The Other Soldier

A hero in need of forgiveness

Corporal Reid Macfarland has one mission: to make amends for the mistake he lives with every day. That friendly-fire incident in Afghanistan that killed a fellow soldier haunts him. Maybe if he can help the widow, he’ll find some peace.

Amends are easier said than done. Just one meeting with the independent and engaging Parker Dean makes it clear that forgiveness is a little more complicated than money or “I’m sorry.” If he really wants to help, Reid will need to stick around for a while. The more their daily lives intertwine, the more he realizes her forgiveness isn’t the only thing he needs—he needs her.

Did he miss having someone to be close to?

Or did Reid wish he could be close to her?

“You’re not sleeping,” he said, studying her face a little too closely for comfort.

“Few of us are these days.” Parker breathed in, and regretted it when the smell of male sweat lured her eyes down the length of his body.

“Remember when I said our arrangement made me feel as if I’m betraying Tim?” She pushed back her shoulders and looked up. “It’s more than the arrangement that’s making me feel that way.”

Reid moved forward again and this time she did back up, but only because she needed the support of the wall behind her. He was breathing fast again, his heavy-lidded gaze riveted on her mouth. Then he tugged on the drawstring to pull her toward him, and at the same time dipped his head. She watched his handsome face come closer and her stomach went into free fall.

He. Was about to kiss. Her.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for being here! I’m so glad you’re able to help me celebrate my debut with Harlequin Superromance! This series has long been one of my favorite lines, and having the opportunity to contribute a story is a dream come true. Pardon the cliché.

Let me get you a cup of punch and a slice of cake and I’ll explain how The Other Soldier is the book that almost wasn’t. All set? Here goes. I sold the story as a result of Harlequin’s online Memorial Day Challenge, a contest I very nearly didn’t enter. I was in the midst of revising a romantic suspense I’d already used way too many excuses to avoid editing, and I’d never written a military hero before (a tad ironic, considering I’m a civilian working for the air force on a navy base). Eventually I realized that getting feedback from the editors managing the very same line I wanted to write for was too good an opportunity to pass up. So I did a lot of research—what better pretext for watching four seasons of Army Wives?—drafted my 1,000-word entry and sent it in. Two months later, on Halloween, I received a voice mail from Superromance editor Megan Long—Harlequin wanted to buy my book!

(Cue Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”)

I shared all of the above for a reason. Yep, I actually do have a point. The main theme of The Other Soldier is forgiveness, but there’s an underlying theme as well—hope. Reid hopes Parker will forgive him, Parker hopes she can keep her business afloat and Nat hopes Reid will become a permanent part of her life. Of course, this is fiction and none of those hopes are real, but I’m certain you have hopes and dreams of your own, and my wish for you is that they’re realized. The combination of dreaming and effort is a powerful one—heck, it brought us together for the next few hours!

May this story inspire you to have hope.

All my best,

Kathy Altman

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathy Altman writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense and the occasional ode to chocolate. Her work has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award. She’s also a regular contributor to USA TODAY’s Happy Ever After blog. When Kathy’s not writing, reading or putting in her forty hours a week as a computer programmer for the air force, she enjoys baking, watching the Ciarán Hinds version of Persuasion and making other people feel superior by letting them win at Scrabble.

She lives in rural Virginia with a crowd of cats and her sweetie, who’s a fellow book addict and an avid fly fisherman. Kathy lives in hope that one day he’ll actually agree to use their passports (before they expire again). Kathy is a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA) and Washington Romance Writers (WRW), and is active in Harlequin’s online community. You can find her online at www.kathyaltman.com, or email her at kathy@kathyaltman.com—she’d enjoy hearing from you!

To my family, with love, especially Mom, for fostering my affection for books; Mary, for helping me convince my heroine to forgive my hero; Bill, for providing suggestions for pen names; Jerry, for the insight that improved the opening scene; Stephen, for always asking about my writing (you’re too young to read the book, but the Taylor Swift and M110 sniper rifle references are for you); and Dan, for the plot discussions and stellar steak dinners. And, Dad, I’m no Louis L’Amour, but I know you’d have been happy for me, anyway.

