The Colonel's Daughter (8 page)

What worried her now was her father’s safety during his last hours in Afghanistan.

Michele rubbed her hands over her arms to stave off the chilling anxiety that swelled up within her and filled her with dread. Until tomorrow morning when her father’s plane took off, Michele would be waiting to learn if tragedy would strike again.

FIVE

J
amison stared after Michele as she climbed the stairs to the second floor of her parents’ quarters, inhaling the scent of her perfume that still swirled around him. She had gone through so much today and seemed exhausted on the way home. Suggesting she rest in the car had provided the short-term reprieve she had needed.

Wanting to ensure that she was okay before he returned to CID headquarters, Jamison stepped into the kitchen and made a series of phone calls to reserve the post auditorium for the briefing that evening and line up the military police to patrol the area. His last call was to the Fort Rickman airfield to alert them about the returning flights on Friday and the need for secure arrangements for the reunion ceremony. The doorbell rang just as he disconnected.

Roberta greeted Chief Agent in Charge Wilson, a tall and muscular African-American who was the head of Fort Rickman’s CID.

“Good to see you, Mrs. Logan, although I’m sorry about the circumstances.” The chief pointed to Dawson who followed him into the foyer. “You know Special Agent Timmons.”

“Yes, of course. We met earlier.” She smiled as Jamison joined them. “Agent Steele has been a great help both last night and today.”

“Sir.” Jamison nodded to his boss, then acknowledged Dawson. “Miss Logan just returned home from the hospital. Other than being tired and bruised, she seems okay.”

Wilson turned to Mrs. Logan. “A relief to all of us, ma’am.”

The few ladies who remained in the living room stood, gathered their purses and walked into the foyer, nodding to the CID agents on their way to the door. “Roberta, we need to be going.”

Mrs. Logan escorted them outside to say goodbye. While she was gone, Jamison filled his boss and Dawson in on the brigade’s new flight schedule. He also informed them of the wives’ briefing that evening and the requests he had made for security from the military police.

The chief pursed his lips. “After what happened at the cemetery, I want round-the-clock protection for Mrs. Logan and her daughter.”

Jamison was one step ahead of the chief. “I have two men stationed outside, sir, and two additional military police will be here shortly to provide increased surveillance.”

“Excellent.”

“The Freemont police are compiling names of people in town who may have visited the cemetery today,” Jamison continued. “I want to question anyone who might have seen the black car that hit Miss Logan.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Agent Timmons can work with the Freemont police. You need to focus on Colonel Logan’s family.”

Jamison held out his hand. “Sir, I’m more than able to ensure their safety and handle the investigation.”

“I’m not insinuating you can’t, but Agent Timmons will be the lead investigator on this one. In addition to keeping the colonel’s wife and daughter safe, I want you to coordinate security for the brigade’s return.”

Jamison swallowed his frustration. Although the shift was subtle, his relationship with the chief had changed after the shooting ten months ago, and not in a positive way. Being taken from the lead on this case drove home the point that Wilson wasn’t pleased with his performance.

The front door opened, and Mrs. Logan stepped back inside. “Can I offer you gentlemen a cup of coffee?”

The chief shook his head. “Not for me, ma’am, but I would like to talk to you for a few minutes about Mrs. Hughes.”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Logan pointed to the living room. “We’ll be more comfortable in here.” Dawson and the chief quickly settled into two Queen Anne chairs across from the couch where she sat.

Unable to move forward, Jamison remained in the hallway, hearing his manipulative father’s voice taunt him from the past.
“You’ll always be a failure, Jamie-boy.”

Turning at the sound of footsteps, he watched Michele descend the stairs, bringing with her more of the sweet floral scent he had noticed earlier. Her hair was damp, and she had evidently showered before donning a flowing skirt and a silk top that hugged her slender body. She smiled, and the voice from his childhood disappeared.

“You look lovely,” Jamison said, feeling a swell of emotion in his chest.

Before she could reply, the doorbell rang.

