Книга - Having The Soldier’s Baby

Having The Soldier's Baby
Tara Taylor Quinn


Back from the dead… And back in her heart? Emily and Winston Hannigan had a fairy-tale romance…until he perished for his country. So pregnant Emily is shocked when Winston arrives on her doorstep very much alive. Can Emily and Winston rekindle their love, or will Winston’s secret tear them apart…







Back from the dead...

And back in her heart?

Emily and Winston Hannigan had a fairy-tale romance...until he perished for his country. So when Winston arrives on her doorstep very much alive, Emily’s overjoyed. Winston’s a changed man, though. He may have survived the unthinkable. But he believes he doesn’t deserve Emily—or their unborn child. And Winston’s secret shakes Emily to the core. But at that core is still love...


Having written over eighty-five novels, TARA TAYLOR QUINN is a USA TODAY bestselling author with more than seven million copies sold. She is known for delivering intense, emotional fiction. Tara is a past president of Romance Writers of America and is a seven-time RWA RITA® Award finalist. She has also appeared on TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. She supports the National Domestic Violence Hotline. If you need help, please contact 1-800-799-7233.


Also by Tara Taylor Quinn (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

The Daycare Chronicles

Her Lost and Found BabyAn Unexpected Christmas BabyThe Baby Arrangement

The Fortunes of Texas

Fortune’s Christmas Baby

Where Secrets are Safe

A Family for ChristmasFalling for the Brother

Family Secrets

For Love or MoneyHer Soldier’s BabyThe Cowboy’s Twins

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Having the Soldier’s Baby

Tara Taylor Quinn






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-09121-3

HAVING THE SOLDIER’S BABY

© 2019 TTQ Books LLC

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


“Winston? Oh, my God, Winston! I knew you’d come. I was waiting. I knew!” The outburst went on, slightly garbled with tears, as weight slammed against his body.

He grabbed for it, lest it fall. Or he did. Arms clung to him, around his neck, as breasts fit into him in a familiar, completely natural way. His arms lowered enough to find their place at the curve of waist just below his as his foot scooted, allowing room for the smaller foot sliding in between his.

The drill was embedded in him. As much of his naval training had been. Came to him with ease. Until Emily lifted her head, gazed into his eyes and planted her mouth against his.

Lips pursed tightly closed, he stood there, eyes open.

And waited for her to figure out that the man she’d known and loved no longer existed.

* * *

THE PARENT PORTAL:

A place where miracles are made


Dear Reader (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9),

Welcome to The Parent Portal—a place where miracles are made for those struggling to have children. A place where the professionals trying to make the magic happen might find a miracle or two of their own. So come with me inside the doors of The Parent Portal, a privately owned fertility clinic where biology matters. People here understand that donors are more than science—and they arrange legally binding agreements that provide both parties with “the right to know.” The right to know if a child is born. To know the child is loved and safe. The right to find your biological child if you have a burning need to do so.

Or the right to have a child with your soldier husband’s sperm when he dies in battle.

So much in the world is uncertain, but at The Parent Portal, you can be sure that people come first, love matters and miracles can happen.

Having the Soldier’s Baby is my eighty-ninth novel with Harlequin and I can promise you an intense, emotional ride!

I love to hear from readers! You can find all of my social media at tarataylorquinn.com (http://tarataylorquinn.com)!

Happy reading!

TTQ


To all of those who’ve struggled to have a family...may your hearts be filled with love.


Contents

Cover (#u7f2ae12c-5140-5859-bf12-b0fab8422051)

Back Cover Text (#u1b9828c3-aee9-57a6-bd2c-926eba65a512)

About the Author (#ucad47fce-6299-55bc-a6cc-08a2008e9459)

Booklist (#u12762131-a843-598d-904b-cbdbc0049a63)

Title Page (#u02579058-896a-5447-8698-7acf3a54bf29)

Copyright (#ue8f8d6fd-9883-573a-983e-7ff9f7c0413e)

Introduction (#ua53d576a-bf0e-5bc5-9ead-1cf91c871320)

Dear Reader (#u160d579b-7249-5eca-9fd1-9f9854ebaa6d)

Dedication (#u14e635b6-e825-5941-88d3-137881404e2c)

Chapter One (#u4b1e966b-a8c6-5885-a61c-2efbcc211e8e)

Chapter Two (#u61d7acf9-af94-5ebe-b605-0f7cc01d8944)

Chapter Three (#ue8c9d4da-4b22-59bc-9dd7-28c25fea1e9b)

Chapter Four (#u5c409d44-52d9-5949-906b-5b04788f4701)

Chapter Five (#u8322fc05-c3ab-5729-83ee-a179dde6d4d8)

Chapter Six (#ub07bc3c8-b14b-54fd-807c-4b80fdfcc80e)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

Dear Emily,

Forgive my familiarity. We’ve never met and yet I feel as though I know you. You will be receiving formal notification, but I couldn’t leave it at that. The decision has been made to officially pronounce Winston’s death. This will award you the death benefits and pension you deserve, and yet somehow, I sense that isn’t what matters to you.

As Winston’s immediate superior I could go on about the standout soldier he was. But during this last tour... I walked into the trap with him. Ahead of him. I unknowingly led him to his eventual death. He saved my life. And we spent days in hiding together. Perhaps I am being selfish, but I need you to know that you are all that kept us alive. His talk of you. His love for you. His belief that that kind of love was real.

In any event, it’s been two years since he left to find water for us and never came back. Two years since I was discovered by friendly forces. Two years of trying to understand why I am here and he is not. He had everything to live for.

Please know that for the rest of my life, I am here for you, a willing servant, pledging to have your back or do whatever I can for you, no matter what...

A signature followed. Contact information. Emily couldn’t see any of it through her tears. She wadded up the letter and threw it across the room, half watching as it hit the wood blinds open to the California sunshine outside her living room window. Their living room window.

Dressed in black pants that hugged her ankles, a loose cream-colored sheath, and a short black-and-cream three-quarter-sleeve open sweater, with three-inch black stilettos, she tried to pretend that this day was like any other, that she hadn’t been up all night, that she was prepared for the meeting she would be leading that morning in the largest conference room of the LA marketing firm she’d been with since college.

The forty-five-minute drive north might have been preparation enough if she hadn’t spent the past twelve hours vacillating between grief that cut the air out of her lungs and an anger that was equally debilitating.

In the ten years she’d been with the firm, she’d never called in sick. She’d been at work when officials had come to her two years before to inform her that Winston was missing in action in Afghanistan. She’d remained in her office, mostly comatose, but there, until the end of the day, but had put in for a couple of vacation days before she’d left.

She usually scheduled vacation for birthdays and anniversaries.

And this?

What was it really, but a formality? Something everyone around her assumed?

Good news, even, as it released benefits to her that she didn’t already have.

She didn’t need them.

She needed Winston.

Staring out the blinds, at the grass that she kept carefully manicured just as Winston had, she let the sun’s bright glint partially blind her for a moment or two as she tried to look past it to find some kind of direction.

For two years she’d refused to believe the love of her life was dead. Winston wouldn’t leave her on earth alone. They’d promised when they were fourteen that they’d be there for each other for the rest of their lives. And at fifteen, when they’d proclaimed their romantic love. And again at twenty-two, when they’d stood in front of an entire town’s worth of family and friends and made the vow publicly.

