Книга - Mitzi’s Marine

Mitzi's Marine
Rogenna Brewer


It's bad enough that Gunnery Sergeant Bruce Calhoun, USMC, lost his best friend, Freddie, in Iraq. But getting stuck in his hometown recruiting office with Chief Petty Officer Mitzi Zahn? This is torture! Mitzi, his ex-fiancée–and Freddie's little sister–hasn't forgiven him for anything. She's making that fact abundantly clear.How can Bruce apologize? He's a Marine. He still loves her, but he can't have her. Not when he is hell-bent on recovering from his injury and rejoining the fight overseas. Not even if Mitzi's love proves to be the most powerful force of all…









“Don’t you remember what it was like to be seventeen?”


Their gazes collided across space and time. At seventeen Bruce had been her whole world. He’d broken her heart then and he’d broken it again later. Both times because he’d chosen the Marine Corps over her.

“No,” he denied, taking the stapler from her. The brush of his hand took Mitzi by surprise. Every scarred knuckle, every callus on his palm was as familiar to her as the memory of his touch.

“Me either,” she lied. Heaven help her, she wasn’t seventeen anymore and it was hard for her to resist.

But resist him she would.


Dear Reader,

Sometimes a story starts with a spark and other times it takes several sparks to set off that explosion, as was the case with Gunnery Sgt. Bruce Calhoun, USMC. June 20, 2003, marked the beginning of a year-long trial in which eighty-one Marines and five Navy hospital corpsman began training to integrate into Navy SEAL teams. Also, the wounded started coming home from war and amputees returning to duty were making headlines. In those cumulating events I discovered my hero.

I chose the city of Englewood in the shadow of Denver, Colorado, for its small-town feel. The VA hospital mentioned in this story is fictional—the real one is in Denver.

That detail isn’t the only blurring of reality and fiction. The Englewood Navy Recruiting Station, where I enlisted and worked as a receptionist before shipping off to boot camp, no longer exists. Including a JROTC program as part of the high school curriculum was a stretch because Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps is offered in Denver schools. I made the compromise because JROTC was an important part of my formative years.

I wanted to give my Marine a nice, cushy desk job in a state with a small Marine contingent so making him a recruiter seemed like a good option. Cushy being tongue-in-cheek as the job of a recruiter is not an easy one.

As for his heroine, Navy recruiter, Chief Petty Officer Mitzi Zahn, I didn’t have to look farther than a margin note in a previous manuscript by my editor, Victoria Curran. She wanted to know more about the high school sweetheart who ran from his hospital room. The idea intrigued and as I wrote, I discovered exactly what these two characters were running from—and toward. I hope you enjoy their journey.

You can contact me via my website www.rogennabrewer.com.

Rogenna Brewer




Mitzi’s Marine

Rogenna Brewer





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




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


When an aptitude test labeled her suited for librarian or clergy, Rogenna attempted to shake that good-girl image by joining the U.S. Navy. Ever the rebel, she landed in the chaplain’s office, where her duties included operating the base library. Far from being bored, our romantic adventurer served Navy, Coast Guard and Marine Corps personnel as a chaplain’s yeoman in such exotic locales as Midway Island and the Pentagon. But even before she shipped off to boot camp, Rogenna worked as a receptionist for the now defunct recruiting station re-created, and somewhat embellished, for this story.


For my recruiter, Petty Officer George Sandoval,

Station manager Master Chief Bill Moore

and

Davis Faunce, ENC (Ret)

Because he kept the engraved pen I gave him as I

was leaving for boot camp, then sent it back to me

all these years later for an autograph.

Thanks, Chief, for your quick quips and

answers to my questions.


A special thanks to Annette and her

Marine recruiter husband, Charles, who probably

doesn’t remember answering my many

questions all those years ago.

Any mistakes I’ve made or liberties I’ve taken

are my own.

To reconnect with shipmates, I look for them

online at

Togetherweserved.com.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


CHIEF PETTY OFFICER Mitzi Zahn entered the storefront Navy/Marine Corps recruiting station. Navy to the left. Marine Corps to the right. The path up the middle was known as the DMZ, demilitarized zone. Potential recruits stepping onto that worn patch of blue carpet were fair game.

For the past several months Mitzi had had the hunting grounds to herself. Which was why the jarhead standing beside her desk, holding the only framed photo to be found there, made her natural territorial instincts kick in.

Letting the heavy glass door swing shut on the sounds of the midweek morning rush, Mitzi cleared her throat. “You must be the new Marine.”

Leatherneck looked up, unapologetic.

She couldn’t help it—she shivered. Penetrating green eyes, eyes she knew to be hazel when he wasn’t decked out in that belted olive drab uniform, gave her service khaki blouse and pants the once-over.

“Mitzi,” he said in a timbre that penetrated even deeper than those eyes.

“Calhoun.” She caught her breath as she said his name for the first time in over a year—months of devastating loss from which she was just beginning to recover.

“Have I changed that much?” he asked.

She glanced at the photo in his hand and shook her head. “I don’t know, maybe,” she confessed, her answer running the gambit of her emotions.

Somewhere along the way the man she’d fallen in love with had become a lean, battle-hardened Marine. And even though she’d been there for most of the ten-year transformation, it was as if she was seeing him for the first time.

But he wasn’t the only one with battle scars.

“What brings you here, Calhoun?”

The obvious answer was military orders.

He’d left his garrison cap and an official-looking folder on the chair in front of her desk. He was dressed for travel in his service uniform. Sharp military creases in his pants, despite the fact that he’d probably spent hours on an airplane.

“It’s good to see you, too,” he said in that all-too-familiar tone. “Nice new uniform.”

She snatched the picture from him, then set it back down on her desk with deliberate finality. “It’s Chief Petty Officer Zahn now,” she said, stowing her hat and handbag in the bottom right-hand drawer. The move served to put her behind the gunmetal-gray desk and in the power position.

After all, they were on more than just opposite sides of a piece of government furniture. If he was the new Marine recruiter, then he was her competition.

“Chief,” he acknowledged.

Challenge resonated in that single word.

“A chief is the Navy equivalent of a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant,” she reminded him. In case he thought that extra stripe on his sleeve meant he outranked her. “Gunny.”

“For the record, Zahn, I still have date of rank on you.” He’d graduated from high school and enlisted in the Marine Corps two years before she’d joined the Navy.

He’d always been at least one pay grade ahead of her. But she’d exceeded all her recruiting quotas, and one of the perks for superior performance was advancement.

“Okay, then…” Just because they were no longer friends didn’t mean she wanted to make an enemy of him. “Now that that’s settled… Still take your coffee black?”

“Black’s fine.”

“I like cream and sugar. You’ll find the coffee mess and everything you need right over there.” She nodded in the general direction of the alcove that led to the back of the building. “Feel free to help yourself,” she said, in case her message needed a little reinforcement.

Do not expect me to wait on you.

Waiting on him held a whole other meaning for her.

“Like I said, Chief, can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you, yes,” she responded with a saccharine-sweet smile. She’d make it through today the way she’d made it through any other. By faking it. Turning her attention to the papers piled on her desk, Mitzi struggled to keep her composure.

She’d gotten really good at faking it.

“And Gunny…” She looked up as he started to walk away, noticed the hitch in his step and hesitated. He turned. It was nothing short of a miracle to see him walking again. “Please don’t touch anything on my desk,” she said, forcing herself not to get caught up in the drama of their shared past. “We have a no-poaching policy in this office.”

He stared at her as if she’d been the one caught rifling his desk instead of the other way around. “Isn’t it time we called a truce?”

“A truce?”

“We’re going to be working together.” He gestured toward the empty desk on the opposite side of the room. Just as she’d suspected. He wasn’t here for her. Would it have made a difference?

Maybe. Maybe not.

They’d been the best of friends once. More than friends. Now they were…what? Not friends. Not enemies.

He wanted a truce. There was a time when she’d wanted nothing more than to surrender to those hazel-green eyes.

