by Regan Black
Sometimes life can turn on a dime. One phone call and your entire world changes. Those of us who’ve experienced something similar can often remember what clothes we were wearing, and replay the exact words in our mind even years later. Hold the ones you love close. Celebrate every moment you have together. Because I can promise you that you’ll miss it when it’s gone.
With much love and light,
Karen Whiddon
THE TEXAS SOLDIER’S SON
Karen Whiddon
Karen Whiddon started weaving fanciful tales for her younger brothers at the age of eleven. Amid the gorgeous Catskill Mountains, then the majestic Rocky Mountains, she fueled her imagination with the natural beauty surrounding her. Karen now lives in north Texas, writes full-time and volunteers for a boxer dog rescue. She shares her life with her hero of a husband and four to five dogs, depending on if she is fostering. You can email Karen at [email protected]. Fans can also check out her website, karenwhiddon.com.
Books by Karen Whiddon
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
The CEO’s Secret Baby
The Cop’s Missing Child
The Millionaire Cowboy’s Secret
Texas Secrets, Lovers’ Lies
The Rancher’s Return
The Texan’s Return
Wyoming Undercover
The Texas Soldier’s Son
The Coltons of Texas
Runaway Colton
The Coltons of Oklahoma
The Temptation of Dr. Colton
The Coltons: Return to Wyoming
A Secret Colton Baby
Silhouette Romantic Suspense
The Princess’s Secret Scandal
Bulletproof Marriage
The Cordiasic Legacy
Black Sheep P.I.
The Perfect Soldier
Profile for Seduction
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Dedicated to my daughter, Stephanie Waters.
One of the strongest women I know. I love you, Steph.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
CHAPTER 1
“He’s dead?” Nicole Shelton-Mabry gripped the phone so hard she thought it might break. “What do you mean, he’s dead? He was fine when he left for work this morning.” If by fine, one meant hungover. Last night her husband Bill had staggered in at 3 a.m., slurring her name, already in a rage by the time she’d hurried downstairs. The black-and-blue bruise on her upper arm had been his response to her tentative hello. Luckily, once he’d vented his anger, he’d stumbled to the couch and passed out before he could hit her again.
The pain had blossomed like an explosion. Since she had experience covering bruises, and luckily this time he hadn’t got her face, she knew she needed to put ice on it. Wincing as she explored her arm and shoulder with tentative fingers, she supposed she ought to be glad he hadn’t broken anything this time.
Prone on the couch, he’d let out a snore. She’d stood staring at him for a moment, hatred mingling with her pain, and wished she’d had enough guts to grab her cast-iron skillet and slam it into his skull until he’d never be able to hurt her again. Instead, she’d gone to the freezer and wrapped ice in a dishtowel, glad baby Jacob still slept in his crib upstairs.
She’d taken a deep breath, crossed the room and carefully removed Bill’s wallet from his back pocket. He loved to carry wads of cash and his drinking made him careless with his money, so she’d been removing as much as she safely could each time he passed out.
This time she took an extra twenty in addition to the hundred and five. He’d never asked her about his money and she figured he probably thought he’d spent it at whatever hellhole he frequented the next town over. Topless bars were his favorite and he didn’t dare go anywhere around here where someone he knew might see him. After all, he had his position as church deacon to consider.
Replacing his wallet, she’d hurried to the laundry room and shoved the bills in her hiding place, a brown envelope tucked in the pocket on the back of the washer behind the laundry detergent, fabric softener and dryer sheets. The one place Bill never went was the laundry room. Instead, he’d shove his smoke-scented, bourbon-stained clothes at her with an order to get them clean.
She’d been taking money from him for several months. Soon, she hoped to have enough to get her and Jacob on a bus that would carry them to a new life somewhere far, far away.
“Nicole? Are you there?” Yates, an older man who worked for Bill, sounded tired. “I know this is a shock, but Dan and Theresa are too upset and I figured someone needed to let you know.”
Dan and Theresa were Bill’s parents. They all worked together at the trucking company Dan had started years ago.
Mabry Trucking. If they knew what kind of man their son had become, they never let on to Nicole.
“I’m here,” Nicole replied, her voice shaky and her mouth dry. She knew she needed to pretend the same way she pretended in church that she, Bill and Jacob were one big, happy family, but she couldn’t. Not yet, not now, with a bruise the size of a robin’s egg on her cheekbone underneath her swollen black eye. “What happened, Yates? Was he in an accident?”
“Nope.” Despite the somber tone, Yates didn’t sound like he was grieving too much either. She imagined Bill had made his life hell as well.
“He just keeled over at his desk,” Yate continued. “Cup of coffee in his hand. I called 911 and they tried to revive him, but he was already gone. I think maybe he had a massive heart attack.”
After thanking him for calling, Nicole hung up. She knew she should have felt something, anything instead of this awful numbness, but digging deep, the only emotion she felt was relief.
