The Texan's Honor-Bound Promise

Sam’s lips curved into a grin. “Even a reformed rake slips now and again.” Cupping a hand at her cheek, he touched his lips to her, withdrew with a low hum of pleasure, then returned for a second taste.

“Sweet,” he murmured, tracing his tongue along her lower lip. Angling his body more fully toward hers, he pushed his fingers through her hair and took the kiss deeper.

God help me, she thought weakly. Though every nerve in her body demanded she respond, intellectually she knew what a mistake that would be. Any kind of intimacy, no matter how innocent, could jeopardize their business relationship.

If that wasn’t reason enough for her to put an end to this foolishness, he was a virtual stranger. She didn’t know him. Not in the sense a woman needed to know a man before making love to him.

Yet in spite of the reasons pointing her away from Sam, she found herself melting against him, until every thought leaked from her mind, save one. Him.

The Texan’s Honor-Bound Promise

Peggy Moreland

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette Books in 1989, and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for Romantic Times BOOKclub Reviewer’s Choice Award and a two-time finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award, Peggy’s books frequently appear on the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. When not writing, you can usually find Peggy outside, tending the cattle, goats and other critters on the ranch she shares with her husband. You may write to Peggy at P.O. Box 1099, Florence, TX 76527-1099, or e-mail her at peggy@peggymoreland.com.

This book is dedicated to all the wives, children and families of soldiers listed as Missing In Action while in the service of our country.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Prologue

I can’t promise you that I will bring you all home alive. But this I swear before you and before Almighty God: that when we go into battle, I will be the first to set foot on the field and I will be the last to step off and I will leave no one behind. Dead or alive, we will all come home together. So help me God.

—Lt. Colonel Hal Moore

(from the movie We Were Soldiers)

July, 1972

The mood around camp was subdued. Those soldiers who had ventured from their sleeping quarters sat in silence, their heads down, their expressions somber, their thoughts focused on the previous day’s events and their chances of making it home alive. For some, this war was a joke, a part in an elaborate play they acted out each day, under the direction of their supervising officer.

Not so for Jessie Kittrell.

To Jessie—or T.J., as he was called by his friends—this war was his one chance to escape poverty, to give his family the kind of life he’d never known. With a wife and child to support and another baby on the way, enlisting in the army had seemed the only way out of the financial rut he was trapped in. Besides the training it provided, once he fulfilled his years of service, the army would pay for his college education, courtesy of the GI Bill.

If he survived this hell, he thought grimly. Like most of the men he fought alongside, before arriving in Vietnam, he hadn’t given survival much thought. He’d been too caught up in the we’re-gonna-whip-some-butts mentality ingrained in them all during boot camp. He’d carried that cockiness with him into his first battle…and left it there, along with the contents of his stomach.

Desperate to block the images that pushed into his mind, he reached inside his shirt pocket for the photo he kept close to his heart. Dirty and creased from frequent handling, the photo was his anchor, his reminder of what he fought for, his reason for being here, his need to survive.

Tears burned behind his eyes as he stared down at his wife and daughter. God, he missed them. Three months was a long time for a man to go without seeing his family. Leah had turned two last week, a birthday party he’d missed. Would she remember him when he returned home? Would she wrap her arms around his neck and plaster a wet kiss on his cheek when she saw him, as she had in the past? Or would she cringe away and cry for her mommy?

The dull whop-whop-whop of helicopter blades overhead had him looking up. Knowing the chopper’s purpose, he slowly tucked the picture back into his pocket. He watched silently as the Huey landed and two bagged bodies were loaded onto the deck. He gulped back emotion, aware that a third soldier should have been making that ride. Buddy Crandall.

But Buddy wouldn’t be making the trip back home.

A wide hand landed on his shoulder and he glanced up to find Pops—the nickname given Larry Blair by T.J. and the rest of the guys—beside him, his gaze on the helicopter as the pilot prepared to take off.