For two years, she’d refused to believe.

For two years she’d been alone, living in an emotional freezer, waiting.

No answers appeared in the brightness outside her window. Stars and yellow-lined pink smears dotted her vision as she moved toward her purse and keys. She had to get to the office.

She wasn’t dead, and work was the life she had.

Almost at the front door, Emily glanced toward the living room. Tearing up again, she went back, picked up the wadded paper, carefully smoothed it. Carried it out to the car with her. Drove all the way to LA with it on her lap.

She parked in her designated spot five minutes ahead of schedule. Dropped her keys in their pocket in her purse. And very carefully, she picked up the letter, folded it and slid it in her wallet.

* * *

Emily wasn’t 100 percent on board with her plan a month later when she presented herself at the fertility clinic in town. Her heart was all there, 150 percent. Her body, the same.

But her mind...wasn’t totally convinced she hadn’t lost it.

“Let’s head back to my office,” Christine Elliott, the clinic’s founder and manager, said as she collected Emily from the large and oddly calming waiting room. Instead of sitting in seats placed close together, forcing patients to face each other, the comfortable armchairs were arranged in separate areas, only two to four per grouping, with large floral arrangements separating them. Healing tones of new age music played, and the wall art, with predominant shades of purple, was somehow comforting.

The air was infused with a hint of lavender. She recognized the scent immediately only because, in her attempts to survive over the past couple of years, she’d gone through a phase of relying heavily on aromatherapy.

And, okay, still dabbed her wrists with pure lavender oil on occasion.

She’d taken up carrying peppermints with her at all times, too—just in case they really did promote calm and mental clarity.

As they reached the door bearing Christine’s placard at the end of the inner hallway, Emily pulled an individually wrapped little white circle out of her pocket and slipped it into her mouth. Fresh breath was always good.

In a short flowered summer dress, Christine could have been heading out for a day of shopping and lunch with friends. Emily liked that. Just...it felt better entering her office for “that” conversation with a woman who looked like shopping and lunch, rather than austerity.

Not one who’d ever really spent tons of time contemplating her wardrobe once she’d purchased clothes—figuring she did the work in the store so whatever was in her closet had already passed inspection—Emily had troubled herself for most of her shower time that morning, trying to determine what to wear. Would she do better if she appeared casual, like she was fully sane and prepared to calmly bring a child into the world all alone?

Or would businesslike and competent serve her better?

Her white capris and short black top with jeweled thongs didn’t seem to matter a whit as she took a seat on the couch Christine indicated for their meeting.

The first time she’d been in that room—the only other time she’d been there—she and Winston had been shown to the two leather-bottomed seats in front of Christine’s massive light wood desk. She’d liked sitting there. The woman’s desk looked like something out of an upscale trinket shop, with everything carefully placed to show it off in its best light. To tempt you to want to own it. Angels in various forms. A china horse. Florals and a small colorful metal heart sculpture.

The couch, also light-colored and leather, faced the chair Christine had landed on. Emily had nowhere to look but in the other woman’s eyes.

“You asked to speak with me specifically,” Christine opened the conversation. No “How have you been?” Or “Nice to see you.”

Emily nodded, her light blond hair loose and straight around her shoulders. She used to curl it. Pull it back in clips. It all seemed like too much trouble these days.

“You were behind me in school...what, a couple of years?” she asked inanely, panicked for a second as she grappled with the reality of what she was doing. Christine had never attended parties or been a part of any crowd that Emily knew of, but she’d recognized her when she and Winston had visited the clinic.

He hadn’t remembered her.

“Three years. I was a freshman your senior year.”

“You used to leave during lunch. The McDermott Street door was down the hall from my locker and I’d see you...”

Only seniors had been allowed to leave for lunch.

“You always left alone...”

She’d wondered about it, in the way you’re curious about something in the moment and then forget about it. It hadn’t been any of her business.

And still wasn’t.

“My grandmother was diabetic and needed an insulin shot,” Christine said, not seemingly at all put out by Emily’s rudeness. Or the unprofessional and inappropriate topic of conversation.

“You were, what, fourteen?”

Christine’s short dark hair barely touched her shoulders as she shrugged. “I wanted to help, thought it was cool and seriously didn’t mind doing it. Gram said Gramps hurt when he did it. Besides, she always had a great lunch ready for me when I got there.”

Still...she’d been fourteen. A kid. Missing out on all of the gossip and drama in the lunchroom. And the friendships that formed or solidified because of them.

Not to say that Christine hadn’t had a slew of friends. Emily had no idea who Christine had known.

“I was sorry to hear about Winston.” The compassion in Christine’s brown eyes came close to undoing her. And focused her, too. Finally.

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, sitting upright on the couch, nothing at her back. Because that’s how it was going to be. “Labwerks contacted me... I actually forgot to pay my yearly storage fee...”

Christine could have jumped in as Emily faltered. Instead, she sat silently, that warm look still in her gaze.

“They asked if I wanted them to discard Winston’s sperm...”

The vial had been taken as part of an initial testing process when he and Emily first visited Elliott Fertility Clinic. They’d been trying to have a child for over a year with no success. Low motility had been ruled out. As had any other obvious reasons for an inability to procreate. They’d been given the option to keep trying naturally, with some hormonal help, or consider artificial insemination. Because they’d both just turned thirty and figured they had time, they’d opted to go the natural route for a while longer, but had paid to have Winston’s sperm stored just in case.

“So what can I do for you?” Christine’s question came quietly. More of a boost than a push. Like she was helping Emily do what she’d come to do, not forcing her to get on with it.

“I’ve become obsessed by an idea I had and I want your opinion before I allow myself to seriously consider it.”

“Why me? I’m not a counselor—Though, as you know, we have a couple of top-rate ones on staff, and I’d be happy to refer you...”

Emily shook her head. Maybe a counselor was what she needed but it wasn’t what she wanted. Not at that point, anyway.

“I want your opinion.”

“My degree is in health management. I founded the clinic, I run it, but the work that we do...that’s the fabulous doctors and their teams, not me.”

“When we met with you before...it was clear to me...you aren’t in this as a business. You’re here because you care about people.”

With a silent nod, Christine acknowledged the truth of the remark.

“And...you understand that sometimes, for some people, the need to have a family, by whatever means, overrides most everything else...”

“Whatever legal means...” Christine said slowly, her look more assessing. “What are you considering?”

“Nothing illegal.” Emily tried to smile and chuckle. She choked instead. And when Christine brought her a bottle of water, she took down half of it. “I’m sorry.”

Taking the seat next to her on the couch, Christine turned to her. “I’m happy to listen.”


Chapter Two (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

Emily rambled for what seemed like an hour. She just talked. Unburdening herself of myriad thoughts. Relaying arguments that played out in her head. Releasing a little bit of the panic that had become an almost-constant companion over the past month. She wasn’t looking for healing. For therapy. Truth was, she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Permission maybe.

She wanted some kind of professional response from the health care manager, as though such a response would validate the seemingly unstoppable urge to have herself inseminated.

The clock on the wall said only about ten minutes had passed when she finally fell silent.

“You have the legal right to use your husband’s sperm.” Christine’s response sounded professional. And maybe more, too.

She didn’t need the other woman’s pity. She had so much of that coming at her she was almost buried in it.

