“It killed two onboard SEALs. I was thrown free. The rest of the team got me to safety, but I was pretty torn up. Another Hawk came in to get us, along with air support, and they took care of that nest of terrorists. I don’t remember anything after the stinger, but apparently, I had a lot of internal bleeding. Someone did some field surgery on me.” He turned and showed her the scar. “Lost a kidney and my spleen, had a concussion, broke my arm, and bruised my spine.”

He delivered this information as officially as he could, with no emotion. He especially left out that moment in Germany, at Landstuhl, when he’d been told that he might never walk again.

But he had. After months of PT and sheer will.

But he’d never fly a combat chopper again for the Air Force. Maybe he didn’t deserve to after the reckless decision he’d made that had killed two warriors. Like he’d told Charlie, he tried to soak it away, and when that only ended up with him feeling emptier, he channeled his fury into his PT.

But he skipped that and boiled it all down for her into an easy statement. “I did a stint in Walter Reed, and after I was discharged, Moose asked me if I wanted to fly for Air One.”

“How did Moose find out you wanted to fly for him?”

“He wrote to me. Said he heard I’d be getting discharged. Offered me the job. I was still thinking about it when I heard about Dad’s accident. Again, from Moose. I got on a plane.”

He also left off the fact that he hadn’t been exactly sure he could sit in the cockpit again.

All this time, she’d been listening, stirring, nodding, a pinched look on her face. When the stew came to a boil, she grabbed her cup from her bag.

He retrieved his too. And when he put it on the table, he saw her wiping her eyes.

“Hey. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I know.” She didn’t look at him, though, as she ladled up the soup and set his cup in front of him.

“Echo. Really. I’m okay—”

“But you might not have been, and that’s all my fault.” She was still crying softly.

“What? Hardly—”

“Yes.” She looked at him, those green eyes alight. “If I’d said yes, or at least told you . . . why . . . If I’d come to the jail and explained . . .”

And of course, here it was, the conversation he’d wanted to dodge. But maybe not anymore.

“I was in no mood to listen to you,” he said, slipping into a chair at the table. In fact, he hadn’t been for the better part of ten years. But now . . . He picked up his spoon. “So, why did you—”