“It’s not right,” T.J. said, shaking his head.

“Buddy should be on that chopper.”

“Yeah,” Pops said quietly. “But some things just aren’t meant to be.”

“MIA,” T.J. muttered, squinting his eyes as he watched the helicopter slowly rise into the air. “Can you imagine what getting that news is going to do to Buddy’s family? Why can’t the Army list him as Killed in Action rather than Missing in Action? Hell, we all know he’s dead! We were there. We saw what happened. There’s no way he made it out of there alive.”

“You know the rules,” Pops reminded him gently.

“If a soldier’s body isn’t recovered and his death not positively verified, he’s MIA.”

“I don’t want my family put through that,” T.J. said furiously. He glanced up at Pops. “Promise me something, Pops.”

“If I can.”

“If what happened to Buddy should happen to me, promise me you’ll let my family know. Tell ’em I fought and died like a solider. Tell ’em I won’t be coming home.”

Pops hesitated a moment, then nodded soberly. “Consider it done.” He gave T.J.’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Check your gear. We’ll be pulling out in a couple of hours.”

T.J. sat a moment longer, then dragged a hand across the moisture in his eyes and stood. He patted his pocket and the photo he kept there, then strode for his tent and the pack that held his gear.

One

The Craftsman-style two-story house Sam parked his truck in front of was situated in an older neighborhood near Tyler, Texas’s downtown area. A breezeway connected the house to a carriage-style garage and served as a pass-through to the garage’s rear entrance, discreetly hidden in the backyard.

The house was owned by Leah Kittrell. Mack McGruder had provided Sam with the woman’s name, as well as her address and telephone number. An Internet search had provided him with a few more details. According to the information he’d found, Ms. Kittrell owned her own business—Stylized Events—had gone through a messy divorce three years prior and currently served on the boards of several civic and charity organizations. The photos he’d found of her in the archive section on the Tyler newspaper’s Web site provided an image of a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties to early thirties, with long dark hair, classic features and legs that seemed to stretch forever.

More facts than he probably needed, but Sam preferred to know as much about a person as he could before entering into negotiations.

Now all he had to do was squeeze what he wanted out of the woman and he could call it a day.

Confident that he’d be back on the road within the hour, he punched the doorbell, then stepped back, smoothing a hand over hair the wind had rumpled earlier while he was changing a flat tire on the interstate.

The door swung open and a woman appeared. Leah Kittrell, he thought, easily recognizing her from the photos he’d found on the internet. But the pictures hadn’t done her justice, he thought appreciatively. While attractive in the photographs, in person she was drop-dead gorgeous. What the pictures had revealed as dark hair was in fact a sleek raven-black. But the image of her legs had been right on target. They did seem to stretch forever.

Mesmerized by eyes the color of aged whiskey, it took him a moment to realize that she was frowning at him. He quickly extended his hand.

“Sam Forrester,” he said, introducing himself.

She glanced down at the hand he offered and her frown deepened. Following her gaze, he saw the grease that stained his palm and yanked it back to drag across the seat of his jeans. “Sorry. Had a blowout on the way here. Haven’t had a chance to clean up.”

Her gaze met his again. “How many are you expecting for dinner?”

He blinked. Blinked again. “Excuse me?”

Rolling her eyes, she angled her head and pointed to the minuscule headset attached to her ear.

“Oh,” he murmured, realizing that her question hadn’t been directed to him but someone she was talking to on her cellular phone. “Sorry.”

She stepped back and motioned for him to come inside. “Forty guests,” she said thoughtfully as she closed the door behind him. “To be safe, I’d suggest we plan to serve thirty-five. Some won’t bother to RSVP but will come anyway. Others will say they’re coming and not show up.”

She turned for the rear of the house, curling her finger in a signal for him to follow. With a shrug, he trailed behind her, glancing at the rooms they passed through. Neat as a pin, he noted. Not a thing out of place. Not even in the kitchen. The woman either had a full-time housekeeper or was anal as hell.