He glanced out the window. A beige van bearing the florist’s shop logo was parked on the street. The florist stood on the steps, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

Surprise flickered from his eyes when Jamison opened the door. “Hey, sir. Long time no see. I’ve got a delivery.”

“Miss Logan was in your shop earlier today, Mr. Sutherland. You could have saved yourself a trip.”

Embarrassment tugged at his lips. “Actually, the order came in after she left. After you left, too, sir. And the flowers are for
Mrs.
Logan. Is she home?”

Gently nudging Jamison to the side, Michele reached for the bouquet. The arrangement included yellow roses and white mums with baby’s breath and a few other varieties Jamison couldn’t name. “They’re beautiful. I’ll give them to my mother.”

Mrs. Logan excused herself from the living room. “Why, isn’t that bouquet exquisite? Who are they from, dear?”

Michele opened the card. Her expression clouded ever so slightly as she read the card. “Dad sent them.”

Mrs. Logan either didn’t notice the change in Michele or refused to respond. Instead, she turned her gaze to the florist. “Thank you, Teddy.”

“The pleasure is all mine, ma’am. Be sure to let me know when Colonel Logan plans to return to Fort Rickman so I can place the order for the welcome-home ceremony.”

“If everything goes as scheduled, the unit should arrive on post Friday morning.”

“I’ll contact my wholesaler about the delivery.” With a brief nod, he walked back to his truck. Jamison waited until the florist’s van was out of sight before he closed the door.

Michele had taken the flowers into the kitchen. From where Jamison stood, he could see the colorful bouquet lying on the kitchen table. Sometimes he felt as if he were stumbling around in the dark without night vision goggles when it came to Michele. After she had run away to Atlanta, he had phoned her a number of times, but the calls always went to her voice mail. Finding out where she lived had been easy enough. The hard part had been trying to stay away from her.

One night when he had allowed his emotions to get the better of him, Jamison had driven to Atlanta and parked outside her apartment, trying to decide what to say when he knocked on her door. Just before he’d climbed from his car, Michele had stepped outside on someone else’s arm.

Driving back to Fort Rickman that lonely night, he’d vowed to wipe her memory from his mind. The problem was he hadn’t been able to remove Michele from his heart.

In hindsight, he should have sent flowers to woo her back or bouquets while they were dating to convince Michele that, despite the danger of his job, what they had was special.

No matter how he tried to rationalize her actions, he still felt betrayed. He had loved her once. Seeing Michele today, lying injured on the side of the road, had made him realize how much.

* * *

Michele leaned against the counter in the kitchen and stared at the flowers, feeling the lump that had instantly formed in her throat when she’d read her father’s card.

Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to find Jamison staring at her as if he could see the need written on her heart.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern softening his gaze.

“Nothing.” She wrapped her arms defiantly across her chest. “As I keep telling everyone, I’m fine.”

Instantly she regretted the sharpness in her tone.

He bristled. Of course, he would.

If only he would join the other agents in the living room so she could have a moment to pull herself together.

He stepped toward her.

Needing a distraction, she grabbed scissors from a drawer and reached for the bouquet. With quick decisive motions, she plucked a flower from the bunch and snipped off the lower end of the stem.

Jamison moved closer. “Was it something I said?”

“Of course not.” Pulling in a deep breath, she tried to untangle the confusion she felt. “It...it was my mother.”

Michele reached for a second flower. “She didn’t mention why Dad sent the bouquet. He knew today would be hard on her.”

“Because of Lance?”

Michele nodded. “She doesn’t talk about my brother, although for some reason she did last night. I don’t think she goes to the cemetery or leaves flowers at his grave. It’s as if...”

Still aware of the medication’s effect on her, Michele tried to gather her thoughts. “It’s as if she doesn’t want to deal with his death.”

“Maybe that’s her way of running away.”

Michele glanced up at Jamison, knowing there was more to his statement than just her mother’s response to losing a child. For a long moment, what was unspoken hung in the silence between them.

“We all handle grief in different ways,” she finally said, reaching for a glass vase and another flower.