“Bruce Calhoun, Gunnery Sergeant, USMC.” He offered his hand. “Marine Corps recruiter, at your service.”

She heard the self-reproach behind his words.

For Calhoun there’d be nothing worse than riding out his career behind a desk. For her she’d like nothing better. She’d gotten used to the idea of being home again.

The telephone rang.

Taking a deep breath, Mitzi ignored his outstretched hand and picked up the phone. “Navy Recruiting, Englewood Station. Chief Zahn speaking.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Cream and sugar.”



CREAM AND SUGAR. As if he needed the reminder.

Dumping two packets into the paper cup, Bruce studied Mitzi while she talked on the telephone. She might not outrank him, but she’d outmaneuvered him.

All of five foot nothing—if he hadn’t seen her in action it would’ve been hard to believe she rescued guys like him for a living.

California. BUD/S training. A lifetime ago.

Before Iraq.

Before he’d decided he wasn’t worth saving.

If there’d been a spark of something left for him in those columbine-blue eyes, he’d have been here long before now. But there wasn’t anything left. Not that he could blame her. He wasn’t here to compare her eyes to the state flower.

Bruce scowled at the cup in his hand. He’d reached a new low in his ten-year military career, stirring cream and sugar into coffee with a swizzle stick.

His commanding officer had recommended recruiting school as a way to keep his mind active while his injured body went through the rigors of a long rehabilitation at Balboa—the Naval Medical Center in San Diego.

Recommendations, requests…mere suggestions from a superior were the same as an order to a Marine. And orders were meant to be obeyed without question.

When voluntold, he did his job—whether that job involved pushing himself to the limit in some war-torn Middle Eastern country or pushing a pencil in his own hometown.

But this was by far his toughest assignment to date. It was clear she didn’t want him here any more than he wanted to be here. Did she blame him for her brother’s death? As he blamed himself?

The door opened and Bruce looked up to see the United States Army stride in. Tall and fit. Desert cammies and combat boots. The guy looked as if he’d walked off one of those Army recruiting posters next door. He carried a drink tray with two large cups of McDonald’s coffee.

Bruce instantly recognized the enemy for who and what he was and put down the coffee he’d been stirring.

“Cream and sugar,” Army announced, leaning in for a kiss just as Mitzi hung up the phone.

She pulled back with a quick glance in Bruce’s direction. With that less-than-subtle rejection, the other man noticed Bruce tucked into the alcove.

“Didn’t see you standing there,” he apologized. “You must be the new Marine recruiter.” He took two steps in Bruce’s direction and held out his hand. “First Sergeant Daniel Estrada, 10th Mountain Division.”

Just his luck they were all the same enlisted pay grade. Though Bruce doubted Mitzi had given this guy the same speech she’d given him.

“Calhoun,” Bruce said, refusing to meet the other man halfway. “And you must be the new boyfriend.”

Nice Guy Estrada had already bridged the gap and was in the middle of a firm handshake. He stopped short of an over-the-shoulder double take at the photo on Mitzi’s desk and the man he was shaking hands with as realization dawned. His smile became tight. Forced. “Nice to meet you,” Estrada lied smoothly.

“Dan teaches JROTC at the high school.”

Bruce grunted in acknowledgment. His own four years in Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps had earned him a couple extra stripes out of boot camp.

“He also coaches the boys’ basketball team,” she added after an awkward silence. “Bruce is Keith’s brother,” she said to Estrada.

Half brother. But that was neither here nor there.

They were brothers. They had the same mother, but Keith’s father was Bruce’s paternal uncle. Yeah, a real blended—as in blurred—family.

“Calhoun, of course—I should have realized,” Estrada said. “Bright kid. Bright future. Couple of college scouts interested.”

“Bruce played basketball in high school,” Mitzi said. She could stop trying to cement a bond. That was never going to happen.

“Still play?” Estrada asked.

“Not in a long time.” Bored by the subject, Bruce checked his watch. “Excuse me, I was just heading out for a haircut.” He picked up his hat from the chair and nodded to her on his way to the door.

As if her kissing another man had no effect on him whatsoever, he added his blessing. “Carry on.”



“YOU FORGOT TO MENTION the new Marine was your Marine.” Dan picked up the photo Bruce had been holding when she walked in. “He’s not my Marine.” Mitzi took it from him. The picture was of her, her brother and Bruce. “This is the last picture taken of my brother before he was killed.”

“I’m sorry,” Dan apologized. “Jealousy is one of my less attractive traits. I could make you a list of some of my more positive ones.”

She couldn’t help but smile, relieved that with Bruce gone, some of the tension she’d been feeling had dissipated.

“For example,” he said, perching on the corner of her desk. “I always put the cap back on the toothpaste. And I grew up with three sisters, so I learned early on to put the toilet seat down. Have you made up your mind yet, about Vail?”

They weren’t quite at the toothpaste-and-toilet-seat stage of a relationship yet—just a couple casual dates—but she could see herself with him. Dan had asked her to co-chaperone a class ski trip in Vail over the Thanksgiving weekend. He owned a cabin there and took his senior class skiing every year.

“Sure, why not?” The kids would be their chaperones as much as they’d be theirs. She saluted him with the cup in her hand. Taking a sip, Mitzi mulled over the need for honesty in a new relationship. She decided on full disclosure in this case. “He was my Marine,” she confessed. “I mean, we were engaged. But that’s all in the past.”

“Okay…” Dan glanced at the snapshot, then back at her. “Just let me know when you’re ready to Photoshop him out of the picture.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got a class to teach.”

“Danny,” Mitzi called as he reached the door. “See you tonight?”

“Of course.” Without hesitation he stepped back in to give her a quick kiss before heading out again.

Relieved, Mitzi sank to her seat. Wrapping her hands around the warm paper cup, she stared out the glass front at the slushy, snow-covered street and hoped she hadn’t sounded desperate.

Dan had been stopping by on his way to school every morning for weeks. He’d flirted his way to a first date. Then last night she’d taken him to the Broadway Bar & Bowl, where he’d met her father and where she’d laughed for the first time in a long time.

She was ready to date again.

Dan felt safe.

Why did Calhoun have to show up now? And why did she feel this sudden urgency to prove she’d moved on?

Had she moved on?

Just let me know when you’re ready to Photoshop him out of the picture.

It had been taken in Kuwait, on one of those rare occasions when the three of them had been in the same place at the same time.

Her brother, Fred Jr.—Freddie to his friends—had joined the Navy right out of high school. Bruce had been born to be a Marine. After joining the Corps, he’d been one of a select group of eighty-six Marines, including five Navy hospital corpsmen serving with the Marine Corps, to train with and integrate into the Navy SEAL teams.

She’d become a rescue swimmer because she couldn’t follow them into the SEAL program. But her job gave her an all-access pass into their world.

The guys had just flown in from an op. She had an arm around each of them. Laughing.

Freddie to her right, Bruce to her left and on her left ring finger a sparkling-new diamond ring she was showing off for the camera.

She’d just completed a SAR, search and rescue drill, and earned some well-deserved shore leave when Bruce had hopped out of that helo in the background and walked straight up to her. Without a word they’d kissed and wound up in a dark corner of a military hangar.

Half dressed.

Her back against the wall. Him inside her.

Afterward he’d produced a ring from out of nowhere. She’d socked him in the arm. A gal didn’t want to be proposed to while zipping up her flight suit after a quickie.

He’d followed her outside. Got down on bended knee, in front of no less than a hundred witnesses.

“It’s about damn time.” Freddie had been the first to congratulate them. He’d handed his camera phone to someone and the three of them posed for that picture. Later she and Bruce headed to Dubai for three days and two nights of R & R to celebrate.

Those were the last happy days of her life.

She couldn’t just Photoshop Bruce out of the picture without also erasing every memory, good and bad, she was ever going to have of her brother. But Freddie had been the glue that held the three of them together.

Without him something was missing.




CHAPTER TWO


IT WAS A GOOD THING he really didn’t need a haircut. There weren’t that many good old-fashioned barber shops around anymore, unless you knew where to look. The one he remembered was long gone.