She opened a rear door, stepped out onto a patio and led the way to the garage. It’s in there, she mouthed, indicating a side door.

Wondering what “it” was, he eased past her and opened the door. Like the rest of her house, the garage was hospital-clean and neat as a pin. An SUV was parked in the slot nearest him. In the other, a vintage Ford Mustang.

He pressed a hand over his heart. “Oh, man,” he murmured and headed for it.

He walked a slow circle around the car, then stopped in front and popped the hood. Behind him he could hear Leah talking on the phone, but he was more interested in the vintage set of wheels in front of him than her discussion of food and flowers.

Bracing a hand on the radiator for support, he stuck his head beneath the hood in order to check out the engine. “Two hundred and fifty ponies,” he said with a lustful sigh.

“So? What do you think?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice and bumped his head on the hood. Muttering a curse, he straightened, rubbing a hand over his head.

She winced. “Ouch. Bet that hurt.”

Grimacing, he dropped his hand. “I’ve had worse.” He turned back to the car and lowered the hood. “Sorry for being nosy, but I couldn’t resist. Is it yours?”

“My brother’s,” she replied, then amended, “Or it was.”

He glanced back, a brow lifted in question.

“He was killed in Iraq about six months ago. He promised my nephew, Craig, he could have the car when he turned sixteen. They were going to start restoring it when my brother returned from Iraq.” She glanced at the car, drew in a steadying breath. When she faced him again, her jaw was set in determination. “I intend to see that at least part of his promise is kept, which is why I advertised for a mechanic to do the restoration.”

And she thought he was a mechanic who’d come in response to her ad, Sam deduced. Though he knew he should correct her mistake, he decided, for the moment at least, to keep the purpose of his visit to himself and said instead, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry he ever enlisted.”

Surprised by the bitterness in her voice, he began to circle the car again. “How long had he owned it?” he asked curiously.

“Forever.”

He shot her a glance over the roof of the car and she shrugged. “My father was the original owner. I guess you could say Kevin inherited it from him.”

He turned his gaze back to the car and saw the Army decal on the rear window, it’s edges curled and brittle, and knew, by its age, her father was the one who had put it there, not her brother. Thinking this might be the opening he needed, he asked, “Your father was in the Army, too?”

She followed his gaze to the decal. “MIA, Vietnam.”

“Your family made a considerable sacrifice for our country.”

She flattened her lips. “Not by choice, I assure you.” She flapped a hand, dismissing the subject, then glanced at her watch. “My nephew should be here soon. He wants to help with the restoration. Do you have a problem with that?”

Again he felt he should correct her mistake and tell her the true purpose of his visit. But he had a feeling if he did, she’d toss him out on his ear.

“Can’t see why I would,” he replied vaguely.

She smiled, seemingly relieved by his response.

“Good. Craig really needs this.”

Before he could ask her what she meant by the statement, the door opened and a young voice called, “Aunt Leah? You in here?”

Leah turned, her smile widening. “Come on in and join us, Craig. How was school?”

Head down, a boy—somewhere between twelve and fourteen, judging by his size—shuffled toward them, one hand cinched around the strap of a backpack he had draped over his shoulder, the other stuffed in the pocket of jeans at least a size too large for his thin frame. “Okay, I guess.”

Sam yearned for a pair of scissors so that he could whack off enough of the kid’s hair to see his face.

“Craig, I’d like you to meet—” She stopped short, then looked at Sam in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember your name.”

“Sam Forrester.”

Smiling, she extended her hand. “Leah Kittrell.”

He held up his palm, reminding her of the grease that stained it.

She tucked her hand behind her back. “Uh, right.” She turned to her nephew and, smiling again, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him to her side. “Sam, this is my nephew, Craig. Craig, Mr. Forrester.”

“Sam will do,” Sam offered, then smiled at the kid. “Nice to meet you, Craig.”