“Everyone I know is feeling sorry for me,” she blurted. “I’m attempting to prevent myself from sinking into the pool they’re creating and letting it drown the life out of me. And yet is it fair to bring a child into the world because I’m drowning in grief?”

“Is that why you’d be doing it? Because of the grief?”

It was obvious, wasn’t it? That’s what everyone would think. Would assume. Including her.

“When I met with you before it seemed to me that you and Winston were equally determined to have a child. That it was something you both needed in equally intense measure.”

“It was!” Why would the woman be going back there at this point in time? That dream, that life, was over.

“And your desire to be a mother, to raise a family, do you think that died with your husband?”

“Of course not. If it had, having a child wouldn’t assuage the grief now, would it?” She heard the sarcasm in her tone. Was ashamed of it. And kind of relieved to know that she had fight left in her, too.

Christine stared at her. Expecting her to get something?

“My mother died when I was ten, trying to have the sibling I so badly wanted, the son my father wanted,” Christine stated a few moments later. “She was forty at the time. Because my father worked eighty hours a week, he left me with my grandparents...”

“The grandmother who was diabetic.” Emily’s turmoil settled, desperation eased for a second, as she saw again the high school girl leaving at lunchtime.

Christine nodded. “Other things happened that don’t bear going into right now, but ultimately, at twenty-two, I was alone, without any close family, and only the money left to me from my mother’s life insurance policy.”

And here Emily had been wallowing in her own pity. Compassion spread through her instead.

“I’d spent the previous twelve years fighting off grief, eschewing all the pity, desperately grasping sometimes, and there I was, a college graduate with a degree in health management, thinking I’d go on to med school as my mother had...”

“Your mother was a doctor? Here in Marie Cove?” Their little town wasn’t all that well known, had no public beach access, but though it had only been incorporated for a couple of decades, it had been around more than a century and had enough of a population that not everyone knew one another.

“A pediatrician,” Christine said. “Children were her life.”

And she died trying to give birth to one. Emily wasn’t sure where Christine was going with this, but for the first time since she’d received word that her husband had been declared legally dead, Emily felt a sense of...calm. And maybe a wee bit of strength, too.

“I had a choice to make,” Christine said. “I could take that money, leave Marie Cove, start a new life for myself, a family of my own, or I could stay here in the town where I was born, in the home where I grew up, and use my mother’s money to honor her life and the importance of children to families. To make it easier for women like her, and others, too, to have the children they need to feel complete. To give couples that chance.”

The fertility clinic.

Emily wanted to take the other woman’s hand. To thank her somehow, though nothing in her life was any different than it had been moments ago. “What happened to your father?”

“He met a woman in LA, ten years older than me, twenty younger than him, remarried, had his son. And another daughter, too. They never asked me to live with them, but honestly, even if they had, I’d have chosen to stay with my grandparents.”

“Do you see them? Your dad and his family? Your half brother and sister?”

“Once or twice a year. For an hour or so over a meal, usually. I never got along with his new wife. Probably somewhat my fault. But on the other hand, he never tried all that hard to bridge the gap.”

Certain that there was a lot more Christine wasn’t saying, Emily thought over what she had said. Searching for its application to the current situation.

“You’re worried about the morality of using Winston’s sperm when he isn’t here to father his child. Or have any say in whether or not he has a fatherless child in the world.”

Christine’s statement hit home. Hard. “I didn’t say that.”

“You kind of did.”

Not in so many words...but she’d rambled a lot and... “I guess that’s part of it,” she said, clasping her hands together in her lap, slumping some, too, but still not leaning back against the couch. “Is it fair to the child? To bring him or her into a single-parent home?”

“You know these are questions only you can answer.”

But that didn’t mean she liked that truth.

“A lot of people have disagreed with choices I’ve made in my life,” Christine continued. “One of them was choosing to use my mother’s money to build this clinic when I could have gone on to med school, or been a lawyer, or had any other life. But for me, this clinic is a part of her, and using my life to keep her legacy alive, to actually be able to give other people what she wanted most—the chance to have babies—this was my right choice. I’m happier today than I’ve been since I was ten and lost her.”

Emily believed her.

“You have to make your right choice,” Christine’s words fell softly between them. “I could tell you what I think, or give you pros and cons, but you’ve done a pretty stellar job of arguing both sides all on your own.”

No disputing that one.

“You know the paperwork you and Winston signed when you started with us gives you permission for the use of his sperm.”

She knew. Of course she knew. Her, and only her. That had been important to them.

“How do I know this is the choice he’d have wanted me to make?”

Therein was the crux of her self-torture. They’d never talked about one of them carrying on without the ever. It hadn’t been an option for them. Or a possibility she’d ever considered.

Hard to believe she’d ever been that naive.

“He’s not here, Emily. You think my mother would choose for me to be living alone in her parents’ home, dedicating my life to work? You think she’d choose for me to never have babies of my own?”

When she put it that way...not likely.

“You’re young. You’ve got a lot of years to have kids.”

“I’m childless by choice.” The brightly dressed woman smiled as she looked around her office. “This is my life. There’s no doubt in my mind that I made the right choice. And my point to you is...just because grief plays a part in your choice, that doesn’t mean it’s reactionary, and therefore invalid.”

Emily considered that for a moment before replying. “I’ve known since I was a teenager that I was going to be the mother of Win’s kids someday. I knew I’d have a career, that I’d be someone professionally, that that was important to me, but being the mother of his kids, being his wife, mattered more than anything else.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

Emily smiled and teared up a bit, too. “I think that’s pretty obvious, huh?”

Christine shrugged.

“I’m going to do this.”

No judgment came from the other woman. No sense that she was doing the right or wrong thing. That she’d made the choice Christine thought she should make. Or hadn’t.

But she felt a kinship with her.

“I’ve got the ability to have my husband live on, even after his death, to bring parts of him to life, to give him descendants. I can raise his children and love them as much as we both wanted to. I know his views on pretty much every aspect of raising children...we talked endlessly about schooling, about discipline—even eating habits we’d allow. And not allow. It’s crazy-sounding, but Winston and I...we were just meant to be. And our family was meant to be, too.”

She wasn’t rambling anymore. Wasn’t lost in the not-knowing. She and Winston had talked over every detail of child raising, of investing, of career plans, vacationing, homeownership, pet acquiring—but they’d never once talked about one of them not being there.

They’d never discussed death.

She knew how he’d thought about telling his children about sex, but had no idea what he’d think of her using his sperm to have his baby after he died.

So she couldn’t make this decision based on him. She was the only one left. The choice was hers alone.

The first big decision she’d ever made completely alone.

“It might not take,” she said aloud, still a bit shaky as a whole new set of worries came upon her. “This might all have been for nothing if I can’t get pregnant.”

“Nothing in your tests showed you to be infertile.”

“I know, but...”

“If nothing else, insemination gives you a better shot,” Christine said, more distant and professional now than she’d been. “If you’re still unsure, or thinking it might be better if it didn’t work, if you’re looking for an out...”

“I’m not!” She stood, and Christine followed suit. “I want this child more than anything...”

Christine’s smile was a surprise. But not as much of one as the hug the other woman reached over and gave her.

“I know,” the health director said. “And now you do, too.”


Chapter Three (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

“My name is Winston Hannigan. I am a chief petty officer first class.” He rattled off his serial number. “I was deployed as a sand sailor under the Individual Augmentee Combat program two years and four months ago. For the past two years I have been living with the enemy.”