The next several hours passed in a blur. Nicole stuck to her house as much as possible, answering the phone and trying to regain her composure. She’d thought she’d have decisions to make over her husband’s funeral, but his mother had taken over all that, promising only to make sure Nicole got the details, along with the bill.
That afternoon, she’d had a few visitors, mainly from Bill’s church, where she assumed none of them had truly known her husband.
Her own parents even made a token appearance to express their condolences. Her mother had brought Nicole a chicken casserole, offered a mechanical hug and didn’t even ask to see the baby. Nicole went and got Jacob after his nap and brought him out, which immediately made her parents decide to leave.
Luckily, at three months old, Jacob was too young to be hurt. Nicole knew she wanted to make sure he never was. Her parents bore no love for her son. They, along with Bill himself, were the only ones who knew Bill wasn’t actually Jacob’s father. They’d all made sure not one word leaked about Jacob’s parentage. None of them wanted to deal with the shame. As for Nicole, if she could have, she’d have shouted the truth from the rooftops.
The phone rang, Nicole answered. Bill’s mother called several times and wept, sounding as if she was nearly prostrate from grief. Bill’s father, a man Nicole suspected was much like Bill himself, remained stoic, saying only that he’d be supporting his wife through it all. They’d begrudgingly allowed N
icole to make a few choices as to the final arrangements. She was their son’s wife after all, whether they liked her or not. She’d had Jacob after all, which helped her status in their eyes. The Mabrys doted on the infant, whom they believed to be the next Mabry heir.
Now alone in the big house, Nicole figured she’d eventually tell them the truth. She’d actually be glad to, because she’d grown weary of living such a bold-faced lie. Once, it had been a necessity. Now, as a new widow, she figured she’d be able to sell the house and combine that money with whatever was in the bank account and move far, far away from this place.
She went to bed early, slept deeply, and rose shortly after seven, when Jacob wanted his feeding.
After coffee and a shower, she debated simply unplugging the land line. But before she could, the phone rang, the shrill sound making her jump. Yesterday, she’d found the steady barrage of calls overwhelming. She’d actually stopped answering for a few hours and let the machine take care of it instead. After the sun set, the calls had died down to a trickle and then ceased altogether, giving her a quiet night.
Now with the morning, clearly they were starting up again.
Caller ID showed the Anniversary sheriff’s department, so she answered. “Missus Mabry, this is Sheriff Cantrell. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Your husband’s parents insisted on an autopsy, so we rushed one through. The Medical Examiner put Bill ahead of everything else, considering all the Mabrys have done for this community.” He took a deep breath. “Are you sitting down, ma’am?”
When she allowed that she wasn’t, he gently asked her to please do so. Her stomach churned, but she did as he asked and told him she’d done so.
“Good, good.” Now he cleared his throat. “The coroner’s report came back and Bill didn’t die of heart disease as originally believed.” He paused, probably for dramatic effect. “He was poisoned. We found high concentrations of arsenic in his coffee.”
“Poisoned?” Blinking, she struggled to process his words. “You’re saying someone at the office poisoned him?”
“Possibly,” he agreed. “However, several of his employees claim he brought the coffee with him. I don’t know if it came from home or if he stopped and bought some and poured it into his own cup. Do you have any idea?”
She shook her head before realizing he couldn’t see her. “No, I don’t. He usually doesn’t have time to make coffee here, but I don’t know where he’d stop to buy it.”
“Gas station, maybe. Or fast food place.” Another dramatic pause. “Listen, Nicole. Do you know if Bill had any enemies? Anyone who might want to harm him?”
He meant murder him, she thought. With Bill’s abrasive, confrontational personality and his entitled, the-world-owes-me belief, she couldn’t imagine many people liked him. But she truly didn’t know. Bill kept her separated from his work life. Heck, Bill had kept her separated from everything and everyone, with the exception of the church his uncle had founded. And even there, he never allowed her to be alone with anyone. She guessed he was too worried she’d tell the truth about him.
“I’m sorry,” she finally admitted. “I have no idea.”
“I see.” The sheriff’s sigh told her he’d hoped for more. “You might want to go see your mother-in-law. She’s taking her son’s death pretty hard.”
“I imagine,” Nicole murmured. Bill had been Theresa Mabry’s entire world. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a car. I have no way to get over there.” Bill hadn’t liked her to have the freedom of her own vehicle, so they’d only owned one, which he took to work every day.
“Oh.” Apparently nonplussed, Sheriff Cantrell went silent for a few seconds. “I’ll have one of my guys bring your car back to you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, relieved when he ended the call.
Bill was dead. The words echoed over and over inside her head. Bill. Was. Dead. Never to hit her again. Never to scream invectives at her, never to force her to have sex whenever and wherever he felt like it. Gone.