Acknowledgments

It’s a humbling exercise listing the names of the people who’ve helped you realize your dream. I mean, how can you ever hope to repay them? (A side note for those of you receiving a nod below—you do realize I’m talking figuratively here, right?!) :-) My deepest appreciation to my family, for their unqualified love and support over the years I worked to become a published author. Thank you, Dan, and thank you, Mom, Mary, Greg, Stephen, Jerry, Bill, Denise, Devon and Joshua. My most sincere gratitude also to the talented and oh-so-patient ladies who made this book all that it could be: Carina Press author and better-than-brilliant critique partner Toni Anderson, fellow Washington Romance Writers (WRW) member and on-the-ball beta reader Robin Allen, and the fabulous editorial pair who provided the opportunity that led me here, Harlequin’s Victoria Curran and Megan Long.

There are so many other readers and writers who helped me get here and continue to urge me onward—and I bet most of them have no idea how much their advice and encouragement have meant to me. Big, huge, mammoth thanks to Laura Baker, Nancy Bartholomew, Mary Buckham, C.J. Carmichael, Lisa Chaplin, Julie Cohen, Kate Duffy, Susan Gable, Margie Lawson, Jennifer Lewis, Jeannie Lin, Susan Litman, Kathy Love, Jennifer Massey, Patricia McLaughlin, Nam Nguyen, Robin Perini, Lani Diane Rich, Christine Rimmer, Roxanne Rustand, Cyndi Slevin, Linda Style, Jeannie Watt, Leslie Wainger and especially WRW members Judy Eary, Sally Eggert, Gail Barrett and Joyce Lamb. Hugs to all. And if you’re reading this, then you deserve a big, squeezy hug yourself! :-)

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

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

PARKER PATTED THE SUN-warmed dirt she’d scooped around the young plant, singing along with John Travolta as he bragged about making out under a dock. When Olivia Newton John started trilling her side of the story, the MP3 player cut off.

Darn, darn, darn, darn, darn. And how typical. The man gets to finish while the woman barely gets started.

Parker fished the device out of the bib pocket of her overalls and sat back on her boot heels. The screen had gone dark. She’d forgotten to charge the dumb thing. Again.

She tugged the earbuds free with a sigh and stuffed the whole mess into her pocket, ignoring the dirt she should have brushed from her gloves. Just as well. If Harris had walked up on her while she was singing, he’d have demanded hazardous duty pay.

Or not. She pressed her lips together. Harris Briggs knew better than anyone that she couldn’t afford even regular wages.

A feisty spring breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and lilacs chased the thought away. She rose to her knees and pulled off her hat, enjoying the rush of air that cooled her sweat-soaked head. Hands on hips, she surveyed the progress she’d made since lunch. A stubby string of bright green plugs stretched away from her. A little compost, a little water, a lot of sun, and next June, Castle Creek Growers would have its first crop of strawberries.

Parker grunted and snatched up her water bottle. If only a child were that easy to raise.

“Ma’am?”

She jumped. The bottle slipped from her grasp and hit the ground with a sloshing thud. Lukewarm water pooled beneath her right knee. An unfamiliar male voice clipped out an apology and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes. Standing at the edge of the strawberry bed was a tall, well-built man wearing a black beret, tinted sunglasses and a class-A U.S. Army uniform.

Tim.

She blinked, then sat down hard. A swell of grief crowded her lungs and she struggled to catch her breath.

Not Tim. Of course not Tim.

It could never be Tim.

The soldier muttered something and dropped into a crouch in front of her. His sunglasses dangled between his fingers. She lifted her gaze to his face and winced at the grim remorse she saw there.

Don’t be so pathetic, Parker Anne.

“Forgive me,” he said.

She stared into eyes the color of maple syrup, eyes that looked so much older than the rest of him, and slowly shook her head. Then realized he might take that as a refusal. “No need,” she finally murmured. She pushed to her feet, waving away his offer of help. “I’m fine.” She stepped back from his spotless uniform and slapped at the mud clinging to her knees. Head bent, she blinked like a madwoman.