They could shoot him dead on the spot, lying there on the ground, hands behind his head. Part of him wished they would. Most of him wished it.

They were US Army. A sergeant and a private, based on the uniform markings. Both heavily armed.

As he’d been before they’d stripped him of his guns and ammo and the blade in his boot. His US-issued boot, with holes in the sole, worn with his pale gray kuchi dress and loose pants.

No one from the United States was going to believe he was still on their side. Most days he questioned it himself.

The string of curse words that followed sounded unbelievably good to him—issued as they were in his native tongue. Even the word traitor attached at the end of it made him want to weep with relief. It had been so long since he’d heard American English.

He wasn’t a traitor. Hadn’t betrayed his country’s secrets. But he’d done what he’d done. There was no undoing it. And no way to live with it, either.

He just wanted it over. Was ready to die, just like his heart and soul had already done. Winston Hannigan, married naval officer with a future at home, had been buried in the Afghan desert ages ago.

Hungry, thirsty, tired, Winston didn’t argue when he was hauled up roughly, his shoulders half coming out of his sockets. Didn’t care at all that the servicemen restrained him and threw him in the back of their off-road vehicle. He’d been on the road for three days with a goal that could go one of two ways: he’d get out of the desert or die in it.

The way he figured, that Jeep, the excruciating jars as it bumped along at top speeds, was helping him reach his goal. Maybe both ways.

* * *

The actual insemination wasn’t painful. In a room with mood-enhancing new age music playing and the lighting low, other than the small bright light positioned for the doctor, and the lavender candle she’d brought burning not too far away, it was all over while she was still mentally preparing for the ordeal. She tried to doze while waiting the appropriate time before she could get up and go home. Thought about what she’d have for dinner—some kind of treat to celebrate.

Couldn’t land on anything.

Wasn’t happy about that.

She did a lot of math in her head. Financial reports, estimating amounts of money needed per year to raise a child, adding in incidentals for vacations and the unforeseen, college account deposits and even possible competition fees if he or she was into sports or dancing.

She counted months. If the insemination took, she’d have a March baby. Counted days, fourteen of them, until she would know if the process was successful. She could take a home pregnancy test earlier than that, but according to Dr. Miller false positives were fairly common any earlier due to low hormonal counts.

Salad ended up being dinner—she didn’t have much of an appetite. And she didn’t call anyone. Her mother, a widow living with Emily’s divorced brother in San Diego, helping him raise his two kids, would insist on driving up. And her friends... Most of them had either moved away or faded off. She didn’t go out anymore, not since Winston went missing. Most of the people she used to spend time with were other couple friends with families of their own now, leaving her the odd one out—and she worked eighty hours a week and didn’t relish spending even more time with the people there.

Another math problem to work through. Getting as much work done in fewer hours. She couldn’t spend eighty hours in the office every week once a baby came. Child care funds had already been calculated. Multiple times. There was a day care in an office building not far from hers. The Bouncing Ball’s LA branch. Mallory Harris, the owner, was a client at the clinic—and expecting a baby of her own around Christmastime. Christine Elliott had introduced them.

If all went well, they’d be pregnant at the same time. Pregnant. She could be. Winston’s baby could already be forming inside her.

Math. Numbers. Focus.

Wednesday, June 12. Insemination day.

Conception Day?

Two years, four months and three days since she’d seen the father.

Hugging Winston’s pillow, Emily cried herself to sleep that night.

* * *

“I did things.”

Sitting on a worn blue couch, elbows on his khaki-covered knees, hands steepled at the fingers, Winston tried to help the naval therapist understand. Though he’d been back in the States for more than a week, in San Diego for three days, he didn’t feel any different than he had bumping around helplessly in the back of a military Jeep in the Afghan desert. He’d murdered his soul there. Nothing was going to change that.

“You’re a hero to your country.” The woman’s soft tones bounced off his eardrums like the buzz of an irritating fly. “What you did saved lives. And what you’ve brought back to us will save even more.”

He didn’t need to be told the facts. He knew them. Was wearing the ribbons he’d earned above his right pocket. He’d put country and his fellow comrades before soul. Had made very clear decisions—for very clear reasons. He’d come up with the plan on his own. Had implemented it without telling anyone, knowing that if he’d spoken up, he’d have been told not to act.

His plan had succeeded. Beyond his expectations. He hadn’t counted on surviving.

“My wife believes I’m dead. I wish to leave it that way.” An unusual request, but not impossible. He was informing on a terrorist cell. He could request a new identity. Keep anyone who knew him by his former identity out of it.

Not that they were really in any danger. No one in the sect he’d joined knew who he really was. And the man they’d thought him to be, another soldier he’d impersonated, was dead.

“She’s going to know you’re alive when the death benefits stop.”

He’d thought of that. Had told his superiors that he didn’t need to see a shrink, and the morning’s meeting was only proving his point.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do, sign whatever I have to sign, so that she continues to receive insurance coverage and monthly checks in the amount she expects.” His salary should be able to cover that, with enough left for him to live on. They’d told him he’d have his pick of duties. After a mandatory six-month leave. And a release from the fly-voiced woman. All due respect to her, meeting with her was a waste of his time. She couldn’t begin to see inside him. And wouldn’t know how to handle it if she could. No amount of learning could prepare you...

“You indicated a desire to stay with the navy.”

“Yes.” It was all he had. He’d chosen his loyalty.

“Naval police,” she said, glancing through the dark reading glasses sitting halfway down her nose at the open file on her desk. He’d considered going civilian...applying to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, but then his checks to Emily would no longer come from the navy.

“Correct.” Sitting back, his ankle across his knee, he reached an arm out along the back of the couch—a pose of relaxation he’d perfected over two years of living as family within an enemy sect. Pretending not to have a care in the world as he lied to them every single day, knowing that if he slipped up, was found out, he’d suffer torture far worse than death.

His free hand came to his chin and for a second, he was startled by the bareness there.

He’d shaved the beard. No longer had it to pull on when he needed to make certain he was still alive. And could feel.

He was Petty Officer First Class Winston Hannigan again. Not Private First Class Danny Garrison—the young man in his command who’d died in his arms, the man whose identity he’d assumed. If he’d died over there, as he’d expected to do, Danny would have been hailed as the hero. His family deserved that.

“You need my sign-off at the end of six months.”

Hers, or another military shrink’s. He looked her straight in the eye. After the past two years, Winston didn’t scare easily. Was way beyond falling prey to intimidation or manipulation.

He’d lived with the enemy for two years and had come out with a body still fully intact. Not many visible scars, even.

“Tell me why you don’t want your wife to know you’re alive.”

He’d already done so, when he’d first taken a seat in her office and she’d asked him to tell her a little about himself.

“I’m not the man she knew. Nor am I a man still interested in a lifetime commitment to another individual.”

“So you said.” The brunette fortysomething in dress whites kind of shrugged as she tried to pin him with her eagle eye. Wasn’t going to happen. The only pins he wore were attached to his ribbons.

“It’s not fair to her,” he added, lest the woman think he’d developed a selfish streak during his time in pseudo-captivity. “I am not the man she married. She wouldn’t love the man I’ve become. Trust me on this. I know her. She’d grieve every day, living with me. It’s much kinder to let her make a new life for herself.”

“She’s not a woman who knows her own mind?”

