Free Joint Forces by Catherine Mann Page B

if J.T. was in major brood-mode since he'd come in from seeing Bo off, her heart hungered to hold on to the moment more than her pregnant body craved chicken wings.
    And that was mighty damned much.
    She'd been so grateful to have him home and alive that nothing else seemed to matter. Not even their split.
    She'd met him at the base with their children, never discussing where he would go afterward. Both knew and accepted he would come home instead of returning to the studio apartment he'd leased after she tossed him out.
    All through that family dinner months ago, they'd sat together amid balloons and banners and favorite foods. And once the dishes were scraped clean of lamb chops, again there'd been no question but that he would follow her into her room. Their room.
    Their bed. Two minutes later, they'd been naked.
    Now her eyes met his over the Crock-Pot of chili, the platter of chicken wings and—oh yeah—her husband remembered, too, the night they'd made this baby nestled inside her.
    J.T. shot to his feet, grabbed his empty plate and glass before hotfooting it to the kitchen, leaving her at the mercy of more memories.
    Then when there'd been another night after his first night home, she'd thought maybe, just maybe they had enough to keep them together after all. She'd married him because of his strength, his honor, the reassurance that never would J.T. Price expose his family to men with concealed guns and shifty eyes.
    The "Price" last name would never show up in the news with reports about questionable acquittals and hung juries.
    Once she'd entered J.T.'s world, people stopped whispering behind her back. Good, honest people no longer kept their families away from her.
    Growing up, the promise of security had been everything to her, and she'd found security for herself and for her children. For years she'd thought it greedy to expect more. Finally, she'd learned to respect herself enough to demand everything.
    But the cost was so much higher than she'd expected.
    Chris scraped his chair back from the table, gathering his plate. "Gotta run. My shift starts in an hour. I'm closing up tonight, so I'll be late."
    Nikki shoved back from the table, too, passing her plate to her brother on his way past. "Hold on a second before you go, runt, so I can say goodbye. I need to hit the highway soon to make it back up to Chapel Hill for the study session. Just need to talk to Mom for one more sec."
    As Nikki rounded to her mother, Rena took her daughter's hand and squeezed. "Thanks for coming down, hon."
    Crouching down beside the chair, Nikki leaned in with a wide-open hug as exuberant as those childhood embraces, even though she now topped her mother by at least six inches. Rena let herself enjoy just holding on to her daughter and savoring those baby-shampoo and gummy-smile memories of her firstborn.
    Finally, Nikki pulled away, rocking back on her haunches. "Boundaries are all well and good, Mom. But it doesn't hurt to push them sometimes."
    Her free-spirited daughter would think so. And Rena was proud to have brought her daughter up in an environment where she could feel free to explore life, secure in knowing her parents loved her. That even if her father might be overprotective at times, he would always keep her safe.
    Nikki would make a great teacher, with her love of children—an open, honest woman. Rena just hoped no one would take advantage of that.
    "Well, hon, I want you to enjoy your time at college and exploring all those boundaries. Don't worry about me. I'm fine."
    "I'm glad Dad's here, but I'm still going to drop in when I can." She held up her hand. "And no playing martyr-mom. My teammates are already asking when the next squadron picnic is."
    "So they can check out the flyboys."
    "Do ya' think?" Nikki almost kept a straight face.
    Chris loped out of the kitchen, baggy clothes rippling with every step. "Which dude did you pick out for yourself? Used to be you begged off every picnic that you could. Hmm, I