Bruce stood on the corner of Broadway and Hampden, trying to reorient himself by reading the marquee above the Army & Navy Surplus Store. The sign boasted of David Spade buying a jean jacket for a recent Saturday Night Live appearance. There was a time when nothing in this town changed except that sign.

Now it all looked different.

Broadway for a few blocks in either direction made up the main drag. One-and two-story turn-of-the-century brick buildings fought for attention among the ongoing revitalization of the area. To the north was Denver and to the south, the tech centers and sprawling suburbs. Both threatened to swallow Englewood whole.

“You Mitzi’s Marine?”

Bruce realized he’d been standing, lost in his thoughts, in the middle of the sidewalk, and he started to move closer to the intersection.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” a wheelchair-bound man insisted, wheeling after him. “You hear me? Or that grenade take out your hearing, too?”

“I heard you,” Bruce answered, not bothering to hide his irritation. He didn’t make eye contact, either. He’d spotted the beggar from across the street.

“Hallelujah—he’s not deaf, just a dumb-ass Marine. Knock on wood.”

Bruce sidestepped the wheelie’s attempt to knock on his prosthetic leg. Which was not made of wood.

“I knew you was a gimp a mile down the road,” the old-timer boasted.

Bruce bristled at the use of the term gimp. He took pride in being able to walk without a limp. Stairs used to give him away. But with the aid of modern technology and practice—months and months of practice—he’d perfected his stride. As an above-the-knee amputee, he’d had to relearn to walk using his hips to propel himself forward, rather than his legs.

“Pride goeth before a fall, spitshine,” the old-timer said. “Least, that’s what they tell me down at the Salvation Army.”

The light on the corner flashed Walk and Bruce hurried across the street, with the wheelie keeping pace. “Spare change for a fellow Marine down on his luck?”

If he’d been wearing a different uniform, Bruce had no doubt the old-timer would have been Army, Navy, Air Force or whatever branch of service suited his purpose.

Marines did not beg on street corners. At least not those with a shred of self-respect.

“You know that homeless-vet act went out with the seventies.”

“Been on these streets since Nam,” the so-called vet insisted.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bruce said, picking up his pace.

“You think you’re better than me, son? You and me, we ain’t so different.”

Bruce stopped in his tracks. “First of all, I’m not your son,” he said, turning on the old man. But that meant he had to look at him, really look at him.

Greasy shoulder-length comb-over. A patch over his right eye. And a weathered face as wrinkled as one of Aunt Dottie’s dried-apple dolls. He smelled like the bottom of a cider barrel. Piss and vinegar. But a strong wind would blow the old fart away, he was so thin.

The vet’s military field jacket was tattered and worn, but offered some protection against the slushy gray November morning. More disturbing was the prosthetic leg sticking foot-up out of the junk packed on the back of the wheelchair.

The old-timer was missing his right leg from above the knee down—a mirror-image injury to Bruce’s own missing left leg. A RAK, right-leg-above-the-knee amputee. And a LAK, left-leg-above-the-knee amputee.

Bruce felt the familiar sinking sensation in his gut as he dug out his wallet. He’d been in prime physical condition before being cut down. He could have gone soft in the hospital, let the pain and the loss drive him to suicide like Stuart, or to bitterness like Hatch.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t because there was nothing more important than getting back to his unit.

Unit, Corps, God and country.

Every Marine knew the order of things.

It was the one thing that kept him going.

But this guy…this guy was right out of Bruce’s waking nightmare. He had to have been young once. One quirk of fate and thirty years from now Bruce could be an old wheelie on a street corner, trying to live off a substandard disability check and begging for change.

“Here.” He shoved a dollar bill at the guy. Feeling the urge to put as much distance as possible between him and the wheelie, he continued up the block.

“A buck?” The next light turned green as he reached the corner, and the wheelchair-bound vet followed Bruce into another crosswalk. He wasn’t using his hands to operate the chair. He kept pace by scooting along with his single foot, maneuvering from one dip in the curb to the other. “Do you have any idea how much public transportation costs these days? How am I supposed to get to the VA on a buck?”

“How much?” Bruce demanded, coming to an abrupt halt. He didn’t for one minute believe the old-timer was headed to the Veterans Administration.

“Four dollars to get me there and back. Another couple dollars to fill my belly…”

“Here’s a five.” Bruce shoved it at him. Kissing that six bucks goodbye, he started walking again.

“Them damn drivers don’t make change.” The old-timer kept pace with him, grumbling.

“How much to get you to stop following me?” Bruce demanded, losing all patience with the old guy.

“Depends on where you’re headed.”

“Right here. This is where I’m headed,” Bruce said, walking up to the recruiting office door with the Navy and Marine Corps logos and opening it wide.

The two-story brick-and-mortar office had received a recent face-lift. The sign above the two doors read “Armed Forces Recruiting Station.”

“Well, hell, son, that’s where I’m headed, too.” He blew past Bruce. “I asked was you Mitzi’s Marine?”

“I’m not Mitzi’s anything!” Bruce said a little too vehemently.



“MITZI!” the old-timer called out. “You here?”

“Be right out, Henry,” she answered from somewhere beyond the alcove. The bathroom? The storage room? The stairs to the second-story loft, maybe?

The Navy/Marine Corps half of the recruiting station was divided into front offices and back offices, separated by a short hallway. Alcoves built into either side of the hall were fitted with kitchen-style counters and cabinets.

With Bruce hot on his wheels, the old-timer scooted off in search of her. “Hey! You can’t go back there.”

The one-eyed wheelie scowled at him. “Says who?”

“Says me!” Bruce was about to argue further when Mitzi stepped out from the unisex bathroom in the locker area. Were those tears she was trying to hide? He felt a familiar tightness in his chest. The last time he’d seen her cry she was running from his hospital room.

“Henry Dawson Meyers,” she said, “what is that thing over your eye?”

“Found it in a Dumpster,” Henry said proudly. “Lots of good stuff left over from Halloween.”

“What have I told you about digging through Dumpsters?”

The guy had the decency to blush. Mitzi took the eye patch from him and stepped back into the open bathroom. After washing the patch with soap and water, she wiped it down with a paper towel and handed it back to Henry, who tucked the prop into his jacket pocket.

Bruce stood there shaking his head. “Ol’ Henry here has a bus to catch,” he said. He’d put the guy in a position where he’d have to leave or be caught in a lie.

“Oh? You don’t want a ride today?” Mitzi asked Henry.

“Course I do.” Henry glared at Bruce with two weathered eyes.

“I give Henry a ride to the VA hospital every Wednesday,” Mitzi explained.

“Of course you do.” First he’d been outmaneuvered by Mitzi, aka mini-Marine. Then a one-legged con man with a fake eye patch had tried to take him for a ride. Not today. “I’ll drive,” Bruce insisted.



MITZI BEGAN DIGGING through the glove compartment of his government vehicle. “What are you doing?” Bruce demanded.

“Looking for this,” she said, hanging the handicap permit from the rearview mirror.

Bruce yanked it down and shoved it back into the box. “We’re just dropping him off,” he said, pulling up to the front entrance of the VA hospital.

“You don’t want to stop in and say hi to your mother?” she asked, incredulous. “What about your aunt? You probably haven’t seen her in ages.”

“I saw my mother at breakfast.” His mother and paternal aunt were registered nurses. Both worked at the VA after having served in Vietnam together thirtysome-odd years ago. That’s where Aunt Dottie had introduced his mom to his dad and his uncle John.

True, he hadn’t seen Aunt Dottie in a while. But he’d had enough well-intentioned smothering for his first day home. His mother had fussed over him at breakfast more than when he’d been an inpatient at Balboa.

Hospitals weren’t exactly on his list of favorite places, no matter who worked where and what shift. Not after his extended stay. Been there, done that. Didn’t need the handicap permit to prove it.

