Here Comes the Groom Read Free Page A

panting yip seconds before front paws slammed into Dan’s chest made him drop the knife in time. He caught the border collie in his arms, a furry mass of squirming, whining affection. “Goddamn it, Blue!”
    Heart still climbing his throat, Dan dropped to his knees on the rough driveway leading to the farmhouse and tightened his hold. “Don’t try and ambush a soldier.” Especially not SAS. A sloppy, rough tongue licked his unshaven jaw.
    Even in the pitch dark, the New Zealand landscape smelled different from Afghanistan—pine and lush pasture instead of arid desert and rock. Life, not death.
    Pushing the ecstatic animal away, Dan felt for his knife on the loose stones, then shoved it to the bottom of his backpack. It wasn’t like him to get disoriented like this. Still crouching, he covered his face with his hands, breathing deeply. Hey, folks, I accidentally killed the dog thinking he was al Qaeda, but otherwise I’m perfectly normal.
    Blue rolled into him, knocking Dan onto his ass. Sharp stones digging through his worn jeans, he struggled tosee the dog and laughed. Still on his back, wriggling, the collie’s jaw stretched wide in a canine grin.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here anyway, eh, boy?” Leaning forward, he scratched Blue’s exposed belly. “You’re supposed to be living in town with the parents… Yeah, well, I’m happy to see you, too. Now go on.” He pushed the dog to its feet, rose to his own. “Lead the way home.” Blue tore off into the night.
    Reshouldering his pack, Dan followed the faint sound of dislodged stones, the sonic trigger that had caused him to pull his knife in the first place. He’d forgotten the impenetrable blackness of a cloudy country night, the sense of total isolation. In early May there was a crispness to the air, the first breath of impending winter.
    The moon broke through. There was enough light now to make out the dog’s pricked ears as Blue waited for him to catch up. Farther up the track, the empty farmhouse came into view, white clapboard, corrugated iron roof, and a low-pitch verandah with pegs and shelves for wet weather gear and gum boots. No cow manure would ever be tracked through his mother’s kitchen.
    He could tell she didn’t live here anymore, though. The porch needed sweeping and the doormat was caked in mud. This place was his now, at least until he decided whether to buy into the farm.
    He slid his hand between the second and third step for the spare key, still on a hook under the porch. Some things didn’t change. He found comfort in that. Unlocking the door he stepped inside.
    â€œMove one inch, you thieving bastard,” said a gruffvoice, “and I’ll pepper your ass with steel shot.” There was the sound of a double-barrel snapping shut.
    Dan grinned. “Is that any way to welcome your first-born home?”
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    H IS FATHER POURED THEM both a whiskey to steady their nerves. “Creeping in at midnight.” Herman pushed the shot glass across the kitchen table, his thick gray hair tufted from sleep. “Who the hell do you think you are, Cinderella?”
    â€œHitchhikers take rides when they can.” Dan had been on operational deployment for six months in rugged, mountainous terrain. Given his haggard appearance, he considered himself lucky to have been picked up at all. “I had to walk the last five kilometers from the turnoff.”
    â€œWith that pack? You should have called me.”
    It hadn’t occurred to him; he was so used to self-sufficiency. And the backpack weighed a fraction of the twenty-plus pounds he usually carried. Picking up his whiskey, Dan looked curiously at his old man. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you and Mom moved to town two months ago.” And it looked like it. The kitchen held only an old table and two mismatched chairs. One mug in the sink. A small fridge.
    Herman started