“Of course she is. Completely. Emily knew when she was fourteen that she was going to be my wife. And she knew we had to have college degrees before we married, too,” he said. “She’s been with the same firm since graduation and has quickly climbed the ranks to senior account executive. Because she knows what she wants and goes after it.”

“But you don’t love her anymore.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not exactly.”

“Let’s just say...my feelings have changed. Period. Across the board. I don’t love anything in the ways I used to. For God’s sake, I lived in hell for two years. I’m affected by that, okay? But not in any way that will prevent me from being a damned good MA.” Master-at-arms—naval military police. The one thing he knew for certain he’d be good at.

“Of course you’re affected. That’s why you’re here.”

If his hour were up, he’d be leaving. But it wasn’t. So he sat. Appeared relaxed. Thought about pulling on his beard. He knew the drill. Had lived it every day for the past twenty-four months. He was there because he had to be. No less. No more.

Five minutes of silence passed. Six. Then seven. Relaxing became more real than act. Silence was a friend he trusted. Within the silence he could hear.

Think. Prepare. Protect.

Within the silence he could be whoever he wanted to be. Think whatever he wanted to think.

“Here’s what I believe.” Dr. Adamson ruined the moment. “I believe that your six-month sabbatical was ordered to give you time to heal. And since we both know that, physically, you could pass any test today, your superiors must believe you need time to heal mentally. Or emotionally. Or, more likely, both.”

“Could also be that having been in captivity for two years earned me six months of leave.” Not that he was expecting the immediate future to be a vacation. He’d be debriefing with select, hand-chosen individuals. Two years of information collection was filed in his brain. No one asked him to collect it. But since he had, they wanted it. About as much as he wanted them to have it.

“The order isn’t written as vacation leave time,” she said, looking down as though rereading what she’d probably already committed to memory.

Semantics. He said nothing. Didn’t move. Or drop his gaze from hers. Bring it on. Whatever she had to dish out...he could take. And then some.

“Your superiors think you need my help,” Dr. Adamson said, closing his file and leaning her forearms on her desk over it as she looked at him. “In order to survive, you built defenses. Exactly what you’ve been trained to do.”

He gave her a bit of a shrug. Probably of acknowledgment.

“Your task now is to let some of them go. That takes time. You know what you know. I’m not debating that. Or even saying it’s wrong. But if you’re going to be of any further service to the United States, to the navy, you need to figure out which of those defenses no longer serve you and lose them.”

Right. Fine. He probably didn’t have to listen to every conversation in the next room anymore as a way of watching his back. Or sleep a few hours every day in the bunker he’d dug so that he could stay awake during the night when others thought he was asleep. He didn’t need to watch his back quite so much now that there were others around who’d share the burden while he watched theirs. Maybe he didn’t need to control every single thought he had.

He’d already reached these conclusions. Didn’t need her telling him what he already knew. But he needed her signature, releasing him.

If she wanted him to spell things out, he would. But only if it came to that or no signature. His thoughts were the one thing no one had taken from him.

“What you do is your choice, of course. Always. But for me to be able to release you back to active duty, in any capacity, I’m going to need some specific things from you.”

His arm dropped from the back of the couch as he leaned forward. Ready.

“I’m going to need to see you at least twice a month over the next six months.”

He’d been prepared for twice weekly. He hid a smile as he mentally applauded her good judgment. “Done.”

“When you return, two weeks from today, I’d like you to have a more permanent place to live.”

He was fine in the barracks. But...he could easily afford an apartment, too. He nodded.

“And I need you to go see your wife. If you want someone to prepare her ahead of time, let her know that you’re still alive, I can see to that.”

Had she listened to anything he’d said? The muscles in his jaw tensing, Winston clamped his jaws together. Took a long, slow breath. Reminded himself that he was an officer in the United States Navy.

“Whatever arrangements the two of you make are up to you, but you have to make them. With her. Or her lawyer.”

Her lawyer? As in divorce?

He supposed, if he was going to be alive to Emily, divorce would come, but...

“Let me get this straight. Before I can go back to serving my country... I have to hurt my wife? Make her suffer more than she already has?”

“You have to learn how to interact with people in a more normal interpersonal way, Officer. Your wife has a mind of her own. You don’t have the right to take her choices away from her. Or her suffering, if that’s what’s to come her way. It’s also important that you be capable of handling life’s emotional ups and downs rather than running from them, but first and foremost, you can’t go through life, at least not navy life, thinking that you know best for everyone else.”

She was staring straight at him and one clear fact hit so hard he almost physically cringed. The navy had given her a charge. She could only release him back to them if she could confidently assure them that, in her opinion, he could, and would, follow orders.

He was paying for his choice to act of his own accord. His choice to go rogue.

And that, he understood.

Wednesday. June 19. He left Dr. Adamson’s office, after one hour to the minute, having agreed to her demands.

All of them.


Chapter Four (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

She’d had the home pregnancy test for a week. Had carried the box in her bag for the first couple of days, then moved it to the cupboard by the toilet in the master bath.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to know. She just didn’t want to get her hopes up, or dashed, with false readings. The doctor had said two weeks.

So there she was, in a short gray skirt and matching short jacket, with three-inch heels and a silk blouse, dressed for her noon business meeting in LA, sitting on a plastic chair in an examining room at the Elliott clinic, having just peed in a cup. She’d given blood the day before.

She’d deal with facts. She just couldn’t tolerate any more doubt-induced head games. Either she was, or she wasn’t. If she was...then...

Tears spurted up out of nowhere and she took a deep breath.

And if she wasn’t, she’d try again.

If she couldn’t ever get pregnant... If the problem had been her all along... If there’d been a problem other than timing or over-trying...

The door opened and a doctor she’d never met before walked in. She could have received the news over the phone. The protection of the sterile little brick-walled examination room, with a calm professional discussing options, had seemed more doable to her.

“Well?” she asked, before the woman could even introduce herself. Dr. Hamilton, her tag read. Did it mean something that a doctor and not a PA had come to see her?

“Is something wrong?” she blurted. “I was expecting the nurse, or...”

“Christine asked me to speak with you.”

Heart thudding and dropping like lead weight in her stomach, she straightened her back. “Something’s wrong.”

“No.” The blond-haired woman, in dark pants and a purple short-sleeved blouse, pulled a stool over to sit in front of Emily. Close. Too close. The doctor smiled.

“You’re pregnant,” she said. “Due March 14. Christine thought you might have some questions.”

Pregnant? She was pregnant? As in... Winston’s child was right there, in the room with them, inside her, growing into life?

“I’m going to have a baby?” She couldn’t make out Dr. Hamilton’s features clearly. Tears blurred her vision. Trying to brush them away with a shaking hand, she shook her head. Wanted to apologize. Was afraid if she spoke, sobs would erupt.

Oh, good God, she was pregnant? After all those years of trying. Of disappointment.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” The doctor’s voice reached her as though from afar. Because Emily had been far away—in other doctors’ offices, in another room in that very clinic, with Winston, needing their baby so badly...

“Oh, yes!” she said, sniffling. Kind of giggling. “Yes, God, yes! I just... I guess I didn’t really believe it would happen! I’m actually pregnant!” She grinned. Sniffled again.

Dr. Hamilton grinned back at her. “You’ll have appointments to schedule, and we’ll be prescribing vitamins and tests along the way, but for now, all you have to do is celebrate.”