He watched her work and then wrinkled his face as if he had never seen anyone arrange flowers. “You cut off the ends of the stems?”

She ran water into the vase. “The blooms last longer when the old ends are trimmed away.”

“Like a gardener prunes a bush or vine?”

She smiled. “You weren’t a country boy, were you?”

“Hardly.” He choked out a rueful laugh, brief and bitter. “More of a drifter. My dad and I moved often, usually in the middle of the night when he was running from the law.”

Something he hadn’t revealed to her when they were dating. “I take it your father wasn’t the best of role models.”

“That’s an understatement.” Jamison tapped his fingers on the counter as if to diffuse the nervous energy that came over him along with the memory of the past.

“Yet you’re a good man.”

He stopped tapping. She saw conflict in his eyes.

“So, who helped you growing up?” she asked, hoping to deflect the intensity of his gaze.

Jamison rolled his shoulders, perhaps to ease the tension she could see in his neck and splayed hands. “I threw the discus in high school. My coach encouraged me to go into the army. A chaplain when I was in basic training filled in more of the blanks. He taught me about working hard and doing my best.”

Michele heard the admiration he had for both men in his voice and saw the stress lift ever so slightly from Jamison’s physical bearing. The memory also brought a smile to his lips.

“The chaplain made his point to a bunch of green recruits by explaining how we needed to whittle away at the deadwood of the softer life we had lived before we came into the military. After a ten-mile road march, his message started to have meaning. By the time I graduated as the top trainee, I had taken his words to heart.”

“Top trainee.” Michele raised her brow. “That’s impressive.”

Jamison shoved off the praise with a shake of his head. “My drill sergeant takes all the credit, as well as the chaplain.”

“Because he encouraged you to succeed?”

Jamison nodded, then paused for a moment as if thinking back to those beginning days in basic training. “In retrospect, he was probably talking about pruning, although he never used the word. He said changing was painful, but we would be stronger in the end.”

Michele reached for another flower. Her fingers touched the fragile petals of the bloodred rose. “Losing someone I loved changed me—but it hasn’t made me stronger.”

He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell his aftershave, a masculine scent that reminded her of sea breezes. She couldn’t help but think back to the nights she’d kissed Jamison on her doorstep and then come inside with the smell of him clinging to her hair. Those nights, she had fallen into bed, hugging her pillow and reliving his lips on hers.

As much as she wanted to change the subject, she couldn’t. “Is Lance’s death supposed to make me stronger?”

“Michele.” He closed the gap between them.

She squared her shoulders, determined to remain in control. “What about Yolanda?”

“We live in the world, Michele. Evil exists. Bad people who do bad things exist, no matter how much we want to pretend they don’t. We can’t control what they do—only how we respond.”

A roar filled her ears. She wrapped her arms across her chest and stepped back again, wanting to distance herself from Jamison and his hollow rhetoric.

Yolanda shouldn’t have died, and Michele shouldn’t have made a bad decision that resulted in her brother being on board the helicopter that fateful day. A decision everyone in her family refused to talk about.

As if in a dream, the memory from ten months ago of Jamison’s blood-smeared white shirt returned unbidden. Dawson had been hit, but when she’d gotten the call about the shoot-out on post, Michele thought Jamison had been the one not expected to live.

She turned away, no longer able to look at Jamison, and fled into the hallway. Tears burned her eyes. Her hand grabbed the banister.

“Is something wrong, dear?” Her mother’s voice came from the living room. “Michele?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t reply or she would break down on the stairway. At the landing, she turned into the first bedroom. Her room. Closing the door, she slipped the lock into place.

Lance’s picture smiled at her from the dresser. She opened the top drawer and saw the Bible he had given her. A book she hadn’t read since his death.

Her gaze fell on a small framed verse she’d received as a child.
All things work together for good to those who love God.

After everything that had happened, she couldn’t trust the Lord. Not now. Not ever.

A small wooden box nestled next to the Bible. Her fingers touched the wood, unwilling to open the lid. She pushed the drawer shut and fell onto her bed.