Bruce put a hand to his collar to loosen the choke hold his tie had on him. “Even if I was sticking around,” he said, “I wouldn’t need to take up a handicap parking place.”

“I just thought you might want the extra room for Henry’s wheelchair.”

“That’s why there’s a loading zone.”

“Get me out of here,” Henry demanded from the backseat. “I’ve had about all I can stand of the Bickersons. If I’d of known you two was gonna fight the whole way I woulda taken my chances with the bus.”

Bruce and Mitzi exchanged censuring looks.

He managed not to slam anything as he got out of the car, got the wheelchair from the trunk and pulled it alongside Henry’s open door. The old-timer barely had the upper-body strength to transfer himself into the chair. Once he did, Bruce shut the car door and wheeled Henry over to the dip in the curb.

“I can take it from here,” Mitzi insisted.

Bruce eased off the handles. “You’re going in?”

“You can wait in the car in the farthest spot in the parking lot, for all I care. But I have business inside and you’re the one who insisted on driving.”

“How long do you think you’ll be?”

She shrugged. “Half hour maybe.”

“That long?”

“Just go, Calhoun. I’ll find a ride back to the station.” Pushing Henry’s wheelchair toward the sliding double doors, Mitzi left Bruce standing on the curb.

“I like the other fella better,” Henry was saying as the automatic doors slid open.

“Wait!” Bruce stopped her before she could push through to the lobby. “Here,” he said, removing the spare key from his key ring. “Keep the car. I’ll walk back to the station.”

“You can’t walk all the—”

“Then I guess I’ll have to run,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know what you meant, Chief. I’ll park the car in a handicap spot where you’ll be sure to find it.”

She expected him to fall on his ass.

Maybe he would, but he’d be damned if he was going to fail without trying. He’d never give up the fight, no matter how low she set her expectations.

Eighteen months earlier

Baghdad, Iraq

“HURRY UP, you lazy son of a gun,” Freddie taunted as Bruce and his charge ran behind the truck, trying to catch up to the slow-moving vehicle.

Bruce threw his weapon over the tailgate. Hopping onto the back bumper, he reached behind to help the new kid up and over. Lieutenant Luke Calhoun slid down to make room for them. Bruce declined with a shake of his head.

Stepping over first Luke’s, then Freddie’s outstretched legs, Bruce acknowledged Alpha and Bravo squads with a nod. The six men on the opposite bench were all Navy SEALs. While his side, a combo of Recon Marines and Navy SEALs, grumbled about having to make room for seven, the truck could hold twice as many in a pinch.

“Move your ass over, Freddie,” Bruce said, squeezing himself and the new kid into the middle of the bench seat to the left of Freddie. There was nowhere he’d rather be than right here. This was his home and these guys were his family.

Luke literally. And Freddie soon to be.

“Gum?” Freddie offered.

“Thanks.” Bruce pocketed it for later.

Taking a moment to catch his breath after almost missing his ride, Bruce leaned back against the canvas cover of the supply truck and closed his eyes. Not only was he late getting back, he’d been put in charge of their newest team member, a young hospital corpsman by the name of Manuel Henriquez.

“Jeez, wipe that grin off your face or I will,” Freddie threatened.

“Can’t,” Bruce said, his grin the only thing visible beneath the brim of his helmet.

“You just spent three days in Dubai with my sister. Humor me,” Freddie insisted.

“Never even left the hotel room.”

“Too much information, bro.” Freddie elbowed him in the gut, hard. “You’re not married to her yet.”

“O-kay.” Bruce let out his battered breath. “I deserved that. But I’m still smiling.” He tugged his brim lower so Freddie wouldn’t have to see the satisfied smile on his face.

“Just make sure she’s the one still smiling or I’m going to kick your ass from here to Timbuktu.”

“Where’s Timbuktu?” Henriquez asked.

“West Africa, Mali,” Luke answered, around Freddie. Luke was a college grad, an officer, and as such the lieutenant in charge of the operation.

A really smart guy. Imagine coming halfway around the world to discover that about your own brother. Half brother. They had the same father—not that Bruce held that against Luke.

Bruce peeked out from under his helmet at Freddie. “You think you can kick my ass all the way to West Africa? I’d like to see you try.”

“How far is not the point. The point is I can, and I will,” Freddie boasted. “Mitzi loves you,” he said in all seriousness.

Bruce shoved his helmet back. “I know.”

“This isn’t high school. You don’t get to break her heart again. Not and have me as a friend. Marriage is for real. You hurt her…”

“I’m not going to pretend we have it all figured out. With her there and me here it’s going to be tough.” They were having to shout above the grinding gears of the diesel engine, making this conversation a little less private and a lot more uncomfortable than Bruce would have wanted. “We love each other. We’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Why now?”

“Why not now?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war zone. Chances are you’ll make my baby sister a widow before your first anniversary.”

“Thanks for that optimism.”

Freddie’s family had moved next door to Bruce’s when they were both eight. They’d been best friends ever since. Bruce’s relationship with his best friend’s little sister was a lot more complicated.

They’d been on again/off again since high school. Being in two different branches of military service didn’t make it easy to be together. But in high school she’d been his first love. His only love.

And he’d been hers.

She wasn’t the only woman he’d been with since then. Just the only one who mattered. When they were together they were inseparable. And when they were apart?

Well, he used to drive himself crazy thinking about it. Finally he drove himself crazy enough to propose.

Before Kuwait it had been eight months since he’d last seen her. Eight very long months. He’d been reading between the lines of her emails. There was this guy, her crew chief. Nothing serious as far as he could tell. Just the way she dropped his name every now and again left Bruce thinking.

And thinking was dangerous.

“I don’t want to lose her.”

“Fear is not a reason to get married.”

“Reason enough.”

“Couldn’t you have said you knocked her up? I could respect that, at least.”

It was Bruce’s turn to elbow his future brother-in-law in the gut. “Mitzi’s not pregnant.”

“Too bad. I was kind of hoping you’d take her away from all this.” Freddie spread his arms to encompass the thirteen of them sweating it out in the oppressive heat of the truck’s interior.

The thought had crossed his mind. But Mitzi wouldn’t have gone along with that and he was far more afraid of her kicking his ass than of her brother’s threats. “We’ve agreed—”

“Don’t wait too long to make me an uncle.”

No kids.



DRESS SHOES WEREN’T MADE for running. But Bruce managed the distance without a serious slip. Thanks to his new all-terrain leg, he could push himself further than before. Pavement gave way to gravel and he didn’t miss a beat. Slowing to a stop, Bruce propped himself against the metal fire door at the back of the recruiting station to catch his breath.

There were days like today when he felt unworthy of the uniform. He loosened his tie and dragged it through the collar. As if he’d let everyone he cared about down.

The sock on his right foot was soaked through from the melting snow. His left foot, too—he just couldn’t feel it. But his stump throbbed a constant reminder of all that had changed. Eyes closed, he let the sensation take him back to Iraq. He’d been about to say No kids.

Or maybe he’d said No kids. He couldn’t remember.

How tragic if those were his last words to Freddie.

Don’t wait too long to make me an uncle.

The RPG had ripped through the truck then.

If Bruce had sat on the end…

What if? What if he’d been two minutes earlier? Two minutes later? Missed the transport altogether? Sat next to Luke? Instead he’d pushed Luke and Freddie to one side and hogged the middle.

And his brother and his best friend were dead.




CHAPTER THREE


BY THE TIME MITZI RETURNED to the office, Calhoun had showered and changed into combat utilities. She tucked her hat and handbag back into the bottom drawer, along with the prescription of birth control she’d picked up at the VA, and settled in at her desk.

She didn’t know if he could still run a five-minute mile, but she knew the word can’t was not in his vocabulary.

Unfortunately that stubborn streak extended to his personal relationships, as well. Come mid-afternoon she wanted to scream at him out of frustration. She’d never quite understood the term deafening silence until now. Everything left unsaid over the past eighteen months lingered in the air like the half-eaten egg salad sandwich she’d tossed out at lunch.