And buy a nursery. Call her mother. And Winston’s parents. Or...

Maybe not yet. The nursery, okay. But the parents?

Lord knew she didn’t want them descending on her. And they would. All the way from Florida—and most certainly from San Diego.

Besides, what if she...

“Am I at more risk for miscarriage? Since I was inseminated? And struggled to get pregnant to begin with?” She stared, solemn-faced, at the friendly doctor. Who was already shaking her head.

“The first three months are your highest risk, of course. But there’s no indication in your history to lead me to think that this will be anything but a normal pregnancy. We’ll do an ultrasound at sixteen weeks, or sooner, if you’d rather, just for your own peace of mind, but truly, the best thing you can do right now for you and your baby is to just be happy. Don’t worry. Eat healthy, no alcohol or smoking, of course, and otherwise live your life as you normally would.”

She nodded. She could do that. “Thank you,” she said, grinning—and crying again, too. She was guessing it was too soon to blame that on hormones.

“Of course,” Dr. Hamilton said. “If you have your own obstetrician, you’ll need to schedule an appointment, but if you’d like us to continue to follow you, we’ll get you scheduled for everything now.”

They both stood, Emily on weak knees. “I’m staying here,” she said. There’d never been any question on that one.

Dr. Hamilton opened the door, led the way down the hall, and for a second there, as she followed the woman, Emily hugged herself.

Wednesday, June 26. Winston’s baby was growing inside her!

She prayed that wherever he was, he knew. And was smiling, too.

* * *

He’d been by the house twice. Once when he’d first arrived in San Diego. He’d rented a car and driven up to Marie Cove just to see the home he and Emily had purchased together. To see if he could tell if she was still living there.

The curtains had been the same—which didn’t say a lot. The yard had been manicured in a way that pleased him—which was saying a lot, but not that she was still living there. He hadn’t hung around long enough to notice anything else. Where she was hadn’t mattered. What mattered was knowing she was okay.

He’d requested that someone he trusted on base ask around for him. And had toasted her with a few beers when he’d heard that she was still at the same firm, with the same home address. He knew nothing more than that. Hadn’t wanted to know.

If she was remarried, living with someone, it was none of his business. He wished her well from the bottom of his heart. Needed her to be happy.

The second time he drove by, he’d meant to stop. In light of the agreement he’d made with the naval psychiatrist, he’d asked if he could be the one to let his wife know he was still alive. After all, he wasn’t assuming a new identity. Which meant that they had to divorce for her to be free to continue living her new life. No one but him was going to be able to convince her of that. And her seeing what he’d become, understanding from the moment she heard he was still living that her husband was never coming back, was mandatory for her well-being.

But that Wednesday in June, a week after his first meeting with his shrink, he drove a different rental car right by the house he now knew to still be Emily’s home, without even slowing down. Thing was, it struck him, turning onto that street, that the house was still his, too. His name was on the title.

Which made things messy. He didn’t do messy these days. His life had one dimension left, and messy didn’t compute there.

So he drove on by.

* * *

There were just too many cribs in the world. And not enough to choose from in the stores. Pulling into her driveway Saturday, just before noon, Emily barely noticed the car parked out front. Her mind was on the four-in-one convertible crib she’d seen online—the one with the drawer underneath and the far side that was taller than the others, like a headboard. She’d hoped to find it that morning, to have a chance to make sure in person that it was easy enough for her to manipulate alone before she purchased it. And she wanted it in white. Or brown. Half of what she’d seen was gray. As popular as the color was apparently becoming in the home design world, she just couldn’t bring more gray into her life. And most particularly not into the nursery.

It wasn’t until she’d pulled into her garage, pushed the button to close the door behind her, entered in through the kitchen and heard a knock on her front door that she thought of the car out front. A dark, expensive-looking sedan. In the back of her mind she’d figured it belonged to someone visiting the family across the street. The Bloomingtons had a lot of extended family, and an endless number of weekend get-togethers. They had a lovely backyard pool. Had invited her over a few times...

Reaching for the front door handle, she wondered if the visit was just that—another Bloomington family invitation. It was June, soon to be July. Warm and sunny. Made sense they’d be having a pool party...

Stopping just short of unlocking the door, she peered out the peephole.

What?

She knew the white dress uniform of the naval officer, thought maybe she recognized the female chaplain who accompanied him. And maybe the other guy looked familiar, too, a medical something or other. The team that had come within a day of Winston going missing two years before had looked eerily similar.

With a sick feeling, she stood still for a moment. Even with a mental rundown of every loved one she could ever remember having, she couldn’t come up with someone they’d be there to tell her about. She’d already lost the only navy officer she’d ever loved.

Were they there about the baby? Winston’s heir? No. She shook her head. That made no sense. But thinking of the small life inside her gave her the strength to straighten up and open the door.

“I’m Senior Chief Petty Officer Greg Hall...” The man introduced himself and the chaplain and medic with him. She stood frozen. “May we come in?”

Standing back, she let them enter, closed the door, showed them to the couch in the living room. Two years before, she’d brought them to the dining room table. And had had trouble eating at the table for weeks after they’d left.

She didn’t use the living room much anymore. She was always in her office, where she had a comfortable lounger and television, or going to bed, when she was at home.

That would change, though. Now that she was going to be a family.

And then it hit her.

“I already got the letter,” she said, before Officer Hall could do more than settle on the edge of the chair across from them. “I know Winston’s been proclaimed dead.”

“That’s what we need to speak with you about, Mrs. Hannigan.” Officer Hall, a man looking to be close to forty with a hint of silver at his temples, spoke as his small team watched her.

They were ready to react, she supposed, to needs she might express. Whether emotional or physical. Nice of them, really. But quite unnecessary at this point.

She’d held it together the last time a team had visited her, too. Back then she’d been certain that Winston would return to her.

“That letter... I don’t quite know how to express this...it’s unusual, to be sure...”

She waited. Felt for the guy. What, her death benefits weren’t going to be as described? She could tell him she didn’t care, but knew that the navy had its protocols. That there was probably a manual description Officer Hall was attempting to adhere to. Protocols were there for good reason, Winston always used to tell her.

Chaplain Blaine, her tag read on the navy blue jacket, leaned forward, almost reaching out a hand that, instead, landed on her own knee.

Hall coughed. “Are you here alone, ma’am?”

“Yes.” If you didn’t count the baby.

“And, since your husband was declared dead, are you in a relationship...?” He cleared his throat. “Is there anyone else who could or should be here with you?”

Frowning, Emily looked from one to the other of the three of them. All in their uniforms. Looking so...uncomfortable. She didn’t get it. She’d already been told Winston was dead.

What could they tell her that would be worse than death?

“I don’t need anyone here with me,” she said. “I live alone. And no, I’m not in a relationship, though what that has to do with anything...” She let her words trail off as she heard the defensiveness in her tone. They were good people doing their jobs. Apparently a very difficult one that morning.

Stomach churning, Emily was taking a breath to ask what was going on when Officer Hall spoke.

“We’re here to tell you that your husband is not dead, Mrs. Hannigan...”

He said more. She could hear the drone of a male voice. Felt eyes on her. Met the gaze of the redheaded chaplain and locked there.

Your husband is not dead, Mrs. Hannigan.

Was she going crazy? Had he really said those incredible, beautiful, miraculous words? But...

