Carolina Girl (24 page)

He dashed off, racing in joyous circles around the yard, making her giggle before he returned and dropped, panting, on her feet.

“Yeah, you did,” she said, rubbing his head. “Dumb dog.”

“Did you walk home alone?” Aunt Meg asked. Her voice sounded strange. Scratchy.

“Nah, I walked with Madison.” Taylor said it casually, like it was no big deal to have a friend again to walk home with after school.

Aunt Meg nodded, not moving from the porch. That was weird. Usually she couldn’t sit still.

Taylor squinted as she got to the porch. Up close, Aunt Meg’s nose was red and her eyes looked funny, like she’d been crying.

“Aunt Meg? Are you all right?”

Taylor winced. The question sounded just as stupid coming out of her mouth as it did from a grown-up. But Aunt Meg didn’t seem to mind. She sighed and kind of smiled and shook her head.

Taylor thought about going into the house. But it didn’t seem right to walk past and leave Aunt Meg sitting there. Not when she was sad.

Cautiously, Taylor sat on the porch step beside her, not touching, just, you know, there, and Aunt Meg draped her arm over Taylor’s shoulders, like Taylor did sometimes with Fezzik. Like she needed a hug. Because Taylor knew what that felt like, she sat still, not moving away, searching her mind desperately for something else to say.

“Can I get you anything?” That was the one Aunt Meg asked all the time when she looked in on Taylor before she went to bed. “Like a glass of water?”

Aunt Meg smiled. A real smile, this time. “Thanks, sweetie, I’m fine.” She said, almost to herself, “I have to figure this one out on my own.”

Taylor understood that, too.

“I only wish I knew the right answer,” Aunt Meg said softly, not like she expected Taylor to say anything. More like she was talking to the dog.

Taylor thought. “As long as you’re honest, everything will work out,” she offered.

Aunt Meg looked at her, surprised. “What?”

“That’s what Miss Dolan said,” Taylor reminded her. “Before I had to talk to the judge? She said there were no right or wrong answers, just feelings, and feelings were never wrong.”

“Huh. That Miss Dolan’s pretty smart.”

Taylor shrugged. “Worked for me.”

“You’re pretty smart, too,” Aunt Meg said.

Taylor grinned and ducked her head, pleased. Aunt Meg went to Harvard. She should know.

* * *

“I
’M SORRY, SON.”
Tom almost succeeded in sounding regretful. “She’s gone.”

“Gone.” The word hit Sam’s gut like a wrecking ball. He stood on the front porch—he didn’t want to test his luck by going to the back door, the family entrance—clutching his sorry bunch of flowers, feeling like an ass. “Where did she go?”

But he knew the answer already. He felt sick.

“She had some business,” Tom said. “In New York.”

Of course she did. What choice had he given her?
If you go, you’re out of my life.

It hurt, being with her, knowing he wanted a future with her, knowing she didn’t feel the same. Not yet.

But it hurt a lot more not being with her.

Panic clawed his throat.
“When will she be back?”

Tom shot him a sharp look. “Have you called her?”

Called, texted, e-mailed. He’d lost track of how many times in the past two days. She didn’t answer, didn’t respond, didn’t want anything to do with him.

Under the circumstances, he couldn’t blame her. But he was starving for her already, the light in her eyes, the sound of her voice. Her smile. Her energy. He didn’t want half a life with her, him here and her in New York. But without her, he had no life at all.

“She doesn’t pick up,” he said.

Tom rubbed his stubbled jaw. “If she wanted you to know her schedule, I reckon she would have told you.”

“Mr. Fletcher . . . Tom . . . Please,” Sam said desperately. “I screwed up. I can’t fix things if I can’t talk to her.”

Tom pulled himself up to sergeant major size, six-foot-four and scary as hell. “What makes you think I give a good goddamn whether you fix things or not? You don’t deserve her.”

Sam broke into a sweat. “No, sir. But I love her. I’d never hurt her.”

“You did hurt her. You made her cry.” Tom scowled. “Takes a lot to make my girl cry.”

Oh, God. “I know. I’m sorry. I was a prick. I won’t do it again.”