If they were going to work together they’d have to learn to communicate again. She’d been wrong to reject his offer of a truce.

But she’d be damned if she’d tell him that.

“School’s out,” she said with a nod toward the pedestrian traffic outside. Within minutes two girls, trying to look much older than their seventeen or eighteen years, walked through the door.

The pair stopped in front of Bruce’s desk while he continued to do whatever it was he was doing at his computer. Mitzi was pretty sure his emails to his old command had little to do with recruiting.

“May I help you?” he asked after a while.

“Hi.” Swallowed up by an oversize varsity letterman’s jacket, the first to speak wore a cheer skirt and cropped top underneath. Mitzi didn’t know her name, but the other girl was Kelly Casey. Kelly had on jeans and layered T-shirts. She carried drumsticks and hid behind her schoolbooks.

Mitzi could relate to the band geek. She’d been one. As well as captain of the swim team. What she’d never been was a cheerleader. Or a blonde.

She’d never seen the two together before. They made an odd pair.

“Hi, Heather,” Bruce responded without inflection.

Heather took that as an invitation to perch on his desk and Mitzi got a glimpse of the name on the back of the jacket. Calhoun.

So that’s how they knew each other.

Heather must be Keith’s girlfriend.

“So are you, like, a Marine?” Heather picked up Bruce’s stapler and played with it until he took it from her and set it out of her reach.

“I am a Marine.”

“Did you, like, fight in the war or whatever?”

“Whatever,” he agreed. Calhoun stood up so that he towered over the two girls. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m busy right now.” Heather shrugged. Whatever.

Kelly followed her to the door before turning around. “Will you tell Keith we were here?” Her cheeks, already pink from the winterlike weather outside, brightened. “And that I can’t tutor him this Saturday. I have to work.”

Calhoun offered a curt nod. Mitzi frowned after the departing pair, then at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “Be careful.”

“Of those two?”

“The last recruiter is gone because he gave in to temptation. Seventeen may be legal in this state, but there’s a very fine line—”

“You know me better than that.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” That uniform and all that brooding silence could be hard for a young girl to resist. Mitzi propped herself against his desk and picked up his stapler. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be seventeen?”

At seventeen he’d been her whole world.

“No,” he denied, taking the stapler from her. The brush of his hand took her by surprise. Every scarred knuckle, every callus on his palm were as familiar to her as the memory of his touch.

“Me, either,” she lied. Heaven help her, she wasn’t seventeen anymore and it was hard for her to resist.

Lest she forget, when she was twenty-four he’d brought that world crashing down.

She crossed the room and picked up the folder with his travel orders. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “You left this on a chair and it wound up on my desk.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” she said, heading back to her desk.

“Did you read them?” He sounded curious, not angry.

His curiosity intrigued her. “Your orders are none of my business, Gunny.”

“I just thought you should know I’m only here temporarily.”

It sounded like a warning not to get her hopes up. She knew better. “I guessed as much.”

“Once my detachment gets back to The Boathouse, I’ll be joining them. I’ll have to pass a physical fitness test first. But as soon as they call…” He shrugged.

He’d be gone. Back in the line of fire.

Not a matter of if, but when.

The Boathouse was a modern space-aged building tucked into the boat basin at Camp Pendleton in San Diego. If his recon unit wasn’t there they could be almost anywhere.

Which was obviously where he wanted to be.

Anywhere but here.

“It’s what you wanted.” Was it petty of her not to be happy for him? Even if he got himself killed just to prove he was worthy of being called a Marine?

“Hey,” Keith called out, coming through the door, basketball tucked under his arm. “I hear there’s a new Marine Corps recruiter in town. Where do I sign?”

“Over my dead body,” Bruce declared.

“I’m serious.” Keith approached the desk and Mitzi retreated to her side of the room.

“So am I.” Bruce stood with his hands on his hips. A dozen cold calls his first day down the list of high school seniors and not a single lead, then in walks his eighteen-year-old brother ready to sign on the dotted line.

As if he was ever going to let that happen.

Keith dropped into the chair opposite Bruce’s desk, put his basketball and backpack at his feet. “Seriously,” he said, kicking back, with his size thirteens up on Bruce’s desk. “I want to join the Corps.”

“Seriously.” Bruce knocked Keith’s feet to the floor, then sat where they’d been. “You’re going to college.”

“College is an expensive waste of time.”

“Coach says your scholarship prospects are good.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So you’re going.”

“You didn’t.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “And look where it got me.”

“I don’t see what’s so bad about being you.”

“Then you’re not looking hard enough.”

“It’s family tradition. You—”

“Didn’t have the same opportunities you have. And sure as hell didn’t have your grades. You’re a smart kid—act like it.”

“I’m sick of school.” Keith pushed to his feet, full of restless energy. They were roughly the same height now. When had the kid shot up those last few inches? “I’m sick and tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do.”

“And you want to be a Marine? You’re going to have someone in your face 24/7 telling you when to eat, sleep, drink and take a piss. Hoorah!”

“That’s just boot camp.”

“What’s that poster behind me say?”

Keith tilted his head to see around him. “Every Marine a rifleman.”

“Deer hunting. Few years back. Me, you, your dad.” Despite the fact that Uncle John had been more of a father to him than Big Luke, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to call his uncle and stepfather Dad, so he settled for John. Or your dad when talking to Keith. “You stared down that three-point buck, but couldn’t bring yourself to shoot.”

“I was thirteen.”

“Fifteen.”

“It was my first time hunting. And I don’t like venison all that much either,” he added for good measure.

“You been hunting since? To a rifle range?”

“No,” Keith admitted. “But I know how to shoot and I know I’ll get the training I need in boot camp.”

“Go home,” Bruce said.

“So I’m not you. There are other jobs in the Marine Corps besides Force Recon.”

Bruce had been Recon, parachute and diver qualified when he’d gone through BUD/S training and integrated into Navy SEALs. He’d added recruiter to his list. And if he was any kind of a recruiter he’d be showing Keith his options right now.

But this was his brother and there was no way in hell he was going to put the kid in harm’s way. Just because Keith knew how to fire a weapon didn’t mean he knew jack about war.

“Like what, admin?” Bruce asked. “Think you’re going to sit behind a desk all day until your ass is as wide as the chair? No matter what your military occupational specialty, you’re going to fight. That’s what a Marine does.”

Unless you’re a recruiter stuck behind a desk.

“Maybe not admin,” Keith agreed. “But there are some pretty cool jobs in the Marine Corps.”

“Like…?” Bruce prompted.

“Cameraman. I took a photography class last year. I’m pretty good at it.” The kid had done his homework.

But it was Bruce’s job to know all eighty of the Marine Corps occupational fields. He reached for a thick three-ring binder and opened it to “Combat Camera.” “What do all of these jobs have in common? Combat illustrator,” he read. “Combat lithographer. Combat photographer. Combat videographer. Could it be the word combat?” he practically shouted. “Besides which—” he slammed the book shut “—I don’t have an opening for a cameraman. That’s CNN’s job these days.”

“I’m not a kid anymore. I’m eighteen. I don’t need your permission. I could walk into any recruiting office in the state and enlist,” Keith threatened.

“Try it and I’ll kick your ass from here to Timbuktu.”

“What the hell, Bruce? I came to you. You’re my brother. You’re supposed to help me!”

Bruce could understand being sick of school. Sick and tired of being told what to do. At eighteen Keith was well on his way to becoming a man. What he couldn’t understand was his brother turning his back on a chance to play basketball for four more years.

That didn’t make sense.

“I’m trying to help you.” Frustration tinged Bruce’s voice. “Trust me. I know you well enough to know you’re not cut out for the Marine Corps.”

He didn’t even realize he and his brother stood toe-to-toe until Mitzi put a gentle but firm hand on each of them. “You’re scaring my DEPers.”

Keith slunk back to his seat. And Bruce sat back on his desk. The front office was full, every couch, every chair occupied. When had that happened? Three guys and one gal. DEPers, kids on the delayed entry program, enlisted while still in high school for guaranteed jobs after graduation.

