If I Loved You

She deserves a man she can count on

Eight years ago Brigham Collier broke their engagement, and Molly Darling’s heart, when he put the military first. Now Molly is a childless widow, and the returning soldier’s back in town…with the most adorable baby she’s ever seen. He needs help looking after Laila, left in his care by a fallen teammate. But time is running out. Who will keep Laila when duty calls again?

Molly can’t turn her back on an orphan, but Laila reawakens her longing for a family of her own. And her feelings for Brig. If he shared her dream—instead of living for the next dangerous mission—she might dare say yes to him again. But he’ll never leave his post, and she won’t trust him with her heart a second time.

“So much has happened since then, for both of us…since you left.”

But Brig had pulled her off the path into the shelter of the big sycamore tree by the front porch. Surprised by his movement and her own lack of resistance, Molly gazed at him, trying to read his expression. In the soft glow of light from the living room, she could barely make out his eyes, so dark and…dear. The years hadn’t changed that.

“We were finished long ago,” she said to save herself. “There’s nothing—”

“There’s something,” he insisted. “Ever since Indiana at least.”

Molly couldn’t deny that. “But those were a few days out of time,” she murmured. “I can’t go back—”

The rest was never said. As Molly stood there, unmoving, he grasped her shoulders to draw her closer, and then Brig’s mouth was touching hers.

Dear Reader,

I love a good reunion story! I always have.

It’s not as if, in my “real” life, I’m still pining for the one that got away. The only guy I do remember who twisted me into knots years ago came nowhere near being Mr. Right for Me. In other words, I don’t yearn for another reality, for what might have been. I like my life just the way it is.

Still. There’s something about first love revisited—in fiction anyway—that always gets to me and touches my heart. That relationship history intensifies both conflict and emotion.

In this book Molly and Brig were engaged once and headed for the altar, but their wedding never happened. Since then Molly has had other losses in her life; she’s not taking any more chances. Besides, some things never change, and for her Brig is one of them. In his military career he is still all about risk. He’s a true daredevil whose life is filled with danger. Just what Molly doesn’t need.

But, well, you know that old saying about the best-laid plans. In spite of the years and the distance between them, neither of my characters has forgotten the other. When romance knocks at the door once again, Molly and Brig must face their long-unresolved feelings for each other after all. Add an adorable baby to the mix and even more second chances begin to seem at least possible.

And yet having all Molly’s dreams come true at last won’t be easy for her or for Brig. They have some difficult choices to make. First, they both must learn to let go of the past—including loss—before they can find their own happily ever after.

I hope you enjoy their roller-coaster ride in these pages as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy reading!

Best,

Leigh

If I Loved You

Leigh Riker

LEIGH RIKER

like many readers and writers, grew up with her nose in a book, and to this day she can’t imagine a better way to spend time than to curl up with a good romance novel—unless it is to write one! When not at home on her small Southern mountain, the Ohio native and award-winning author likes to travel with her husband, the model hero (of course) for her stories. With added inspiration from her mischievous Maine coon cat always perched on her desk, she is at work on a new novel.

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To the memory of

Virginia Helen Riker,

the best mother-in-law ever…

Somewhere out there, I know you’re still dancing

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“HOW DO WOMEN ever manage?”

Brig Collier had no clue. In the past twenty-four hours, through seven and a half time zones, he had seen females nowhere near his size juggle crying infants, fussy toddlers and screaming five-year-olds without breaking a sweat. He figured it had something to do with different elbow joints and pelvic structure.

Even getting out of a cab was a major ordeal. Worse, now he was talking to himself. After fumbling for his wallet, his brain fogged from travel, he paid the fare, then heaved himself from the taxi’s rear seat into the pouring rain.

He reached back in for the overstuffed diaper bag and, finally, for the baby. He lifted her out of the mandatory car seat she’d been sitting in, but Laila just didn’t fit in the crook of his arm. One tiny leg insisted on poking out from her blanket. Poor kid.

Brig felt like a total failure. Never mind his expertise with the black-ops stuff that was his bread and butter. He was still trying to deal with the shock of becoming all too suddenly a stand-in father.

He waited while the driver unloaded their bags from the trunk. One for him, three for Laila. By the time she reached kindergarten, they’d probably be traveling with a U-Haul.

The cabbie couldn’t hide his smirk. “Good luck, mister.” He probably had a dozen kids and could handle six at a time. As he pulled away in his cab, he called out the window, “The first one’s always the hardest.”

Brig frowned. Could it be more obvious that he didn’t know what he was doing? He always knew what he was doing. His life depended on it...and so, unfortunately, did the lives of others. As if he needed that reminder, now he had Laila, and Brig meant to do right by her.