“You sure you’re okay? You went white there for a second.”

“I just—” She swallowed hard and straightened. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He removed his beret, revealing dark, close-cropped hair. “Your husband.”

“You…served with him?”

For a split second his features went rigid. “No, ma’am. I’m with the 1st Infantry Division out of Fort Knox. But I was deployed to Helmand province, same time as Sergeant First Class Dean.” He hesitated, then extended a hand. “Corporal Reid Macfarland.”

She peeled off her right glove and took his hand. His grip was strong and confident, and despite the remoteness in his eyes he made her feel…wistful.

And we’re back to pathetic. “Parker Dean,” she said, and let go. “Kentucky’s a long way from Pennsylvania. What brings you to Castle Creek?”

“I hoped we could talk.” He picked up her hat. “Somewhere out of the sun?”

Apparently he’d noticed the whole red hair and freckles thing. And although she should know better, his concern defused her internal I’m-alone-with-a-strange-man alarm. While she debated whether to lead him to the house or to the potting shed that doubled as her office, he slipped on his shades, paused, then pulled them off again. She couldn’t help noticing the slight shake in his hand.

The corporal outweighed her by a solid fifty pounds and out…well, outheighted her by five or six inches. He was a soldier. He’d survived combat. In Afghanistan.

And he was nervous?

Not good. Sudden tremors rippled up and down Parker’s legs. Her little family couldn’t handle any more bad news.

“Tell me why you’re here.” Then go. Before he could answer, her stomach dropped. “The death gratuity.” She’d invested that for Natalie. For college. No way she’d let them—

“No, ma’am. I’m not here in any official capacity.”

“But you’re…” She gestured, and he glanced down at his crisp class-A’s.

“I wanted to show my respect.”

“I see.” Though she didn’t. Not at all. She backed away again, fighting the urge to tug that uniform close, to wrap her arms around it and rest her cheek against the familiar green wool. She hadn’t seen dress greens since the funeral.

“Might as well spit it out,” she said, with a lift of her chin. “Nothing you can say could be worse than what I heard thirteen months ago. Friendly fire, they told me—” She swallowed, and jerked her shoulders up and down. “I doubt you can top that, Corporal Macfarland.”

“I’m sorry.”

She grimaced and wiped a wrist across her forehead. “No. I’m sorry. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Actually, I do.” His jaw flexed. “Your husband was killed by a missile fired—”

“From a U.S. drone. A Hellfire, they said.” Did she really have to hear this again? “What’s that got to do with you?”

“Everything.” He straightened shoulders already level enough to make any carpenter proud. “I’m the one who sent the drone.”

* * *

WIDE-EYED SILENCE. Then the distant bark of a dog and a rushing noise as a mass of starlings flew overhead, the sound like rows and rows of clothes-pinned sheets flapping in the wind.

The woman he’d made a widow stared back at him, face rigid, lips parted. Red chased the pallor from her cheeks and her hands clenched at her sides. She seemed to shrink right in front of him, every muscle tightening, clenching, compacting her into a monument to rage.

“You s-sent it? On purpose?” Her voice started out no stronger than a thread and ended up a hallelujah chorus of bitter fury. “Are you saying my husband was collateral damage?”

“No. No.” Jesus. He’d screwed it up already. “I’m saying it was…my mistake.”

“Are you—you—why would you even think you could come here and—my God—” She stumbled back a step and threw out an arm. Her glove sailed away and landed in a distant patch of clover. She pointed toward the gravel driveway, where he’d parked his Jeep, her entire body trembling. “You need to leave. Now.”

He wanted to. God knew he wanted to. But he’d be damned if he’d add “coward” to all the other labels he was lugging around.

He’d come to make whatever amends he could. Do something, anything, to ease the loss he’d caused. His counselor had advised against it.

His counselor didn’t have nightmares.