There was compassion in the chaplain’s gaze. Along with other things she couldn’t decipher at the moment. But one thing was pretty clear. There was no light of joy. No sparkle. With jerky movements, she turned her head, taking in the two officers on either side of Chaplain Blaine.

“Winston’s alive?” Before she could figure this out, she had to make certain she’d heard right. That she wasn’t losing her mind right there in her own living room just three days after she’d found happiness again—in the form of the life inside her.

“Yes.” Officer Hall nodded, as though to emphasize the word. Maybe knowing that emphasis was needed on her side of the room?

“He’s alive!” She stood, clasped her hands, teared up, as all three officers remained seated, watching her. Seemingly concerned, as opposed to just being polite.

So though she needed to run outside and scream to the world, she figured that could wait until she was alone. She sat. Faced them.

“What’s wrong?” It didn’t matter what they told her. Her man was alive. They could get through anything else.

Winston was alive! And she had a baby to give him! There could be no mistake in that timing. Finally! Yes! Life was making sense again and...

“He’s been living with extremists for the past two years, Emily,” the chaplain spoke now. “He’s not the man you knew him to be.”

They had no idea what she knew of Winston—bodies changed, thoughts changed, even hearts changed sometimes, but souls...they were forever. And that’s what she knew. Souls didn’t change.

Winston had shared his with her. She still kept it tightly held within her heart.

“I realize that combat takes its toll,” she said now. Had he lost his legs? Or maybe his face had been blown up? Whatever, she didn’t care—other than for the pain he’d suffered and could still be suffering. “It’s fine. I’m fully capable of handling it. Just tell me where he is and when I can see him.”

“That’s just it, ma’am,” Hall said. “He doesn’t want to see you. Not yet.”

So he was that bad. She shook her head. Confused. Winston knew that while she was wildly attracted to him, physical appearance was only a small part of the bond between them.

“Not yet.” She homed in on what she felt she could master in the moment. “When, then?”

“Soon,” Chaplain Hall said while the medic remained alert, but mute. “He’s going to contact you, but felt that just dropping in on you would be too much...”

Too much? Frowning, she was done with the polite talk.

“Tell me what’s going on. What happened to him? He’s capable of just dropping in? Where is he? And how long have you known he’s alive?”

“We aren’t at liberty to answer all of that,” Hall said, his hat in his hands, literally. “I can assure you that physically, your husband is fine. In top shape. Mentally he’s as sharp as ever.”

Which left... “And emotionally?”

“He’s a changed man, Mrs. Hannigan. You need to be prepared.”

Suddenly she didn’t want to hear any more. Not from a team. Not from strangers. “Do his parents know?”

“No. He’s only been back in the States a short time. Because he was already declared dead, and because he’s of sound mind, and because everything about him right now, everything he’s been through, everything he knows, is of a sensitive nature, his wishes to remain as though dead were granted for a short time.”

“So now they’re being told as well?”

“Not yet. But soon.”

“So I’m to keep quiet about this?” Finally, a charge she could grasp hold of. Something she could be a part of.

“That’s up to you, Emily.” Chaplain Blaine spoke again. “Winston made it clear that if you needed to talk with your parents, or his, you were to be at liberty to do so. We’d only ask that you give the navy a chance to visit them first.”

She shook her head. Her husband obviously hadn’t wanted their families to know yet. He’d have reasons. “I’m fine to wait,” she said. “For as long as he needs.”

Forever, if that’s what it took him to be able to find his way back to her.

Because he would. She knew he would.

And when he did, she’d have a gift that would heal his hurting heart as only a miracle could do.


Chapter Five (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

He’d had no plan. Why hadn’t he seen it? He’d changed his mind, told them to tell her and then he’d had no immediate plan for what came next. Shaking his head, Winston tried not to notice the possible mirrored shaking in his hand on the wheel of yet another rental car on Sunday morning.

He could buy his own car.

On base, he didn’t really need one. Had been able to borrow a ride, or, for the trips to Marie Cove, rent a vehicle quite easily. Much cleaner. No loan. No mess. California was a “community property” state. If he bought something while married, his wife had joint ownership. And joint responsibility for any debt.

He had no right to land Emily with debt.

Renting a car, driving to Marie Cove, had been nowhere on Sunday’s agenda. He’d had a visit from Officer Hall on Saturday afternoon, letting him know that Emily was aware he was alive. And that she’d said she’d keep his being alive a secret until he wanted it otherwise.

That was it. Hall had given him nothing else. Not a word about how she looked. How she took the news. If she had another man in her life.

Not one damned thing.

How could he know how to proceed with her on nothing? He needed intel, for Chrissake. He’d worked out on the lifting machine. Then run. Had a late dinner. Tried to write a bit—doing as ordered and making notes of his time in Afghanistan, cataloging things that had happened as they came to him.

Eventually he’d slept—without the help of the sleep aid one of the doctors he’d seen over the past weeks had prescribed to him.

And woken to stare at the ceiling and wonder if Emily was doing the same. Staring at the ceiling. Trying to understand why the man who’d known her deepest fears—and her greatest desires and secret fantasies—didn’t want to see her.

Had she asked how he was? Where he was?

What must her mind be doing to her this day? He’d been at the car rental place before they opened, and was on the road before he’d had time to think about the plan. And realized there wasn’t one.

Was he just going to show up on the doorstep? Would it be kinder to call first? And how would that go? “Emily, this is Winston...”

She’d know his voice the second she heard it. Maybe. Unless tonal quality changed with loss of soul.

She wouldn’t know the number. The navy had given him a temporary phone, pay-as-you-go, with its own number. Had Emily kept his number active? Been paying for it on their plan for two years even though he hadn’t been using it?

He knew she had. It’s what she’d do. Emily hadn’t changed. He had.

Of course, she’d thought him dead. For at least a month. A billing cycle. The number might be gone.

He didn’t think so.

Didn’t know why he was obsessing over a frickin’ number.

He wasn’t going to call her. What would be the point? He had to see her. To work out the legal details. He’d given his word.

And now that she knew he was alive, she deserved the truth. She needed to know that he was dead inside. It was the only way to set her free.

Pulling into the drive, he took a deep breath, allowing himself to experience fully as he’d been ordered. And felt...nothing. He knew the slope. Most of the cracks. Saw the little dent in the garage, lower right, where he’d run the riding mower a little too close because he’d been busy gazing at his wife, who’d come outside in a pair of really short denim shorts and a black halter top.

His brain computed the memory. Nothing else happened. Not anywhere. Not even a little twinge beneath the fly of his uniform khakis.

He hadn’t needed to wear them. He was off duty. He just needed to hit a store and get some clothes. Everything he’d had with him had been lost in the desert when he’d walked into the enemy camp and offered to become a traitor to his country to distract them long enough for his comrades to get to safety. Everything he’d left behind that day had been returned in a box of effects to his widow.

The navy had helped him get a new driver’s license. Had provided uniforms, skivvies, socks, shoes. Enough to last a few days. His barracks had a laundry facility.

He had to get out of the car to get the job done. So he did. Shut the door like a man with a job to do. Walked with straight shoulders and purpose toward the front steps. Climbed them.

The front door had been painted. It was beige now. Used to be white. Hand raised to knock, he was startled as the door flew open.