Craig mumbled a barely audible, “Yeah. You, too.”

“Sam is here to discuss restoring the car,” she told her nephew.

He glanced up at Sam through the mass of bangs he hid behind, then dropped his gaze and turned away with a mumbled “Whatever” and headed back toward the house.

“Hey!” Leah called after him. “Where are you going?”

“Homework.”

“But don’t you want—”

The door slammed, cutting her off. Heaving a sigh, she turned and gave Sam an apologetic smile.

“He really is a nice kid. He’s just been having a tough time. Losing his father hit him pretty hard.”

“Tough blow for a kid his age.”

“Yes, it is.”

He frowned, remembering the boy’s reference to homework, as well as her mention earlier about school. “Isn’t school out for the summer?”

“For most students. Craig failed two classes, so he has to go to summer school.”

He nodded, wondering if the kid’s father’s death had anything to do with his failure.

She opened her hands. “So? What do you think? Are you interested in the job?”

You’ve really stepped in it now, Sam thought, realizing too late his mistake in allowing her to go on believing he was a mechanic. He supposed he could tell her the restoration would take more work than he’d first thought and make a fast exit.

But that would mean leaving without getting the information he’d promised Mack, which didn’t settle well with him at all. He owed Mack. Big-time. And he was determined to honor that debt.

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he studied the car as if considering whether or not he wanted to take on the job while buying himself some time to figure out what he should do.

Getting the information for Mack wasn’t going to be the easy-in-easy-out mission he’d first thought. Mack had warned him about Leah’s obstinance in refusing to discuss her father, but Sam hadn’t taken him seriously until he’d gotten a taste of it himself. It was going to take some time to finesse her into telling him what he wanted to know.

And restoring the car might be just the ploy he needed to gain that time.

But if he agreed to work on the car, he’d be saddling himself with a troubled teen. Sam had seen the resentment, as well as the grief, that shadowed the boy’s eyes and suspected it was the loss of his father that had put them both there. Sam had lost a father, too, at a fairly young age. Not to death, but a loss just the same, and he understood what the boy was going through…and where he’d end up if someone didn’t intervene.

He had a month, he reminded himself, with nothing to do but puzzle out the direction he wanted to point his future in. He could think as easily working on a car as he could lying on his back on some sun-drenched beach surrounded by bikini-clad women.

Decided, he said to Leah, “Yeah, I’m interested.”

He would swear he felt her sigh of relief from five feet away.

“I have no idea what kind of payment to offer you. I know nothing about this kind of thing or how long it would take to complete the job. I guess it would simplify matters if you’d simply tell me what you’d charge for the restoration, then I could determine whether or not I can afford to hire you.”

“Since you want your nephew to help with the restoration, I suppose the work will need to be done here?”

“That would be best. He comes here after school each day.”

Nodding, he began to circle the car again. “I’ve only got a month to devote to the job, but I think I could get it done in that length of time. Most of it, anyway.”

“Are you saying you’ll do it?”

Smiling, he stroked a hand over the Mustang emblem on the hood. “Hard to say no to a beauty like this.”

“We haven’t decided on a fee yet,” she reminded him.

He hitched his hands on his hips and looked up at the ceiling. “Most carriage houses like this have an apartment overhead. Does this one?”

“W-well, yes,” she stammered as if wondering why he’d ask. “Although not a full one. Just a bedroom, sitting room and bath.”

Lowering his chin, he met her gaze. “Tell you what. Provide me with room and board for the next month, and we’ll call it even.”

“Room and board?” she repeated dully.

“I’m not from around here. In order to do the work, I’d need a place to stay.”

She nervously wet her lips. “I suppose that would be okay. The apartment’s furnished. I keep it ready for relatives and friends who come to visit. But I don’t cook,” she was quick to inform him. “Not regularly, at any rate.”

“As long as I’m allowed access to your kitchen, I can see to my own meals.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “And that’s all you want in exchange for doing the work? Room and board?”