“Hear me out. Please.” He pulled in a slow breath. “I need to apologize—”

“Apologize?” She made a horrible, strangled sound he figured was meant to be a laugh. She drew a wrist across her face again, but this time it wasn’t sweat she was wiping away. He cleared his throat.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“Good. That’s good. Because you won’t get it. Your ‘mistake’ cost my husband his life. His life.” Her voice broke and she jammed the heels of her hands to her eyes. He doubted she noticed she was still wearing one glove. She dropped her arms and glared. “How dare you. To come here like this without… What were you thinking?”

“Ma’am, I can only say—”

“No. No. Don’t say anything.” She was shaking her head at him, eyes shimmering with unutterable grief. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’ve already taken enough.”

He winced. “I only wanted to—”

“No. You don’t get to want anything.” She choked on a sob. “I can’t…I can’t do this.”

He watched her stalk away, her path not entirely straight. She headed for the nearest of a trio of plastic-wrapped Quonset huts that looked like they’d survived a hurricane—barely. Reid’s insides ached, as if he’d taken a knee to the gut. But she hadn’t said anything he hadn’t already said to himself.

“Parker!” She ignored the shout that came from somewhere behind them and disappeared into the greenhouse. Ten seconds later a sixty-something man in baggy overalls—must be some kind of uniform—strode around to face Reid, brawny hands on hips, no hair above his neck save for the steel-colored eyebrows that shaded a narrowed gaze.

“What’s goin’ on? Who’re you?”

Reid sized up the other man. Rough, no-nonsense, shoulders like a lumberjack. Carried himself as if anything in his way had better get the hell out of it. Ten to one a former Marine.

Huh. Could be he’d go back to Kentucky sporting a cracked rib or two.

Things were looking up.

“Corporal Reid Macfarland.” He hooked his shades in his breast pocket and offered his hand. “I came to see what I could do.”

“Harris Briggs.” He gestured with his head at the greenhouse where Parker Dean had sought refuge. “You in her husband’s unit?”

“No, sir. I’m the one who killed him.”

Briggs sucked air and his eyes stretched wide. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He looked down at the ground, scratched his chin, looked back up. “You mean to kill him?”

“No, sir.”

“They call that an accident.”

“They call that fratricide.”

Briggs eyed Reid’s stripes. What was left of them. “Got away scot-free, did you?” When Reid didn’t answer he pulled a pack of gum from his bib pocket and held it out. Seriously? He’d just admitted to manslaughter and the old guy offers him a stick of gum? Reid’s muscles were clamped so tight he couldn’t even shake his head. Briggs shrugged and tucked the pack away, unopened.

“Tell me somethin’, Corporal. What happened over there?”

“No offense, Mr. Briggs, but you’re not the one I came to see.”

“Fair enough.” He moved past Reid and plucked Parker Dean’s water bottle from the strawberry patch, used it to motion toward the greenhouse. “Wouldn’t listen to you, huh?”

“Can’t say I blame her, sir.” Reid nodded once. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Why is everyone in such a blasted hurry?”

Reid blinked. “With all due respect, shouldn’t you be chasing me off the property?”

“Ain’t my property.” Briggs caught his eye and shrugged. “Been over a year. Talkin’ it out might help her move on.”

Move on. Right. As hard as it had been for Reid, he couldn’t even imagine what the widow had been through. Not to mention her kid.

“You overseas all this time?”

“I came when I could.”

“So what now? You headin’ back home?”

“I wanted to apologize. It’s the least I can do.”

“What’s the most?”

“Sir?”

“You said apologizin’s the least you can do. What’s the most?”

Reid shifted. Talking to Briggs was like having a conversation with his own conscience.

“I’m on thirty days’ leave. I didn’t know what I’d find here, but I’d planned to offer to help. Any way I could. Always supposing—” he eyed the greenhouse “—Mrs. Dean was willing to have me around.” Which, clearly, she was not.

Probably figured he’d go after her kid next.

His neck muscles locked. Suck it up, soldier. He’d never expected this to be easy. Had counted on the exact opposite, as a matter of fact.

“Good idea, offerin’ to help.” With a sweep of his muscled arm, Briggs indicated the farmhouse, the garden plots, the greenhouses. “We could use it.”