Tom grunted. “I expect you will. You won’t mean to, but you’re a man. That means you’re going to screw up and she’s going to cry. What I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. Charm didn’t work. Ultimatums didn’t work. “But I’m not walking away.”

Tom grunted again. “That’s a start.”

Sam blew out his breath. “I thought I’d try groveling.”

“Groveling’s good.” Tom eyeballed him. “I guess I can tell you when her flight gets in. Now that you have a plan.”

“Thank you,” Sam said fervently.

“Just try not to fuck up. And Sam.”

Sam braced. “Yes, sir.”

Tom’s faded blue eyes gleamed. “I didn’t deserve her mother, either.”

* * *

R
ALEIGH-
D
URHAM
A
IRPORT THE
Tuesday before Thanksgiving was crowded with comings and goings, the usual business travelers almost lost in a sea of students with backpacks and earbuds, soldiers with duffles, young families with strollers. Mothers kissing daughters, fathers hugging sons, old friends and young lovers going into each other’s arms, reconnecting with relief and joy.

All going somewhere, Meg thought. Not in control of every step of the journey, but hopeful about their destinations.

Like her.

She wheeled her bag into the terminal, determined to hit Starbucks before she hit the road.

And there he was, in almost the same place. Part of the landscape of her heart, her signpost home.

Sam.

He hadn’t seen her. She gave her thirsty heart a moment to drink him in. She’d missed him. They hadn’t spoken in three days.

Mostly because until she made this trip, she didn’t have a clue what she was going to say to him. And partly because in some small, bruised corner of her heart, she wasn’t ready to forgive him.

He looked . . . rough, she decided. Oh, he’d shaved, and his Egyptian cotton shirt was pressed and rolled precisely the right amount to reveal his tanned, muscled forearms. But he looked tired. Tense. As if he wasn’t getting enough sleep.

A small part of her was pleased. Why should she be the only miserable one? Then his eyes met hers, and she forgot about being miserable and mad and was simply glad to be home.

But nothing had been said, nothing had been changed between them yet.

He strode through the crowd.

Meg smiled crookedly at his approach. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

His hands brushed along her arms, down, up, finally closing on her shoulders to pull her tight. His body felt so good, so right against hers, she shivered. He kissed her, his mouth sweet and urgent. Tears pricked her eyes.

Raising his head, he said, “Or we could get used to it. Me visiting you. You visiting me.”

She swallowed. “Why would we be doing that?”

His face changed, a dark flush rising on his cheekbones. “Meg, I came to tell you I’m sorry. Give me a chance. Tell me it’s not too late.”

“It’s not . . .”

“You were right, okay? I was wrong. I shouldn’t have asked you to give up a job that was important to you because I didn’t think it fit whatever the hell I thought I needed. What I need is you. I love you. And if I have to fly my ass up to New York City every weekend to prove it, I will.”

“Sam . . .” she said, shaken. He wasn’t being charming. He was sincere.

“Don’t say no. Don’t. Let me finish.” They were attracting a crowd. Apparently he didn’t care. Her heart lodged in her throat. “I love you,” he repeated. “I am so in love with you, Meggie. You’re my family. You’re my future. You’re my life. I need you to plan with me and play with me and just be. Be with me, Meg.”

“Oh, Sam, I love you, too.”

He kissed her again, while soldiers and lovers, husbands and wives, parted and shifted around them. Everyone hurrying home for the holidays.

When he raised his head this time, she was smiling. “Why do you think I went to New York?” she asked.

“To accept the job.”

“Yes. And no. I went to pitch the services of my agency to the partners.”

“Your agency,” he repeated.

“Yes.” Her smile broadened. “You were right, too. I
am
excited about the possibility of branching out. I told the partners that I’ll take on some of the duties of the crisis communications position, but as a subcontracted agency. My own agency.”

“They agreed?”

“They’re delighted. I’m highly qualified, I meet their needs, and I’m saving them a lot of money in office space and benefits.”

“But then it’s not as good a deal for you.”

“Actually, given that the cost of living is so much lower on Dare Island, my salary is quite comparable.”

“The cost of living . . .”

“On Dare Island,” she confirmed.