Mitzi handed him and his brother a can of soda, presumably to cool them off. Bruce popped the top. “What’s this I hear about you needing a tutor?”

“So you’re just going to change the subject?” Keith accused, tapping his can before opening it.

“Skinny, dark-haired girl. Lives around the corner from us.” Bruce held his ground.

His brother wavered under his steady scrutiny. “Kelly Casey. I help her with math, she helps me with Spanish.”

“Since when do you need help with Spanish?”

With Bruce on the offense, Keith became defensive. “Since…whenever.”

“Mom mentioned your grades were slipping.”

“One lousy B on a calculus test.”

More than one, according to their mother. “You’re better than that,” Bruce said. “And by the way, Heather stopped by today.”

“So?” Keith took a big gulp of pop and hid whatever it was he felt for Heather behind a shrug.

Was Heather the reason for Keith’s general lack of interest in continuing education? Did he think he was going to marry her? Live happily ever after?

Bruce glanced over at Mitzi, involved in discussion with her DEPers. It looked as if they were getting ready for physical training. She’d changed into gray sweatpants. Dark blue letters spelled out Navy down one leg. She wore a snug gray T-shirt that showed off the athletic lines of her body from her slender neck to her slim wrists.

He could circle those wrists with one hand. Band them like steel. Hold them above her head. Kiss all the hollows of her neck. She’d put up a fight at first because she hated giving up control.

She glanced back, caught him drooling over her breasts and signaled her displeasure with the tilt of her chin. Then she gathered her crew and headed outside.

Bruce watched her all the way out the door. His self-imposed abstinence had gone on too long. Eighteen months too long. He hadn’t gone that long since… He’d never gone that long.

Did Estrada know the secrets to her surrender?

Would the schoolteacher be the one snuggling up next to her for the rest of his life? Bruce could have had that lifetime commitment. Before his injury it had seemed that clear. After, all muddled.

But no one married their high school sweetheart.

Least of all a Marine.

“Girls can cloud a guy’s judgment,” he continued. “Maybe you and Heather should think about taking a break for a while. At least until after graduation.” He knew firsthand that break meant break up. “And I don’t want your girlfriend and her friends hanging around the office anymore, either.”

“Heather’s not my girlfriend,” Keith said. “We haven’t dated since eighth grade.”

Eighth grade? The kid was dating in eighth grade?

Bruce hadn’t started dating until… Okay, Mitzi had been in ninth grade, but he’d been in eleventh—a junior. It took a lot of restraint for a guy to wait that long for a girl. The wait had been worth it, though.

Definitely worth it at the time.

“She was wearing your jacket,” Bruce pointed out. He didn’t know what they called it these days—dating, not dating, hooking up. But back in his day, a guy gave up his letterman jacket for only one of two reasons. He was getting laid. Or he wanted to get laid. “Are you sleeping with Heather? And her friend? Because that’s just asking for trouble.”

Keith pushed to his feet again, fists balled. “What business is it of yours anyway?”

Bruce was back on his feet, too. “You damn well better be using a condom. Every time,” he warned. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t screw it up!”

Keith snatched his backpack. “Who are you to give me relationship advice? Your fiancée is dating my coach!” He took an envelope out of his backpack and placed it on Mitzi’s desk. “Invitation to Career Day. You don’t get one.”

Bruce picked up Keith’s forgotten basketball from under the chair. He called to his brother just as Keith reached the door. “Hey!”

Keith caught it in one Calhoun-sized hand. If Bruce had anything to say about it, his brother would play college ball.

Heather walked in carrying Keith’s letterman jacket.

She waved to Bruce. “Hiya.”

Bruce offered a halfhearted wave.

To Keith she said, “You left your jacket at Kelly’s again.” Not so sweetly.

“I told you, I gave it to her. Hers got stolen at band practice. She doesn’t have the money to buy a new one. And it’s starting to get cold.”

Heather rolled her pretty brown eyes. “I’ll find her a hoodie or something of mine to wear.” She parted with Keith’s jacket grudgingly. She might not want the other girl to have it, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want it for herself. “Kelly can’t meet up with you on Saturday. She volunteered to pass out books at the VA hospital again. I don’t see how being a candy stripper is supposed to make her a better doctor.”

Had Heather just said candy stripper?

Not the brightest bulb in the box. Not the dimmest, either. Her comment seemed calculated.

“Actually,” Bruce couldn’t help but point out, “volunteering is a good way to see if you’re cut out for something.” To Keith he said, “I’m going to start putting my DEPers through their paces next week.” Did he even have any DEPers?

Keith accepted the challenge. “I’ll be there.”




CHAPTER FOUR


“BE WHERE?” Mitzi asked, coming in on the tail end of their conversation. Keith and Heather were already on their way out the door.

“Do I have any DEPers?” Bruce asked.

“Don’t think so.” She twisted the cap off her water bottle. “All your kids were absorbed into other stations when the last recruiter left several months ago.”

He sized up the kids lined up at the minifridge. “Mind if I borrow a couple of yours?”

“Knock yourself out.” Sipping water, Mitzi looked fresh as a flower. Her kids looked a lot more wilted.

“How far did you run them?” He started unbuttoning his uniform shirt. His hands stalled in the process. Was she checking him out?

More likely inventorying his body parts.

“’Bout a mile.”

He looked over at the kids in question.

“A twelve-minute mile,” she said defensively. “I’m not trying to kill them before they get to boot camp.”

Slow. Even for a Navy mile.

The average recruit didn’t have to run much faster than that. And he’d never met anyone who could outrun a bullet.

“How many Navy SEAL recruits?” he asked the kids directly. Two of the boys raised their hands. Both looked reasonably fit. “A ten-or twelve-minute mile isn’t going to cut it. SEALs have a sixty percent attrition rate. Think you could run another couple miles for me today?”

Both boys nodded eagerly.

“Any hospital corpsmen?” he asked, looking to the third guy in the group. These were just a couple Navy rates he knew that were the most likely to see some action with their Marine brethren. The kid avoided eye contact.

The girl raised her hand. Chances were she wasn’t going to be assigned to a Marine Corps combat unit. Then again, she might. The days of G.I. Jane were here.

Both the Army and the Marine Corps were finding ways around the “noncombatant” rules for women.

Case in point, Mitzi. A five-foot-nothing Navy rescue swimmer who could haul his six-foot-plus ass out of the water.

He nodded the girl toward the SEAL twins. She beamed at him as she followed the boys outside.

“What’s your rate? Navy job,” he clarified for the kid, who looked as if he’d sat on the sidelines most of his life.

A gamer? A little chunky. A little nerdy.

The glasses didn’t help. And he’d probably gotten in under a weight waiver—which meant he would have to lose a few pounds before he shipped out anyway. But Bruce wasn’t going to embarrass the kid by saying so. He’d just work it off him.

“Aviation electronics,” the boy answered.

“Get out there with the rest of ’em, brainiac. If you’d said nuclear field I might have given you a pass.”

Not. Every geek and gearhead had to get through boot camp before operating those nuclear-powered ships and subs.

“You coming?” Bruce asked Mitzi as he stripped down to his olive-green T-shirt, hanging his shirt on the back of his chair. Now she wouldn’t even look at him.

“I’ll pass.” She picked up the invitation Keith had left on her desk. “Career Day? Are you going?”

“I’m not invited.”

“I take it the conversation with your brother didn’t end well.”

“I think he’s sneaking around with the brunette behind Heather’s back.” He just didn’t know why. If, as his brother had said, Keith and Heather hadn’t dated since eighth grade, why all the secrecy?

“Kelly,” Mitzi said, remembering the girl’s name when he didn’t. “The one who hides behind her books? She’s one of my Officer Candidate School referrals. The Navy’s going to pay her way through college and med school.”

“The candy striper who wants to be a Navy doctor,” he said, cementing Kelly in his brain as something other than the brunette with the rockin’ seventeen-year-old body.

“She’s a nice girl.”