Reid studied the house. Two stories of weathered wood standing in a copse of trees bordered by acres of flatland. A tired-looking Toyota hunkered in the yard, flanked by an oak tree sporting a tire swing and an unruly hedge showing off sunshine-yellow blooms. A pink bicycle with a purple bear duct taped to the handlebars lay on its side in the grass.

In comparison to…everything…his five-year-old Jeep looked brand spanking new.

Beside him Briggs stroked his chin. “Sure does need a paint job.”

“Like a desert needs water.”

“That mean you’re stayin’?”

“That’s up to Mrs. Dean.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. “My cell number. Unless Mrs. Dean calls and tells me not to come, I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Where will you be till then?”

Reid put on his beret. “I’ll find a motel.”

“We only got one. Joe’s not officially open, but I guess he’ll put you up.” Reid nodded his thanks and Briggs hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “This mean you won’t be coming back if she says she doesn’t want you?”

“That’s right.” Hadn’t Reid done enough to this family?

“You, uh, never met Tim Dean, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither did I. But I can tell you he’d believe his wife and daughter deserve better than a personal check.”

Reid stiffened. Briggs had read his mind. But what choice did he have? Financial help made perfect sense, considering Reid had caused the death of the family’s breadwinner. A death that had left a widow and a child to fend for themselves.

He tamped down a surge of regret he’d let play out later. Much later, when it was just him and a bottle of beer.

Reid didn’t have many expenses, and he sure as hell didn’t spend much of his pay while deployed. He’d already talked to his bank about a loan. Whether or not she let him pitch in with physical labor, he’d planned to give Mrs. Dean enough money to keep her family solvent. He’d hoped to have a frank discussion with her about that. Given her reaction, it seemed a check in the mail was the best bet.

Yeah, it was guilt money. Didn’t matter. Still had to be paid.

He frowned at Briggs. “I’d like to help, but I have to respect Mrs. Dean’s wishes.”

“Never mind her. I’ll talk her around. Woman’s too stubborn for her own good. I know what you’re thinkin’—she can hire help. Easier said than done here in Castle Creek. And even if we do find someone, she can’t afford to pay what they’d be asking. You gonna walk away from a war widow in dire straits?”

Reid’s mouth flattened. “If she wants me to.”

Briggs waved a hand. “Now, don’t go gettin’ your dress over your head.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll see what I can do. You prepared to work if she takes you up on your offer?”

That was the idea. He’d put her in this position. It was up to him to get her out. And he had a month to do it. Assuming Briggs could talk her into letting him back on the property.

Reid squinted. “Long as you don’t expect me to wear overalls.”

“You can wear a tutu for all I care. Might even draw some customers.”

Reid grunted. Tutu, hell. He should have packed his tactical gear.

A loud, rumbling sound. The two men looked toward the road, and watched a school bus lumber to a stop at the end of the gravel driveway. A black Labrador retriever rounded the far side of the house, tail high, bark impatient, legs a blur. A young girl in bright pink jeans and a matching shirt stepped off the bus. She walked a few feet and dropped her backpack at the same time as she fell to her knees in the grass. Her arms went around the dog and she nestled her face in the shiny jet fur.

Reid’s scalp started to prickle. He resisted the urge to tug off his beret.

The dog wriggled free, ran a short distance and stopped, inviting the girl to give chase. She went along with the game, running after the Lab and covering half the distance to the strawberry patch before noticing Reid. She stumbled to a stop, mouth open, russet hair swinging around her face. Briggs called out to her but she ignored him, turned and dashed for the house as if suddenly caught in an icy downpour.

Like mother, like daughter.

The dog, on the other hand, greeted Reid as if he were packing bacon. He pushed his nose at both palms, snuffled up and down both legs, and ran figure eights around both men. When he paused to conduct another inspection Reid stroked his silky head, fighting the urge to hug him just as the girl had.

“What’s his name?”

“Chance. Sweet dog, but dumber than chickweed.”

“Hey, boy. Hey, Chance.” At the sound of his name the dog barked and jumped up onto his hind legs. He braced his front paws against Reid’s dress jacket.