He gazed around, but for one jet-lagged second he couldn’t remember where he was. Oh, yeah, not in Wardak province, Afghanistan. No bullets whizzed past his head here. This was Liberty Courthouse. Small-town America in the heartland of Ohio.

His heartbeat settled. He was looking straight at his parents’ neat suburban house, the safe place he needed for Laila.

The baby whimpered. Cold water dripped from Brig’s hair, making him shiver. And he realized he was standing in the rain like a turkey with its mouth open. Laila was getting wet, too. Brig hurried up the walk to the modest house he’d once called home.

It looked...empty?

Alarm flashed through him. How could that be? After he leaned on the doorbell a third time, he realized no one must be inside.

Brig hadn’t been here in a while. He had no door key to the house.

What to do?

Laila would have to have a bottle soon, dry clothes, a clean diaper.

Other than his absent parents, he had no relatives in town. His friends had moved away. As for the neighbors...he’d burned that bridge long ago, especially with her.

Nonetheless, the next minute he was picking a path across the sodden lawn anyway with Laila in his arms. He’d left her car seat and most of their luggage on his parents’ doorstep to lighten his load, but the insistent memory of a brown-haired girl with laughing green eyes weighed him down at every step. Molly. He’d be lucky if she didn’t kick him across the street.

The very picture of a desperate man, he carried Laila up the sidewalk to Molly’s house. She probably no longer lived here, either. But no doubt her dad still did, except the man would likely greet him with a shotgun.

Brig climbed the steps, one foot slipping on a wet slate tile. Startled, he lost his balance, nearly tossing Laila and him into the rain-flattened peony bushes that flanked the porch.

He grabbed the railing to steady himself at the same time a blast of noise from inside the house assaulted his eardrums. A party? Not in his honor, for sure.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to Liberty.

But he had to consider Laila’s welfare now, not that of the men under his command. Not his own.

* * *

MOLLY DIDN’T BELIEVE in bad omens. As if there were any other kind, including the rain that now slashed the windows. She was already running late, and even the red-and-white banner stretched over the dining room archway didn’t bring her usual smile. The party guests in the living room, ranging in age from six months to sixty years, had begun arriving early, well before midday—had she put the wrong time on the invitations?—and most of them seemed to be talking at once. Every minute or two, the doorbell rang again.

Normally Molly loved parties. At least, she had loved them when there was something to celebrate with that special someone. Now, in the midst of her annual Valentine’s Day bash, she was merely going through the motions for other people.

What else could go wrong?

Maybe the romantic holiday itself had unsettled her.

February was no longer her favorite month, and except for her dad, Molly had loved only two other men in her life. The first she’d rather not think about. The second, sadly, was gone, too.

Determined not to slide further into a slump, she turned to finish with the decorations, hoping no one would notice her disorganization. She should have stayed up later last night, but then, she hadn’t expected the horde to get here this soon. She stuck another heart-shaped decal on the back of a dining room chair. And gave thanks for the blessings she still had.

Her friends. Her family. Her widowed father. Thomas—also known as Pop—was already in his element, riding small children on his knee, telling corny jokes to the teenagers, ignoring his diet to drink a beer or two with the men. Molly wouldn’t spoil his fun.

The family—most of all Pop, who still mourned her mother—relied on her. She was great at holding them together, and proud of it. If this was her fate in life now, instead of a house full of babies to care for and a husband to love, so be it. Molly didn’t expect to find love again. Her family and her day care center, Little Darlings, had to be enough.

And they would be. Molly already needed to expand the center. If all her current plans went well, she could take in more children, hire more assistants to improve her already good teacher-to-student ratio and enhance her program.

Still, she couldn’t shake this stubborn foreboding, her feeling that something was about to happen that would change her life again.

And as if someone had just been cued, the doorbell chimed once more.

In a last attempt to alter her mood, she dabbed one remaining shiny red heart decal at the corner of her mouth, like a beauty mark. Then she shoved the now-decorated chairs back under the table and went to greet her newest guest, determined to enjoy herself if it killed her.

But when she plowed through the crowded living room and opened the front door, her smile vanished. Molly froze. She knew exactly why she had felt such foreboding.

In the doorway stood a tall, all-too-familiar man. His piercing blue eyes met her gaze of recognition, equally shocked.

Molly’s heart tripped on itself as too many memories flooded her mind. She tried to focus on his rain-dampened hair, dark and sleek against his head, but his gaze kept drawing hers back. She had to admit he was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

Molly exchanged a glance with her sister, who stood on the other side of the living room, a party hat in one hand. Ann lifted her eyebrows, and Molly stifled the urge to flee. She was no longer a naive twenty-two-year-old. He might still be handsome, but at thirty and a widow, she was immune, she reassured herself. Why let his abrupt reappearance shake her?