“Winston? Oh my God, Winston! I knew you’d come. I was waiting. I knew!” The chatter went on, slightly garbled with tears, as weight slammed against his body.

He grabbed for it, lest it fall. Or lest he did. Arms clung to him, around his neck, as breasts fitted against his chest in a familiar, completely natural way. His arms lowered enough to find their place at the curve of waist just below his waist as his foot scooted, allowing room for the smaller foot sliding in between his two.

The drill was embedded. As much of his naval training had been. It all came back to him with ease. Until Emily lifted her head, gazed into his eyes, and planted her mouth against his.

Lips pursed tightly closed, he stood there, eyes open.

And waited for her to figure out that the man she’d known and loved no longer existed.

* * *

Eyes closed, Emily couldn’t have stood alone. Couldn’t think at all. Her heart pounded with Winston’s pulse, her hands clung to the warmth of the skin at his neck, her body leaning into him as it had always done.

Tears poured out of her, two years of sorrow, and joy, too, so much that she was wrapped in a sense of unreality—as though sensation was all there was.

No time. No place.

If heaven existed on earth, she was in it. And content to explode joy within it forever and ever. World without end.

Her lips on his were only more of the joining—not a kiss; basic lust was far too coarse for that world—as Winston seemed to know. He didn’t open his mouth. Or devour her.

Even his usual hot and heavy desire respected their space. Souls long parted, together again. Nothing touched that.

At some point he picked her up and carried her inside. Snuggled up against his big strong navy man body, she held on, feeling uncharacteristically needy. Winston was home. She didn’t have to be strong. To carry all the weight. She sniffled. Knew she had to stop the tears. They’d been bottled up for so long...

He laid her back against the couch. Let her go.

She waited for him to sit so she could climb up onto his lap. He’d liked it, when they’d go out to a bar, when she sat on his lap. She knew why.

Sex wasn’t why she wanted to be there now. Their sexual connection could wait. She just needed the reality of him. The warmth. The feel of him breathing.

He didn’t sit. At least, not on the couch. He lowered himself to the edge of a chair neither of them had ever used—not in her memory. It had come with the set. But he sat there now.

“You look good.” She would remember those words forever. The first time she’d heard his voice in more than two years.

“I look a mess,” she told him, suddenly conscious of the cutoff sweat shorts and T-shirt she was wearing, both his, while she’d been sitting at her computer, drinking decaffeinated tea and looking at cribs. Her hair was just hanging there. Long and...straight. She’d always curled it. Done fancy things with clips and scrunchies. He’d liked it because he’d loved undoing all her hard work.

If there’d been any makeup, which there hadn’t, she’d have cried it all off anyway.

“You look good,” he said again. His gaze hadn’t left her. But for the first time in their lives, she couldn’t be sure what was going on with him. He didn’t seem to share her joy. Or seem...anything. Happy. Uncomfortable. Sad.

He’s a changed man, Mrs. Hannigan. Officer Hall’s words came back to her.

And she straightened up. Wiped her eyes. Took the handkerchief Winston handed her and cleaned up her face.

What a selfish witch she was being. Winston was the one who’d suffered. He needed her to be strong.

Just the day before, she’d sworn she’d handle whatever was to come, give him whatever he needed from her, love him back to health. She had it in her. There was no doubt about that.

Yet here she was falling apart like a sappy idiot. It was just that... With a small, intimate smile and fresh tears, she said, “You look good,” right back to him.

Relief filled her when he nodded, seemingly pleased. And, oh God, he looked good. So good. Better than she’d ever imagined.

He’d been well fed—though he was as lean as ever. His skin tone was tanned and healthy. She didn’t notice any scars, not that his uniform gave her a lot of opportunity in that area. His hair, as dark as always, was cut in its usual short style with the little bit of bang that she liked to run her fingers through just to tease him. His brown eyes were as big as she remembered, and those lips...still full of every ability to twist her stomach in knots.

“You’re well?” he asked.

She grinned again. “I am now. It’s been a bit lonely around here...”

His nod was curt, yet seemingly expressing satisfaction at the same time. She couldn’t explain it, but accepted the thought just the same.

“And you?” she asked. Reading Winston had always been easy for her. Not so now, and yet it was more critical than ever. She didn’t doubt for a second that she could do it if he gave her just a little more time. He was worth the effort.

“I’m well,” he told her. Still watching her. She wasn’t sure he’d even stopped long enough to blink. The stare might have been unnerving, except that this was Winston. Her soul mate, lover and best friend. Home again.

“There are things we need to discuss,” he said.

She nodded. And then, in a flurry of realizations, jumped up and ran to a drawer in the kitchen. Pulling out the key ring, she started to cry again for a second. She’d thought those keys had been put permanently to rest.

“Here,” she said, back in the living room, handing the keys to Winston. He took them, looked at them for a long few seconds.

Almost as though he didn’t recognize them. Hall had assured her that his mental faculties were all there.

“Your car’s still in the garage,” she told him. His house keys were on that ring, too.

Oh my God! He’s home!

His pillow won’t be empty tonight! She had to make meat loaf for dinner. He particularly loved her meat loaf. There was no ground beef in the house. She’d need to run to the grocery. Didn’t want to leave him for even a second. So maybe they could go together. He might need a new toothbrush. His had been sitting unused in the cup for a long time. Did bristles get brittle?

“Your clothes are all still in your closet and drawers.” She hurried into speech when he looked up at her with an expression she didn’t recognize. “You can change if you like.”

Yeah. Let him get comfortable. Thinking about his favorite shorts and T-shirts, remembering how he’d wear them on Sunday mornings because he could just relax, she was so thankful she’d held on to his things, rather than donating them as had been suggested to her by more than one well-meaning person. Her mother among them.

“Change?” He frowned.

“Into something more comfortable,” she told him. “I’m assuming all the navy has provided you with is uniforms.” Why else would he be in one so early on a Sunday morning?

He nodded. Frowned. And then nodded again, before he stood. “You mind if I go...” He pointed to the hall that led back to their bedroom.

“Of course not, Win, this is your home as much as it is mine!”

His hesitancy broke her heart, and she choked back the tears as she watched him. He seemed so hesitant. Unsure. Almost like he didn’t belong in his own home.

As though he thought he had no rights.

This had to be what Hall had meant when he’d said Winston was a changed man. She could only imagine what had happened to him to strip him of his confidence. A shard of anxiety curled through her, and she shook it away. He needed her strong. Capable.

But...what had they done to him?

Watching his straight back as he walked down the hall, wanting to follow him and sensing that she had to let him make the journey on his own, she couldn’t help noticing that he looked neither right nor left, didn’t glance into their office, the spare bedroom or bath, went right past the wedding photos on the wall as though they weren’t there...

Whatever had happened, she didn’t have to know right now. In his own time, he’d tell her. For now, her job was to love him. To help him find his way back. To show him the way, if she had to. To let him know that whatever had been done to him, whatever, didn’t change him and her, fighting their way through life together. Didn’t change them.

He’d been given back to her. That was all that mattered.

Their love would do the rest.


Chapter Six (#u9104eb8b-64ce-5ea2-9ae2-5cae734e45b9)

How could he have walked into this without a plan? Everything was about the plan. Without a plan, there was chaos.

Chaos was unacceptable.

Walking to the back of the house, Winston worked his mind toward a plan. For that, he needed a goal. He had two. Active duty. That was clear.





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