“What about New York?”

“I’ll have to go up there once or twice a month, but—”

“Is that enough?”

Why didn’t he stop asking questions and kiss her some more? “The partners seem to think so.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I meant for you. I thought you wanted the big career in the big city.”

“What I want are options. Choices. My agency gives me that. Plus trips to New York when I want them.” She smiled at him almost shyly. “Maybe you’d like to come with me sometimes.”

“To carry your bags?”

“If that’s what you’re offering,” she said steadily.

“I’m offering everything, Meg. My love, my life, my work, my heart.”

“I want everything. And I’m offering you everything I am, everything I can be with you beside me. I love you, Sam.”

His arms tightened around her. “Your father was right. I don’t deserve you.”

“I guess you got lucky.” She stood on tiptoe to press her lips to his. “We both did.”

“That’s the plan.”

Her laugh rippled between them. Her heart swelled, too full to contain her joy. “Good plan.”

“In fact . . .” Sam smiled into her eyes. “I booked us a room already.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Damn straight. Sure that I love you. I was just praying I could convince you that you loved me.”

She sighed with contentment. “I always did say you could talk anybody into anything.”

“Yeah? How about . . .” He lowered his head to whisper in her ear.

Heat rose in a warm glow from her toes to her cheeks. “Why don’t you take me to that hotel and find out?”

Turn the page for a preview of Virginia Kantra’s next Dare Island novel

Carolina Man

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

HELMAND PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN AUGUST

I
N
A
FGHANISTAN, THE
kids threw rocks.

Staff Sergeant Luke Fletcher watched four boys in the street take aim at an oil barrel and counted himself lucky that today, at least, they’d found another target.

He didn’t dislike kids. They were sort of cute when they were under the age of five. From a distance. The kids in Iraq used to tag after the Marine patrols hoping for handouts; candy, maybe, or soccer balls or humrats—humanitarian rations.

A stone ricocheted off the metal barrel like a bullet. Twenty-three-year-old Corporal Danny Hill, sweeping the bomb wand at the front of the column, froze.

“Easy,” Luke said. “It’s just some kids throwing rocks at a . . .”

Shit. At a dog.

He could see it now, slinking in the shadow of the wall, just another stray, abused, malnourished, obviously feral. Nothing he could do about it. The weak picked on the weaker. Yelling at a couple of ten-year-olds wasn’t going to make them respect the dog or the law.

The dog yelped.

“Hey!” The word jerked out of him.

His tone needed no translation. The boys scattered in a flurry of jeers and stones. Nothing Luke could do about that, either.

He and his men were here to provide training and support for the Afghan National Police who would replace them. For two days their joint patrol had hiked from town to town, sweating through the afternoons, freezing through the nights, trying to buy the ANP time and breathing room to hold this desert province once the Marines were gone.

Sergeant Musa Habib, the Afghan team leader, met Luke’s eyes. “You know they will be back.”

He meant the kids with the rocks. Or he could have been talking about their fathers. Their brothers. The Taliban.

“You do what you can do.” Luke glanced at the dun-colored mutt shrinking behind the barrel. He had too many people depending on him already. The last thing he needed was to take responsibility for a dog. “Maybe it will be gone by then.”

The mutt didn’t move.

Luke dug in his harness for an MRE. He’d eaten the snacks already. Ripping open the leftover meat pouch, he squeezed a chunk on the ground.

Anthony Ortega, an ex-gangbanger from East Los Angeles, grinned. “I wouldn’t feed that shit to my dog.”

But the mutt wasn’t so picky. It poked its head out from behind the barrel. Its ears were cropped, one eye swollen nearly shut.

Nineteen-year-old Private First Class Cody Burrows whistled in sympathy. “They really messed that bastard up.”

“Kids didn’t do all that,” Luke said.

Fresh blood oozed from a gash on its shoulder. But its other scars were older injuries, puckered and scabbed over.

“No,” Habib agreed. “This dog has been used for fighting.”

The mutt inched forward, quivering.

“No way that’s a fighting dog,” Ortega said.

“It’s big enough.” Hill offered his opinion.

“Often the bait dogs, they are cut like that,” Habib said. “To rouse the other dogs and make them fight.”

