Ring of Fire by Susan Fox Page A

you,” Jayden said, sounding a little wistful.
    â€œI like talking to you, too.” It was true. His life hadn’t offered many opportunities to talk to children, and he liked this boy.
    â€œYou should come for dinner!” Jayden cried, just as his grandmother stopped in front of them.
    Eric bent his prosthetic leg and stood. “Jayden, that’s something you should discuss with your family.”
    Mary studied Eric. She had a way about her, an impassive expression coupled with bright eyes, that made him suspect a lot was going on in her brain. “You should come for dinner,” she repeated her grandson’s invitation. “We’d like to have you.”
    Every night since he’d arrived in Caribou Crossing almost three months ago, he’d eaten alone. Mostly at home, cooking simple meals of meat and vegetables or getting takeout. Occasionally, he’d had dinner at a diner or bar. But always alone. When friendly—or nosy—residents spoke to him, he was civil, but he didn’t encourage conversation. He was here to heal; that was his mission. His only mission.
    And yet . . . He liked the kid. Respected the granny. Was, let’s face it, attracted to Lark.
    Did he want to sit around a family dinner table? The last time he’d eaten with his parents was several months ago. He’d still been getting used to his high-tech prosthesis. His mom, who’d always been too soft on him, had fussed over him. His dad had told him— ordered him, not assured him—that a missing leg wouldn’t slow him down for long. Eric knew that; by then he’d realized that his real problem was PTSD. That last dinner at home hadn’t exactly been relaxing.
    Stalling again, or maybe testing for something, Eric said to Mary, “You sure it’d be okay with Lark and, uh, Jayden’s dad?”
    â€œI don’t have a dad,” Jayden said in a tone Eric recognized well. It was that “be a brave little soldier” voice that Eric had learned as a child. The voice he had used when he was supposed to pretend that he didn’t care if they were moving to yet another place, that he didn’t care that he’d be saying good-bye to any friends he’d managed to make. Or that he didn’t care that his dad was heading off to the Persian Gulf or the Balkans and Eric would have to be the man of the house again—a task that he had never filled to his father’s satisfaction.
    He realized that, without conscious intent, he’d leaned down to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He also realized that Mary’s steady eyes watched every move.
    â€œAnd Mom may not even be there,” the boy went on. “Sometimes she has to go on callouts, so we put leftovers in the fridge for her.” He didn’t sound particularly unhappy about that. His pride in his mom was obvious.
    â€œThis is true,” Mary said. “You should come.”
    â€œThank you. I’d like to.”
    Lark wasn’t married. Of course that didn’t mean she wasn’t dating someone.
    Quite possibly, she wouldn’t even be at dinner.
    In some ways, that would make things easier for him. What was the point in being attracted to a strong, beautiful woman when he was such a fucked-up mess?

Chapter Four
    Lark was used to entering her house at the end of a workday and smelling something cooking. She was used to the sound of her mom and Jayden chatting in the kitchen. But she sure wasn’t used to hearing a deep male voice join in the conversation.
    Puzzled, she moved quietly to the kitchen door and glanced into the room. Eric Weaver? Company for dinner was usually kid-sized or another woman. This guest, though, sent warm physical awareness humming through her blood: awareness of her own sensual body, and of Eric’s.
    He sat at the kitchen table, wearing a black Henley that showcased his buff build. He hadn’t noticed her because he was engrossed in