He hid a smile. “If you’re worried I’ll demand sexual favors, I won’t.” He waited a beat, then added, “Although I wouldn’t turn them down if offered.”

She jutted her chin. “I’ll want references.”

He shrugged. “Fine with me. None will be local, though. Lampasas is where I call home.”

Her brows shot high. “How on earth did you hear about the ad I placed? Lampasas is hours from here.”

He shot her a wink. “I guess some things were just meant to be.”

As he pulled away from Leah’s house, Sam punched in Mack’s phone number. His friend answered on the first ring, obviously awaiting the call.

“Did you talk to her?” Mack asked anxiously.

“I did,” Sam replied. “And the answer to your next question is no. I haven’t gotten the information you need. But I’m working on it, which is why I called. I need a favor.”

“What?”

“Personal references.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now I need you to call Lenny, Pastor Nolan, Bill and Jack Phelps. Tell them that Leah Kittrell might be calling and asking questions about me. If she does, tell them to keep whatever information they offer to a minimum and not to mention anything about me being in the Army.”

“Why not?” Mack asked in confusion. “Your service record is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “But if Leah finds out I’m in the military, it’ll kill whatever chance I have of getting the information you want.”

Leah frowned in concentration as she fussed with the strands of ivy draping the tiered crystal pedestal centered on the sample table setting she had arranged. Once satisfied with the design, she would photograph the table, note the style and color of linens used, as well as the other accessories, and record them all in the client’s file to reference for the wedding reception scheduled for October.

“Looks good.”

Leah glanced over at Kate, her assistant, then back at the centerpiece and worried her lip. “You don’t think the ivy will obstruct the guests’ views?”

“You’re just obsessing because Mrs. Snotgrass is the client.”

“Snodgrass,” Leah corrected. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to slip and call her that one day.”

“It would be worth it just to see the expression on the old biddy’s face.”

“Easy for you to say. It isn’t your business she’d send down the toilet.”

Kate snorted. “As if she could.”

Leah lifted the digital camera hanging from her neck and moved around the table, clicking off shots of the table from different angles. “Though I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mrs. Snodgrass’s opinion carries a lot of weight in this town. One derogatory comment from her and my business would suffer the reverberations for months.”

Satisfied that she’d taken enough pictures to record all the accessories used in the design, she headed for her office to download the photos into the appropriate file.

Kate trailed behind. “How’s the search going for the mechanic?”

“I found one.”

Kate dropped down into the chair opposite Leah’s desk and lifted a brow. “Really? Who?”

“Sam Forrester.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s not from around here.”

“Then how’s he going to do the work?”

“He’s staying in the apartment over the garage.”

Kate sat bolt upright. “A complete stranger? Have you lost your mind?”

“I checked his references,” Leah said defensively.

Scowling, Kate slouched back in the chair.

“Which doesn’t mean squat. The references he gave could all be his friends.”

Leah caught her lower lip between her teeth, having thought the same thing, then shook her head. “No. He seems like an honest guy. He even agreed to allow Craig to help with the restoration.”

“He’s probably cleaning out your house as we speak.”

“Would you stop?” Leah cried. “You haven’t even met the man.”

Kate rose. “Then introduce me.”

Leah looked up at her blankly. “Now?”

Kate shrugged. “No time like the present. We can grab some lunch on the way back.”

“And who would mind the shop while we’re gone?” Shaking her head, Leah plucked her purse from beneath her desk and headed out.

“Where are you going?” Kate asked, following her.

“I—I forgot something at home.”

Kate bit back a smile. “Liar. You’re going to check on the mechanic.”

Leah opened her mouth to deny the statement, then clamped it shut and marched out the door, her chin in the air.

Settling into the apartment above Leah’s garage took Sam all of about five seconds. All he had with him was crammed into his duffel bag, which consisted of about four changes of clothes, his toiletries and an extra pair of boots—all civilian wear, since he was on a monthlong leave from the army.