She couldn’t bring herself to mourn the monster Bill had been, though she empathized with the pain his parents must feel. She imagined they’d search long and hard for whoever had done this to their beloved son. Once the perpetrator had been found, the Mabrys would enact a swift and merciless vengeance.
Not sure what else to do, Nicole stuck to her usual routine, taking care of Jacob and housecleaning while he slept. She did two loads of laundry and almost caught herself ironing Bill’s work shirts—he liked them well starched. She remembered in time and simply hung them up in his closet without pressing them.
One of the sheriff’s deputies delivered Bill’s car and keys around three. Another officer followed in a marked patrol car. Both of them expressed sympathy at her loss as they handed over the keys. Dry-eyed, she thanked them, staring at the BMW and hoping she remembered how to drive.
Once they were gone, she went back inside. Jacob’s car seat was still tucked in the closet under the stairs, since Bill refused to drive around with a car seat in his car. She carried it outside, glad Jacob was napping, and placed it in the backseat the way she always did before church. Once she had it properly attached, she stood back with some satisfaction and surveyed her handiwork. This time, she wouldn’t be pulling the car seat out.
After locking the car, she returned to her home and checked both her cell and the landline. No missed calls. Which meant neither of Bill’s parents had felt the need to call his wife to commiserate about his death.
Which meant that she should call them. While she wasn’t really close to either of Bill’s parents, she’d guessed they had no idea how their son treated her or what kind of activities he enjoyed in his spare time. She wouldn’t take that away from them, not in a million years.
So she took a deep breath and dialed Theresa’s cell phone. Theresa picked up on the third ring.
“Nicole,” she said, her voice husky from crying. “I assume you’ve heard. I can’t believe my Billy boy is gone.”
“I’m still trying to process the news,” Nicole admitted. “The Sheriff said they thought someone might have poisoned him?”
Theresa sniffled. “Yes. They’ve asked us to make a list of possible enemies who could be potential suspects.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Is it?” Theresa’s voice hardened. “I’m going to do you a favor and give you advance notice,” she continued. “Your name will be on that list.”
“What?” Nicole’s heart caught in her throat. Shocked, she struggled to find a response. Any response. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because my son told us about you. He said you’re a money-grubber, never satisfied with anything he gave you.” Vicious anger warred with grief in the older woman’s voice. “Now you have the house and the car and his bank account. But so help me, if we find one shred of evidence to indicate it was you, we will come after you. If you did anything to harm Bill, you will never be allowed to raise our grandson. Do you understand?”
* * *
Kyle Benning dragged his hand over his freshly-cut hair and struggled to relax the tension in his shoulders. Despite his honorable discharge from the army, he continued to wear his hair military-style. He felt more comfortable that way. Once an army ranger, always an army ranger.
That said, he couldn’t wait to get home. He had no choice but to surprise Nicole and show up without a phone call, since her number had changed. Worst of all, he hadn’t even had a cell phone until after he’d been discharged from the hospital. They’d flown him Afghanistan to Ramstein in Germany, where he’d remained until his condition was no longer considered critical. Months later, conscious and able to finally sit up and take solid foods, they’d deemed him on the road to recovery. Finally.
Then, they’d put him aboard another transport plane and he’d traveled from Ramstein to Walter Reed hospital in Bethesda, Maryland to continue his
convalescence. Since he’d been in a medically induced coma for several months, he hadn’t been aware of any of this. He wasn’t even sure what had happened to him, but at least he knew who he was.
And who he wasn’t. The name tags around his neck weren’t his. After the enemy had taken most of the soldier’s dog tags, Hank Smith had managed to hang onto one of his and had pressed it into Kyle’s hand before dying.
No one would believe him at first. Then the IED had ripped their world apart in a single blaze of light. He’d learned Hank had been killed, torn apart by the blast, still wearing Kyle’s dog tags. Kyle had been believed dead.
The only family of his that they could locate, the foster family back in Anniversary, Texas, who had raised him, had already been notified of his passing. Kyle doubted they’d even cared, but he’d worried himself sick about Nicole, the love of his life and the woman he’d planned to marry someday.
He tried to call her, only to learn her cell phone had been disconnected. Her parents number had also been changed and apparently was unlisted,
Briefly, he wondered if she was safe. It had been an entire year since he’d held her in his arms. Through all his seemingly endless deployment, her picture and thoughts of her love had kept him sane. Despite losing the photograph in the explosion, she’d never left his heart or his memory.
These days, he might be all messed up, but he knew she would be able to help him get through this. PTSD, they’d told him, as if that acronym could cover his nightmares and jumpiness, the irritability and constant, pressing fear. Even here, away from the constant sound of gunfire and explosions, any innocent loud sound could have him instantly on alert.
Nicole, Nicole, Nicole. He chanted her name in the middle of night sweats, the double syllables becoming his mantra, the single thing he clung to in order to keep from falling over the edge.