Another shape moved along the fence line, broader than the first, unmistakably steady in the way it stood, not pretending to walk past at all.
Sarge. Of course it was Sarge; the man didn't have the decency to pretend he wasn't looking, just planted himself there like a fence post, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the window with the kind of discipline that probably cost him something.
She could practically feel the effort it took him not to turn away.
She let her arms drift up, wringing water from her hair, taking her time about it. Let them look; she'd carried five babies at once and come out the other side with a body that still made grown men forget how to speak; there was a petty, delicious satisfaction in that.
She wasn't giving her heart to anyone new, wasn't about to add an eighth name to a list that already stretched her thin in ways she was still learning to manage, but there was no harm in a little shameless preening. She was allowed that much. She'd earned it.
