The Corporal and the Choir Girl
The Soldiers of Purple Heart Ranch Book 1
Shanae Johnson
Copyright © 2019, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.
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Edited by Alyssa Breck
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Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition May 2019
Contents
Author’s Note
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 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Also by Shanae Johnson
Author’s Note
My favorite type of love stories are the ones when one or both of the love interests have a wound, be it internal or external. I love reading, watching, listening to how these two people will work out their differences and, most importantly, heal together. That’s what’s in store for anyone who visits the fictional Purple Heart Ranch; a place where Wounded Warriors find rehabilitation for their bodies and everlasting love to heal their hearts.
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In order to make this particular story, The Corporal and the Choir Girl, work I had to take some liberties with how things work in the real world, particularly when it comes to the military. When you turn the page, you’ll find out that the hero is headed to a bereavement visit. It is not protocol for enlisted men to make bereavement calls before someone who is trained to do so visits the family. I know that. However, leaving out the Bereavement Officer made the story work better. I hope you can suspend your disbelief on that front.
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Also the five stories in this series will deal with elements of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). These love stories will presume that love is the key to healing these internal wounds. I know that love is often not enough in matters of this disorder. If you, or someone you love, is suffering from this heartbreaking ailment, please know there is help in the real world. That real world help is often the best form of medicine, along with a side dose of a few sweet kisses.
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I hope you enjoy The Corporal and the Choir Girl, the first book in the Soldiers of the Purple Heart Ranch series.
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Love,
Shanae
Chapter One
It was the metallic smell of fresh blood that knocked him off his feet, not the blast from the bomb exploding behind him. Corporal Brandon Lucas got down, ducking and covering to avoid the deadly fragments that radiated from the center of the attack. From his training, he knew that most of the damage from an explosion was caused in the first few seconds of the blast wave. It was the shock that left a lasting impact.
Heat licked up his back. Screams pierced his ears. Even with his eyes closed, he saw the flames flicker on the inside of his eyelids. When the worst of it was over, he looked over his shoulder. But all he could see was black smoke and orange flames.
There was no one left standing. Not his commanding officer. Not the other two men on his team. That’s when he lost his footing.
He’d been on his knees. As he tried to stand, the combination of smoke and blood knocked him onto his chest. Brandon went down hard.
His palms scraped the coarse desert sand. Dirt mixed with the metallic blood on his tongue constricting his throat. He couldn't speak, but he had to. There were orders to be followed. He was trained for this, though the simulations and drills never quite prepared any soldier for the realities of combat.
He inhaled. Blood wasn't the only chemical smell. Mixed with the synthetic smell of the explosive material were the charcoal scent of gunpowder, the rancid odor of burned flesh, and the toxic fumes of diesel fuels. He knew he had to push past the assault on his nose. It was a rookie mistake, and he was a seasoned officer. The unexpected smells of war typically startled privates who’d just gotten a bit of hair on their chests and dust on their polished boots.
Under orders, Brandon had given the command to proceed. Yet, when he had, there had been hesitation in his voice. Brandon never hesitated. Not once in his years in the United States Army. But something had been off. His gut had told him so. But orders were orders. And so he’d given them. Unfortunately, his team had heard his doubt, and they too had hesitated.
Then everything blew up in their faces. All that was left was blood, and burning flesh, and a blaze. And it was all his fault.
"Lucas, wake up."
Brandon jerked awake at the sound of his superior’s voice. He'd only closed his eyes for a few moments. He knew that because the last time he looked at his watch it had been five minutes ago. But that was all it took for the scene to invade his dreams and assault his senses like he was back in that village with smoke and gunfire and the cries of women and children and enemies all around him.
That was not the scene before him now. The sun was peaking up past the horizon. He’d watched it go down the previous night and rise up as it brought forth a new day. The scenery outside the window moved slowly past him as the airplane made its slow taxi to the gate.
"We're here."