Yet the bluish circles of fatigue under those eyes threatened to undo her. If only she could hide behind the red heart pasted at the corner of her mouth, cool the heat that rose in her face. The last person she’d expected to see was the man she had once loved to distraction, the man who hadn’t wanted to make that final commitment to Molly on their wedding day. Brigham Collier. Her ex-fiancé, the first terrible loss in her life, had come back.

Holding a baby!

* * *

THE PARTY WENT downhill from there. After Brig walked in, Molly was definitely not in a festive mood. The good thing was, nobody noticed except Pop, whose back went rigid with disapproval as soon as he spied Brig. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten, either, what had happened eight years ago.

“Look at this adorable baby,” one of Molly’s cousins cooed, crossing the room with her arms outstretched. “Take off that soaked trench coat and give this poor child to me.”

Looking disoriented, Brig didn’t move except to relinquish the baby. Like Molly, he seemed numb. He was an only child, and his smaller family never had get-togethers of such utter chaos. Then, too, he wasn’t a homebody like Molly, who had never been out of Ohio. No. Brig had left Liberty Courthouse right after he’d run out on her. To this day, according to his worried mother, he preferred flying around the world, getting in and out of trouble on behalf of some quasimilitary outfit no one was supposed to know about. Trying to get himself killed.

Brig was all about risk.

Molly, who had suffered enough loss, hated the very thought of risk.

For years, she reminded herself, she and Brig had literally been worlds apart. The last she’d heard, he was somewhere in Afghanistan.

If he expected her to welcome him warmly, he had some nerve. She peered behind him but didn’t see a wife, which didn’t mean he didn’t have one somewhere. Before she had all her defenses in place, Brig walked right toward her, his gaze as piercing as a laser.

His deep voice sent an unwanted shiver down her spine.

“Hey, Molly.” He bent as though to kiss her cheek, but Molly stepped back to avoid contact. Seeming to sense her rejection, Brig glanced away. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said. “Or that you’d still be putting on this show every year. Sorry to burst in—”

“No, really, it’s a party. The more, the merrier.” She pasted a smile on her face but folded her arms across her chest. “Actually, I haven’t been here,” she went on, “but things change...life changes...and now I’m back.”

Apparently so was he. But why? And for how long?

Not that it mattered to Molly.

“My parents weren’t exactly expecting us,” he said, then explained about new locks and the key he didn’t have. “Do you know where they are?”

She hesitated. “No, but since your dad retired, they come and go all the time.” Unlike Thomas, Molly thought, who stayed home way too much. She paused again, wishing Pop had other interests besides the house and, above all, Molly. “We invited them to the party. I thought they were coming, but maybe they made other plans.”

Brig frowned. “Do you or Thomas have the new key to their house?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Last summer Molly had watered the Colliers’ garden while they were on vacation, but that hadn’t involved her going inside.

She risked a peek at the baby in her cousin’s arms and felt a familiar, deep ache. Surely Brig’s parents would have spread the word about their first grandchild. If that had been Molly’s baby, Pop would have trumpeted the news.

As for Brig, she hadn’t heard a word about any wedding, either.

“I didn’t know you were married,” she murmured, unable to stop herself.

“Me? In my line of work? No, I’m not.” He shifted, looking uncomfortable at the reminder that he’d once left Molly. Across the living room the baby, who was being passed around and admired, began to cry. Brig quickly retrieved the tiny bundle and picked up a bulky diaper bag. “Long story,” he said with a harried glance toward the kitchen. “I’ll tell you later. She’s hungry. I need to fix her a bottle. May I—?”

“Follow me,” Molly said with a sinking feeling.

She didn’t usually turn away from people. Right now that meant Brig.

And, to Molly’s utter dismay, a tiny, helpless infant she couldn’t bear to even look at full-on.

* * *

BRIG STOOD IN the kitchen doorway, the diaper bag weighing down one shoulder and Laila fussing in his arms. Two laughing teenagers sat at the table, and Brig watched them swipe red frosting from a lopsided cake.

“Stop that, you two,” Molly said, but her tone was laced with affection. “I’m no gourmet chef, and you’re not helping my cake appear any better.” She smiled. “My cousins,” she told Brig. “Second cousins.”

Crooked or not, the cake made Brig’s mouth water. The whole room smelled of comfort foods: fried chicken, baked beans laced with brown sugar and onions, and, if Brig wasn’t mistaken, his favorite macaroni and cheese.

Red heart decals—the same kind Molly wore on her face—skipped gaily across the kitchen chairs, and in the dining room on his way through, a green balloon had bounced from the ceiling on his head.