Poor mutt. Luke threw another piece of MRE. The dog’s eyes rolled toward him as it took the food. Its big, black-rimmed eyes made it look like a bar girl after a bad night.

“Gee, Daddy, can we keep him?” Hill said.

“He’s a she, numbnuts,” farm boy Burrows said. “Look at her belly. She’s gonna have puppies.”

They all stood around watching the dog, like feeding some pregnant stray was the best, most entertaining thing to happen to them all day. Which it was.

“We should take her back with us,” Hill said. “You saved her life. That makes you responsible for her.”

Luke shook his head. “Don’t give me that Zen shit.”

Rescuing strays was not part of his mission. He put the rest of his MRE on the ground, watching the mutt lap it up almost delicately from the foil.

He liked dogs. His family always had a dog.

He pushed the thought of home away, rolling his shoulders to resettle his pack. “Break time’s over.” He looked at Habib. “What do you want to do?”

The Afghan sergeant looked momentarily surprised. But the rules had changed in the past few months. Now it was the Afghans who were supposed to step up and take the lead.

Habib cleared his throat. “We should patrol the market.”

Luke nodded.

They walked the narrow alleys between residential compounds. Luke watched the doorways and roof lines, braced for sniper fire. Everything in the village was parched and brown, the color of the never-ending dust that hung like fog over the landscape. It was part of him now, engrained in his skin, choking his sinuses.

He missed the blue Carolina sky with a longing that burned the back of his throat.

The squadron emerged into the bazaar. A few stalls were open for business. Motorcycles zipped by like wasps, kicking up clouds of dust. A circle of men—village elders—squatted in the shade, surrounded by a standing ring of boys. Always boys, never girls. They kept their women out of sight. Luke’s sister would have had something to say about that.

Habib looked at Luke, seeking guidance.

“Ask them how it’s going,” Luke said.

The new Afghan police force needed to build rapport with the community, to establish trust in the new government. He stood back, an itch between his shoulders, watching the villagers’ faces as Habib and the elders went through the usual bullshit.

No Taliban
, the villagers said. They hadn’t seen anybody. They just wanted to be left alone.

“Is there anything we can do for them?”

No. Nothing.

“They got kids?” Luke asked.

One of the younger men nodded.

“You tell him he can go to the base if they need medical attention.”

More nods, more smiles, more bullshit. It was the same in every village. The patrol moved on.

“Hey, look,” Burrows said. “That dog’s following us.”

“Happens when a bitch gets knocked up,” Ortega said.

Laughter rippled up the column, relieving the tension.

Luke looked back. Sure enough, the dog had fallen in behind the last man like a member of the patrol.

She was still with them when they made camp that night on a plateau of hard-packed gravel. They could have sheltered in the last town. But despite Luke’s mission to improve community relations, he didn’t trust their hosts not to report them to the Taliban while they slept.

As the temperatures plummeted, the dog crept closer, drawn by the need for warmth or food or simple companionship. Luke could sympathize. He tore open another MRE and set it on the rocky ground.

“Why do you feed it?” Habib asked.

“Staff Sergeant’s our den mother. He takes care of everybody,” Burrows said.

Luke couldn’t take care of everybody. But by tagging along, the dog had made herself one of them. Theirs.

After ten years at war, Luke wasn’t fighting for freedom and democracy. He was in this for the guys next to him, to keep them safe, to bring them home alive.

The mutt licked the wrapper, her thin tail stirring cautiously.

Out here, it was the little things that mattered. Making the world safe from global terrorism sounded good, but these days Luke measured victory one step, one sunrise, and now one dog at a time.

“You ever have a pet growing up?” he asked Habib.

The Afghan smiled wryly. “We can barely feed our families. We do not think of animals as you do.”

The dog sighed and settled her head on her paws, fixing her dark, mascara-ringed eyes on Luke. Like a hooker who’d been knocked around and still hoped this time would be different. Better.
Help me. Save me. Love me
.

He looked away.

“Think she’ll make it back to camp with us?” Ortega asked, seeking reassurance.

Luke didn’t know. He didn’t know if any of them would make it. The weight of responsibility pressed on his shoulders.