Sergeant Colin Chase looked back at Brandon from his seat. Beside him, Brandon felt an elbow from his seat companion. Private Mark Ortega had already unbuckled his belt and was ready to bounce out of his seat. Brandon knew that Ortega was more ready to get out of the confines of their metal transport than he was ready to carry out their latest orders. Brandon saw no reason to rush for that very reason. Also because he knew they had ample time to make their connecting flight.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the pilot's voice from the overhead speakers. "Please allow our members of the United States Army to depart the plane first. We thank you for your service."
The three men in uniform rose slowly from their seats. Applause sounded from the back rows of the commercial airplane. Chase turned to the civilians at the back of the plane. He put on that thousand-watt smile that had been captured once or twice in military brochures. Brandon swore he heard a few feminine sighs of approval as Sgt. Chase saluted and waved.
Those sighs doubled when Private Ortega, now free from the confines of the window seat, smiled his dimpled grin from the aisle. There was a reason he was nicknamed Lady Killer back on the base. It had nothing to do with his sharp aim and everything to do with those twin bullets on the sides of his face.
For his part, Brandon gave a quick salute and turned away. He didn't want the praise, not today. Maybe not ever again. His gaze fell on the empty seat beside the one Chase had vacated. Brandon’s mind went to the missing fourth member of their team.
“Hey.” Chase’s hand came down on his shoulder, a vise grip that Brandon knew he’d never escape. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could. We all did.”
Brandon didn’t nod his agreement. He turned from the empty seat. Reaching up to the overhead compartment, he grabbed his duffle bag and headed to the exit. His movements decisive now that he was back on his home turf.
It was his first time back in the
United States in over a year. The heat of Atlanta felt like the same heat he’d confronted every day in the deserts of Afghanistan. Brandon wasn't from Atlanta. None of the men were. This was just a layover. Their final destination was the northwestern state of Montana.
After a favor pulled by Chase, their fire team was headed for some rehabilitation at a ranch run by vets. The Purple Heart Ranch it was called. There, the three remaining members of the team might heal from the ravages of their last assignment. Though Brandon doubted it.
All scrapes, burns, and bruises from the ambush had healed. Brandon’s skin had reknit from the burns. His aches had dulled. It was only his mind that still had an open wound.
They all had open wounds on the inside. Classic symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Brandon's symptoms robbed him of sleep where every time he closed his eyes he’d relive the events of their last mission and his one mistake that had knocked their four-man fire team down to three.
It was supposed to be their last job before their separation from the army. He hadn’t expected that separation to be so permanent. But it’s what they all had signed up for.
Now they had one mission left before the separation was complete. In this final assignment, they had to tell the family of Private Reece Cartwright that the vibrant young man wasn't coming home again.
At the arrivals gate, people waved signs and held up posters thanking the soldiers for their service. Chase and Ortega put their winning grins on. Brandon forced a smile, but a glimpse in the glass window told him it did not meet muster. Still, he did what he was trained to do, he soldiered on.
Chapter Two
The choir director’s fingers struck the first chord on the ancient organ in the church’s music room. Voices rose in praise and perfect harmony. It was a joyful noise.
Reegan Cartwright raised her voice alongside the small but devoted choir. This was her favorite song of the program. She closed her eyes as the words of the song penetrated her heart.
There was nothing like the sounds of the choir singing praises on a Sunday. This wasn't a Sunday. It was a Saturday night at choir practice. By the way practice was going, it was going to be a rapturous service come tomorrow.
As the music swelled, so did the passion in Reegan's heart. It lifted her voice. Unfortunately, the note was an octave out of step with the other singers around her. The organ music came to a crashing halt.
Everyone turned to Reegan since the dissonant note had come from her lips. Reegan pressed a hand to her throat, rubbing at the corded skin she found there. This was the third time that day where she’d hit the wrong note on a song she’d sang in perfect accord her whole life.
“Is everything okay, Reegan?” Barbara Bowen, the choir director, asked her. “Are you coming down with something?”
Reegan checked in with her body. She did feel out of sorts, but not the yucky feeling that accompanied a cold. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and was met with cool skin. She swallowed a couple of times, but there was no scratchiness in her throat.