He didn’t belong here. This was like all those birthday parties he’d gone to as a kid but had never felt part of. As though he’d forgotten to bring a present. With a father in the military, he and his parents had lived all over, and making friends became harder and harder as Brig grew older. It was the only life he knew and one reason he’d followed in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. Now, after hearing Dari and Pashto being spoken every day in Afghanistan, even the cadence of English sounded foreign to him. Brig kept losing words in what was being said.

Molly, on the other hand, fit right in. She handed the boy and girl a bowl of potato salad and a relish tray from the fridge. “Set these in the dining room, please.”

When the giggling pair vanished, she waved Brig toward a chair.

“Sit. You look like you need to.”

Brig put down the diaper bag but stayed on his feet, gently rocking Laila in his arms. His head ached.

All he wanted was sleep. All Molly wanted, he guessed, was to avoid him. She hadn’t taken one real good look at the baby, either, and like a cat, Molly maintained a deliberate space between herself and him. Obviously, she hadn’t forgiven him for breaking their engagement years ago. Not that she should. Not that he expected her to.

At the same time he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. The instant he’d seen her, his memories and his guilt had overwhelmed him. His gaze traveled now from her blunt-cut brown hair—shorter than he remembered—to her trim sweater, her fitted jeans and her feet in scarlet socks. But the red heart by her mouth was what kept his eyes riveted. Thick honey seemed to flow through him. And what kind of jerk am I? Molly, with her warmth and openness, had always deserved more.

“Do you have formula?” she asked, still keeping her distance.

It took Brig forever to find a can in the overloaded bag, a clean plastic liner for the bottle and one fresh nipple. Juggling Laila, he managed to put the whole contraption together. Then, Molly eyeing him with obvious suspicion as he walked past her, he opened the microwave and stuck it inside. One minute should do it. He hoped.

Right behind him, Molly almost stepped on his heel.

“You can’t warm a baby’s milk in there.”

“Why not?”

“The bottle might feel cool to the touch, but the milk could be too hot in spots and burn a baby’s mouth and throat.” With an efficiency he could only admire, she took the bottle to the sink and held it under the water. When she seemed satisfied with the temperature, Molly thrust the bottle at Brig. “Shake some on your inner wrist before you give it to her—to make sure.”

He sat down at the table, tried to nestle Laila into a good position, then watched her latch on to the nipple. He could hear the party noise swell from the living room, and the teenagers in the dining room were still giggling. When he glanced up, Molly was all but tapping her foot at his incompetence.

He knew she adored children, but how did she know about babies?

Brig guessed it was time to explain what he was doing with one. Or try to.

“This is Laila,” he began. “She’s two months old.” He smiled down at the baby’s intent expression as she drank, her dark eyes fixed on his face. He cleared his throat. “She isn’t mine, in case you’re wondering....” He trailed off, reluctant to call up the painful memories.

Molly waited for him to go on.

After a long moment Brig tried again. “I was on duty overseas. Hush-hush stuff, flying under the radar, the kind of thing we always do.” It was one reason he’d left Molly. He hadn’t wanted to worry about her worrying about him. At least, that was what he’d told himself then. “Long story short, Laila’s dad was one of my men, one of the team. Sean...fell in love there with a local woman.”

“And they had Laila,” Molly guessed.

Brig nodded, still gazing down at the baby. Her tiny hand closed around his little finger, and his heart melted, which happened about ten times a day.

“They had Laila,” he echoed, his tone husky. “Then, while she was still in the hospital with her mother after the birth, a bunch of insurgents hit the place. Boom. In the bombing, Laila’s mom died instantly.” He paused. “Her name was Zada. You know what that means?”

“No.”

“The lucky one. But that day she wasn’t so lucky...and Sean lived just long enough to make sure Laila was okay.”

Molly’s eyes had softened. “This must be hard to talk about. You don’t have to go on, Brig.”

Why was he surprised at her words? Molly had always been sensitive to other people. Once, she’d even been sensitive to him. Now he swallowed the pain that sometimes threatened to consume him. His anger over Sean and Zada was easier to feel and just as hard to forget.

“But I ask you, Molly—what kind of thing was that? A man goes to see his wife, his new daughter, the happiest kind of day for a young couple in love—a family for the first time—and he ends up dead. They do,” he added.

Molly seemed to be holding her breath. “What about the baby? How did Laila survive that ghastly explosion?”

“The nurses claimed they wanted to give Sean and Zada some time together. They took the baby back to the nursery at the other end of the building minutes before the device went off. She didn’t get a scratch, which is a miracle in itself. I spent the past two months entangled in red tape before I got permission to bring Laila to the States.”

Molly’s gaze brightened, as if a light had been turned on. “Your friend...asked you to keep her. If anything happened to him.”