“It’s the nice ones a guy has to watch out for.”

Mitzi crossed her arms and stepped across the DMZ, their own little no-man’s-land that separated the Navy from the Marines. “I was a nice girl. Are you accusing me of something, Calhoun? Like ruining your nonexistent basketball career?”

Harsh even for a reality check. “Not a chance, Chief.”

“Don’t confuse what you think you wanted at Keith’s age with what you really wanted. I was there when you turned down those basketball scholarships to join the Marine Corps, remember?”

“Fair enough.” In high school he’d been a big fish in a small pond with little chance of reaching his Final Four dreams. He knew it. Even back then. Especially when only the smallest junior colleges had even bothered to look him over. Basketball was never the be-all and end-all for him. For him the Corps was his calling. He didn’t see that in Keith. “I’d just hate for him to give up his dreams so young.”

“You have to let him make his own mistakes.”

“You seen him play?” he asked. He had on rare occasions, in years past when his brother first made the varsity team as a freshman. Mostly he’d heard secondhand accounts from his family.

“A couple times,” she admitted without further comment. Which he assumed meant those couple of times had been since she’d started dating the boy’s basketball coach. “Bruce.” She hesitated. He watched a range of emotions cross her face. “Lock up when you leave, please. I have a…date tonight.”

Ouch.

Your fiancée is dating my coach.

Ex-fiancée.

Bruce felt a surge of jealousy unlike anything he’d experienced since high school. And he’d been jealous plenty since then. One problem.

He no longer had the right to be jealous.



AFTER WORK BRUCE SPENT about an hour and a half at the gym. The PT he’d inflicted on the Navy DEPers was nothing compared to his own physical fitness routine. He worked hard to stay fit. Prosthetics were expensive.

A residual limb could change over the course of a lifetime. It was important for him to maintain his weight to within five pounds. And to stay active to keep his thigh muscles—his stump—from atrophying.

Outside the gym Bruce zipped up his sweat jacket and cut through the parking lot.

He didn’t own a car—he’d sold it predeployment.

Afterward he hadn’t seen the point of owning one until he was back on his feet. Then once he was back on his feet his sole purpose had been to redeploy, so again, what was the point? In San Diego he’d had plenty of buddies when he wanted to hitch a ride, and here he had family and the use of two government vehicles—a nondescript sedan and a pimped-out Hummer.

So even though there was a chill to the night air, he preferred to walk. Because it was good exercise. And because he could. Walking was something he’d never take for granted again.

On his way home he grabbed a sandwich from the Spicy Pickle across from the recruiting station. He’d locked up as instructed. The storefront was dark—not that he’d expected Mitzi to be there at this hour, just that he wondered where she was spending her nights these days.

Had she moved back home with her father? Found a place of her own? There were several new apartment complexes in the vicinity. Was she living in one of them?

Or was she spending her nights with Estrada?

At this very moment Army/Navy could be snuggled up on the couch, fighting over the remote and discussing plans to move in together. Maybe they were already living together.

At the end of the block Bruce cut through the alley. It was darker and suited his mood. Henry was there digging through a trash can behind an Italian restaurant.

“Thought she told you to quit Dumpster diving.”

“A man’s gotta eat.”

“Ever heard of a soup kitchen?”

The old-timer made a sour face. “They make me pray for my supper. Out here I don’t have to pretend to be grateful to nobody. ’Sides—” he dug out a half-eaten piece of crusty garlic bread and took a bite “—food’s better.” He offered Bruce a piece.

Bruce shook his head. Although he’d scavenged for meals out of trash cans in BUD/S training, he’d never had to put that training to the test. And hoped he never would.

“Here,” he said without thinking. He opened his Spicy Pickle bag and dug out his sandwich, offering half of his gobbler panini to Henry along with a napkin.

The old-timer looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to make me pray?”

“No,” Bruce said. “Haven’t been doing a lot of that myself lately.”

Henry snorted, but took the offering. Bruce sat on an upturned dented metal trash can and bit into the turkey-and-feta sandwich. “How’d it go at the VA?” he asked.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Henry countered.

It was Bruce’s turn to snort.

“Sounds about right,” Henry said. “What the hell kind of cheese is this?” He spat out his first bite. Then he opened his sandwich and picked off the cheese before taking a second. “Can I get that pickle from you?”

Ol’ Henry sure wasn’t shy about asking for what he wanted. Or, for that matter, making it clear when he didn’t want something. Bruce gave up the pickle and the chips, then finished off his half of the panini.

Feta wasn’t his favorite cheese, either. A little salty for his taste. After brushing off his crumbs, Bruce crumpled the empty sack and tossed it, for a three-point shot, into the Dumpster across the alley.

“Night,” he said. Somehow good night didn’t seem appropriate to the situation. He didn’t ask if Henry had a place to stay. He was afraid he knew the answer, and asking the question would somehow make him responsible. If the old man didn’t have enough sense to get in out of the cold, that was his problem. “You’re going to be all right tonight? Got enough blankets?”

Damn it. He really hadn’t meant to ask.

“Got everything I need,” Henry said, letting him off the hook.

“Good,” Bruce said, then got the hell out of there before Henry could think of something he really needed. Like a roof over his head.

You and me, we ain’t so different.

Henry was right, of course. Bruce didn’t own a car. Or a home. Or have someone to share his life with. He’d pushed her away for this chance to get back to his unit.

His best friend, his half brother and his leg had been taken from him. All his buddies were in and around San Diego, or deployed overseas.

He had a desk job he couldn’t stand after one day. And the recon job he loved was still out of reach. At least until he passed the obstacle course. Soon.

Meanwhile, he did have the one thing Henry didn’t have. Family.

The house was empty when he got there.

He found a sticky note tacked to the refrigerator door—“7:00 p.m.”

That could have meant almost anything. But in the Calhoun household it meant there was a basketball game tonight. Why hadn’t his mother mentioned it at breakfast? Why hadn’t Keith said something this afternoon?

He more or less knew the answer to that one.

It was a quarter to seven now. He didn’t have time to shower or change if he wanted to make the first quarter. He looked down at his sweats. No big deal.

Pocketing the house keys, he walked the few blocks to Englewood High School. The parking lot was near capacity and he was glad he wasn’t trolling for a space. Light spilled from the building. Every time the doors opened he could hear the band pumping up the crowd.

Once inside, he found the sound almost deafening.

The halls outside the gym smelled of buttered popcorn and were lined with tables of blue-and-white team T-shirts with EHS printed on them. Both were being sold to raise money for the team. He bought a bag of the popcorn and entered the gym.

The Englewood Pirates bleachers were full.

He didn’t bother searching for his family. They’d find each other eventually. Instead he made his way to the nearest available seat. Which happened to be fifteen frustrating rows up in the opposing team’s territory—The Alameda Pirates. Both teams were Pirates.

This was the rivalry of the year—the battle for Pirates’ pride.

At least he didn’t stand out as the only Pirates fan sitting on the wrong side. He wore nondescript gray sweats and there was plenty of blue and white filling in around him—both teams’ colors were blue and white.

He caught Keith’s attention from the bench, and they nodded to each other. Home team was wearing white tonight. His brother was wearing his old number—twelve. Keith turned away from him toward the home team bleachers. Bruce looked to see what had captured his brother’s attention and picked out Kelly in her band uniform, second row from the top. She made a cute drummer. Her long dark hair and light-colored eyes reminded him of someone he’d thought was pretty cute back in high school.

Now he knew that someone was smokin’ hot.

Scanning the crowd to the left of the band, about halfway down, he found his mother. Eva and John were going over the program of players, which Bruce had forgotten to grab.

Farther down on the right, Lucky sat holding Chance while leaning over Cait to talk to the boys on the bench. Bruce didn’t see the coach. Or Mitzi. But her father was sitting behind the team, near Bruce’s older brother and sister-in-law. He watched as they exchanged a few words.

