into reverse. Looking over shoulder as she backed out of the space, she answered, “I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  As she shifted into drive, her foot on the brake, she gave him a meaningful look. “Searching for a job.”

  “Oh.” Kyle lapsed into silence. He drummed his fingers on the center console, mentally ticking off the numerous reasons why staying with Aimee in the house they’d bought as husband and wife was a bad idea. Beyond the fact he loathed the idea of her tending to him like she might one of her former patients, she smelled too incredibly good after a shower, and he didn’t know how to keep his hands off her.

  Already his brain formed fantastic pictures of them in the bed, reuniting in ways that would make Hugh Heffner blush. In the kitchen, on the dining room table, lathering each other in the shower…

  Like he’d just run into a brick wall, the slow burn of pleasure that crept into his blood came to a frigid halt. He let out a derisive snort. Shower—right. He couldn’t handle the shower solo, much less with Aimee’s hands all over him and soap slicking his body. His leg wouldn’t hold up, the wet tile would make him slip. Christ, he couldn’t even make love to her if he wanted to—he couldn’t feel a damn thing in his right hand. He’d be no better than a bumbling teen. All thumbs, no finesse, and a damn sight rougher than what her fragile skin could handle.

  So much for that little fantasy. Aimee deserved a whole man. Not one who’d been reduced to benches in the bathtub.

  He ground his teeth together as a fresh burst of anger raced through him. The doctor’s said to give it time, maybe the nerves would reroute. That had been four months ago, and all he’d regained was an occasional, maddening tingle in his right pinkie.