* * *
Zach pulled into the driveway of his brick base house. Two in the morning. The longest Friday had slipped into Saturday.
The day Julia would bring home her son.
Shoving aside thoughts of her, Zach turned off the engine. She'd made it clear she didn't want his help.
He might not have given her what she needed, but at least he'd made it through the day with everyone alive. The in-flight call to the manufacturer had netted results. Landing gear restored, Moose two-zero had skimmed to the ground flawlessly.
Radio in hand, Zach shut his truck door quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping neighbors. A muggy fall breeze whispered through the pines, the only sound on the deserted road. He glanced across the street at the ranch-style base house where the Bennetts lived. Bronco's car was already parked in the driveway behind his wife's.
Zach nudged a scooter aside with his boot. Heaven help him when the quick-tempered flight surgeon discovered he'd held back information about her husband's in-flight emergency. She would demand a pound of flesh at Zach's next physical.
Not that he would have handled it any differently.
Walking through the carport, Zach wove around his motorcycle. His hand trailed along the seat of his vintage Harley Electra Glide. "Been a long time, huh, girl? I haven't forgotten about you though."
If he timed his day right, he could give the bike a tune-up while Ivy was at ballet, Shelby at her band retreat. Time alone was a rarity for any single parent.
As Julia Sinclair would soon discover.
What kind of day would she face when she brought her son home to an empty house?
It's not your problem. Hadn't the lady said as much? Let it go and enjoy the weekend.
Zach traced the lettering on the bike's gas tank.
Wildcatter. A holdover from the days when he'd followed his dad around the oil rigs to earn money for college.
The name had stuck once he'd entered Texas A & M, later becoming his original Air Force call sign back in simpler times when he could fly his plane and come home to his family at a reasonable hour. Before he'd been given the new name with his new job.
Not that he would change. His job was... not just a job. It was a calling he couldn't ignore if he tried. Even to save his marriage.
Zach patted the leather seat a final time before pivoting away. He unlocked the side door
—and almost stumbled back outside. The house reeked of burnt cheese.
"What the hell?" Zach sprinted into the cramped kitchen to find the inside of the microwave looked like a nuclear slime experiment. Tension easing somewhat from his shoulders, he placed the radio on the counter and grabbed a rag.
"Hey, Colonel," Shelby shouted from the family room. "You busted curfew. I'm gonna have to take away your phone privileges for a week. And then there's your language..."
"I'll be glad to get rid of the phones anytime, Shel. Just say the word." He slammed the microwave shut.
Scrubbing a hand across his left cheek, he worked to waken the groggy muscles that had never completely rejuvenated since the battering his face had taken in Iraq. He carried a crooked smile as a reminder of the benefits of controlling his emotions. As if he could forget.
Zach crossed to the family room and leaned against the doorframe. His sixteen-year-old daughter sprawled on the sectional sofa watching MTV with her golden retriever, Aggie.
As usual, Shelby wore a cropped shirt and low-slung jeans to showcase her belly-button ring.
If ever Zach had wanted to lose his temper, it had been over that piercing. Julia had told him to be grateful Shelby hadn't dyed her black hair purple. Or pierced her eyebrow, her lip or heaven forbid, her tongue. "Thanks for watching Ivy. Everything go okay?"
"Germany called."
Germany. So Pam was in Germany now. Shelby never referred to her mother by name, just by her latest port of call. "Any message?"
"Nope."
Pam and her chef husband had signed on for a Tour-Europe cooking course eight months ago. To her daughter, Pam changed names like a Rand McNally road-trip. Sometimes she took the time to call her kids and let them know where she'd relocated. Other times a food product landed on their doorstep with a foreign shipping label.