No Marine left behind.

Or dog, either.

“Sure,” he said. “As long as we keep feeding her.”

“She’s eating for two now,” Hill said.

“More like seven,” Burrows said.

“How many puppies you think she’s got in there?”

Luke listened to their good-natured speculation, his shoulders gradually relaxing. By the time they reached the forward outpost two days later, the mutt was taking point with Luke at the head of the column, barking to warn of the approach of other dogs or people, and Ortega was making book on the size of her litter.

No way was Luke enforcing the ban on pets on base. His men were denied enough of the comforts of home. No beer, no porn, no barbecue. Only a hard-ass would deny them a dog.

Luke had more important things to worry about.

His report made, he sat on his bunk, turning over the thin stack of MotoMail that had accumulated while he was on patrol. Three letters in five days.

The fine hair stirred on the back of his neck.

He got mail, of course. His mom, trained by twenty years as a Marine wife, sent plenty of care packages, tucking in notes with the eye drops and baby wipes, hard candy and homemade cookies. His dad always had a word during Luke’s infrequent phone calls home.
Stay safe. Shoot straight
. But Dad wasn’t much for writing, never had been, even when he’d been the one on deployment.

And it wasn’t like Luke had a wife and kiddies back home, sending him love letters and complaints about the toilet and scrawled crayon drawings.

He flipped to the first envelope, glancing at the return address. Katherine M. Dolan, P.L.L.C., Beaufort, North Carolina.

His brows raised.
A lawyer
.

He didn’t need a lawyer. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, getting pulled over for drunk driving. Anyway, no Beaufort attorney was going to solicit new clients in Afghanistan.

He ripped the envelope open.

Dear Staff Sergeant Fletcher
, he read in neat type.

Okay, so this Katherine Dolan wasn’t some woman he’d met in a bar during his last leave. That was good.

This office represents the estate of Dawn Marie Simpson.

Dawn. Jesus. That name took him back. All the way to high school. Pretty blond Dawn, with her wide smile and amazing breasts.

His hand tightened on the letter. And now she was . . . ?

I am sorry to tell you that Dawn is deceased as of August 9.

Dead.

Shit. Ten years in the Corps had hardened him to violence. But death came to the battlefield. Not to girls back home.

His gaze dropped back to the letter.

I am writing to inform you that Dawn left behind a minor child, Taylor Simpson, born February 2, 2003. In her will, Dawn identified you as the father of her child . . .

The tent broke around him, a kaleidoscope of shards, as his world, his heart stopped. His vision danced.

 . . . and as such, named you as the child’s guardian and trustee.

His heart jerked back to uneven motion. His head pounded. He didn’t have a child. He couldn’t. It was a damn lie. A joke. He hadn’t seen Dawn in ten years, since she dumped him at the end of senior year for Bo Meekins. No way was he the father of her baby.

He read the first paragraph again.
February 2, 2003
. Not a baby. It hit him like a kick in the gut.

I understand that you are currently deployed with the U.S. military
, the letter continued in crisp, impersonal type.
Pending instructions from you, Taylor is living with her maternal grandparents, Ernest and Jolene Simpson. Please advise me of your intentions for assuming parental responsibilities for your child.

He dragged in an uneven breath. His responsibilities were here. His life was here. The familiar tent whirled and refocused around him, his surroundings assuming the flat, clear detail of a firefight: boots, locker, green wool blanket, everything coated in a fine layer of grit. Time slowed. The paper trembled slightly in his grasp.

I realize this news must come as a shock. In addition to her will, the deceased left a letter for you, which may address some of your questions and concerns. I will be happy to forward it per your instructions. Dawn was adamant that you were the right person to care for Taylor in the event of her death.

Dawn was out of her fucking mind. That was the only explanation that made sense.

I hope that you will consider your response very carefully in keeping with Taylor’s best interests. Your present situation may not be conducive to the raising of a minor child. There are other options that you and I can discuss. I look forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, K. Dolan.

She was going to hear from him, all right, Luke thought grimly. As soon as he could find a damn phone.

* * *

“I
WANT A
paternity test,” Luke said.