Cait spotted him and waved. She nudged Lucky and his brother looked up. Lucky, not to be confused with Luke—though they’d often been confused—was Bruce’s only full blood brother. He made Chance wave a chubby fist even though the baby, now almost one, couldn’t pick his uncle out in the crowd.

Bruce waved back. Yeah, he could count his blessings. Parents who loved him, a younger brother who worshipped him—most of the time. And an older brother he envied.

From his vantage point he could see the JROTC Drill Team forming up outside the double doors, which had been opened wide for the occasion. They wore white ascots, white gloves and black berets with their junior paramilitary uniforms. Wooden rifles painted white with black plated accents added just the right snap to their routine.

Behind them stood the color guard.

And behind that line of flag bearers he caught a glimpse of Mitzi and Estrada in deep discussion. Even though Estrada was an active duty reservist and taught JROTC at the high school, it seemed odd that the coach would be wearing his dress uniform on a game night.

Then Bruce caught a glimpse of the folded jersey in Estrada’s hands. Number fifteen. Zahn.

Realization hit Bruce with the full force of a rocket-propelled grenade.

“Can I see that program?” he asked the couple seated next to him. Sure enough, Freddie’s number was being retired tonight. And no one had bothered to tell him.

Not Mitzi. Not his family.

When the hell had he become the home less guy?



KEITH LAUNCHED a three-point shot at the buzzer and Englewood edged out Alameda 86–85 for the win. In the midst of all the excitement, Mitzi stopped trying so hard not to notice him.

Bruce knew, because he’d spent the entire game watching her. He wasn’t going to make a scene. This was Freddie’s night. He just wanted to know why she felt the need to exclude him. Why Estrada had stood at the podium while he sat on the sidelines.

Only one of them had been Freddie’s friend and teammate. On the court and in combat where it really counted. And it wasn’t the schoolteacher. Of course, only one of them could say he’d let both Freddie and Mitzi down.

Bruce remained seated while the crowd filed out around him. Fred Zahn Sr. caught sight of him and waved on his way out the door, presumably to head off the crowd before they beat him back to the Broadway Bar & Bowl.

“We’ll meet you over at the bowling alley,” his mom called out as she and John passed by his bleachers. “Lucky said they’d give you a ride.”

Lucky and Cait were slower to cross over to his side. They had Chance’s baby stuff to haul, and Cait had to be at least eight months pregnant.

“You just going to sit there?” Lucky stood at the foot of the bleachers.

“I’m wondering why nobody bothered to tell me they were retiring number fifteen tonight.”

Cait tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry, Bruce,” his beautiful, blue-eyed sister-in-law apologized. That’s all he wanted, an apology. Lucky got an “I told you so” as Cait balanced Chance high on her hip to compensate for her baby bump.

His brother wasted no time in clearing the bleachers two steps at a time against the thinning crowd. “I guess we all just assumed Mitzi would say something.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t.”

Lucky stopped below him with one foot resting on the step above. “At least Keith—”

“He didn’t.”

Lucky seemed surprised by that. “Well, you made it, that’s what’s important. Cut us some slack. We’re happy to have you home, but a little advance warning would have been nice. Nobody knew you were flying in on that red-eye this morning. Or that you’d even taken the recruiting assignment. Last I’d heard you were hoping for something closer to San Diego. Communication works both ways, little bro.”

Bruce shifted his gaze to center court. Now that the bleachers were cleared, players headed to their respective locker rooms. Coaches paused to shake hands. The visiting and assistant coaches followed their teams, while Estrada went back to the bench where Mitzi waited for him.

“Don’t go there,” Lucky said, forcing Bruce’s attention back to him. “She’s moved on.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So come spend time with the family. We’ll have pizza and beer and maybe even bowl a few frames if the lanes aren’t already too crowded. We can listen to Keith brag about tonight’s three-pointer at the buzzer and you can shut him up with all your state championship wins.”

Lucky had bragging rights of his own. He’d been a point guard in his day.

Bruce shook his head. Any other night he would have. But that half sandwich and half bag of popcorn already felt like lead in his gut.

“Can we at least give you a ride home?”

“I’ll walk.”

Lucky hesitated.

“I’m fine,” Bruce said. “Just tell them I’m tired after a long first day and that early flight.”

It wasn’t far from the truth and at least got his brother moving in the right direction. Lightening Cait’s load by carting the baby and the diaper bag to the exit, Lucky shook his head at something his wife said.

Bruce hated pity more than anything. But coming from a guy who’d traded his motorcycle for a minivan, what an insult.

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy seeing her with another man. He just hadn’t known it was going to be this hard.

The Englewood High School coach had taken off his uniform jacket sometime during the game and looked like the real deal with his loosened tie and rolled-up sleeves, sweating out the win with his team. Bruce refused to look away as the other man put his arms around Mitzi.

A touch here. A brush there. Enough already.

The couple exchanged a few words and a casual kiss, which put the pink in her cheeks. Estrada sent Bruce a look on his way to the locker room, intended to keep Bruce in line.

Finally the crowd dwindled down to two.

The tap of her heels echoed as she crossed the court. She was wearing her service dress blue uniform tonight—a dark navy blue skirt and suit jacket with gold buttons worn over a white blouse with a black neck tab.

The same uniform she’d worn to Freddie’s funeral. After which she’d rushed straight to Bruce’s hospital room. He’d been groggy from surgery and that long flight out of Germany.

It was his hand she’d been holding then.

She’d had such a sad smile.

Now look at her. A spring in her step.

And a promotion.

The gold on her left sleeve identified her as a chief petty officer. He knew she carried her white gloves and black-and-white combination cap in her left hand, keeping the right hand free to salute—even though the Navy and Marine Corps did not salute uncovered. And that the overcoat draped over her arm hid two gold stripes, one for every four years of service.

She wore her dark brown hair braided and pinned.

He liked it when she took those braids down. She couldn’t wear it that way in uniform, and out of uniform a ponytail was her default hairstyle.

Except in the bedroom.

Knowing that he couldn’t have her didn’t stop him from wanting her.

She stopped at the foot of his bleachers. “Do you need help getting down?” What made that question worse was the sincerity in her voice.

“I’m not a cat stuck up in a tree. You don’t have to call the fire department, Chief.”

“Allow me to rephrase my question, Calhoun,” she said with equal sarcasm. “Are you coming down? Or am I coming up?”

“Suit yourself.”

She tossed her overcoat, her hat and everything else she carried onto the bench at the bottom. Then she removed her pumps to carry them as she climbed the bleachers in her prim and proper uniform skirt. He leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his good leg as she made her way toward him.

The bleachers were steep and she was afraid of heights. “How’d you ever climb aboard a Seahawk?”

“They’re on the ground when I get in.”

But helicopters weren’t designed to stay on the ground. She had to jump out over water to do her job. And at some point she had to get herself and her casualties back into that hovering helo. There was a lot to admire about a woman who wasn’t afraid to conquer her fears.

When he wasn’t pissed off at her.




CHAPTER FIVE


“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?” Bruce asked once she’d reached the top. Mitzi sat next to him, so close they were almost touching. He shifted forward uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry.” She dangled her black pumps out over knees pressed firmly together.

“We spent the entire day in each other’s company. And you never once thought to say, ‘Calhoun, you might want to polish up your brass and head over to the high school tonight.’”

“I said I’m sorry.” The color Dan had put in her cheeks turned to an angry red.

“I’m wearing sweats—”

“It’s not always about you, Calhoun.”

“Then what is it about?” He held her clear blue gaze until she was the one who had to look away first. It was about something more complicated than he could put into words. But it wasn’t like her not to have a few choice ones for him if she was that mad. “He was my best friend, Mitz—”

“He was my brother.” Her uniform jacket hummed. She heaved a weary sigh. “I’m glad you found your way here. I should have told you.”

“That a cell phone in your pocket? Or are you just happy to see me?”

She frowned as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her BlackBerry. “It’s Dan,” she said, checking the number.

“By all means.” Bruce waved her to answer it. The guy had just headed to the locker room a few minutes ago. Had he even left the building yet?





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