“I’m fine,” she said. But even those words hadn’t felt quite right. “I’m just going to grab a drink of water.”
Reegan stepped out of the group. Her friends and neighbors that she’d known her whole life all made room for her to take a moment to herself. These were the same people who had rallied around her after she’d lost her parents three years ago. They were the same people that invited her to family dinners every Sunday night or on holiday weekends now that her parents were gone and her brother was away. She loved each and every one of them and couldn’t fathom her life outside this community, her extended family.
Her twin brother Reece was off overseas serving his country, just as he’d always dreamed. Reegan was also doing what she’d dreamed of. Singing in a choir was all she ever wanted to do in life.
Her mother had joked that she’d come out of the womb singing. That even when baby Reegan had awoken her late in the night, it had been the most resonant cries she’d ever heard, and she was tempted to listen to Reegan’s wails rather than offering her comfort to get her quiet.
The moment she could join, Reegan had signed up for the youth choir. By the time she’d become a teen, she’d graduated into the full choir with the other adults. Reegan spent all of her time singing. But not just any singing. She might hum along to a pop hit or country song. But gospel and hymns were what brought her joy.
Singing in the church that she was raised in, the church her parents were married in, the church she and her twin brother were baptized in, that was the dream. And she was living it. Even though her parents had passed on and her brother was away saving the world in the service, Regan was living her best life.
She sipped from the cool water in the cup. The liquid slid easily down her throat meeting no obstructions or sore spots. When it reached her chest, it met with a rumble there.
Reegan rubbed at her chest. Her palm rested on her heartbeat. The organ raced, beating twice as fast as normal, as though she’d just run down the hall. But she hadn’t. So why was her heart racing as though something was wrong?
Reegan took a few deep breaths. And almost instantly, her heart rate settled. She continued breathing deep as she made her way back to the music room. She even practiced some runs. Everything, her pulse, her vocal cords, all seemed to be back in working order.
When she rejoined the group, they tried the song again. This time Reegan hit all the notes with no problem. The song finished, and the choir was once more in perfect harmony. As she packed up to leave, Barbara pulled her aside.
“Do you think you’ll be ready for the solo tomorrow?” Barbara asked.
Reegan loved adding her voice to the group’s. But she never felt closer to heaven than when she got the spotlight on the stage. “Of course, I will. I think I just may be tired, that’s why I missed the note.”
“I’d have to agree, Reegan. You’re always overextending yourself. If you’re not here volunteering at the church, then you’re out at someone’s house giving them your time. Or you’re off at the Purple Heart Ranch working their gardens.”
That was Reegan’s other passion. She had a small plot of land out back of her house that she and her mother had turned into a small garden. But on the ranch, she had acres she could plant and cultivate. In the last year that the ranch had been open, it had become her second favorite place in the world. The first being the home she’d lived in her whole life.
“I like being busy,” she said to Barbara. “And I like giving my time to others. I have the luxury of not having to work since I live rent free and my parents left me a small sum to live off.”
Reegan hadn’t gone to college or pursued any work other than giving her time to others. She hadn’t wanted to waste her parents' money on an overpriced education when she knew singing was her passion. And that the only place she wanted to sing was in her church choir. Plus, her parents’ hard earned money had been reserved for her brother who had realized his dream of going into the Army.
To that end, they’d left Reece the house and Reegan a nice monetary sum. Being true twins, the siblings had decided to share their inheritance. They hadn’t even needed to speak their decision. Being connected in the way that twins were, they just knew each other’s decision.
So, Reegan stayed in the house while Reece went off to save the world. She invested a good portion of the money in repairs on the ancient home, though there was a lot more she had to do. But those repairs could wait until the next time Reece came home, which by her calculations should be soon. Her heartbeat sped up again at the thought of having her brother home again.
“I’ll go home and get a good night’s sleep,” Reegan said to Barbara. “I promise I’ll be rested and ready in the morning.”
Chapter Three
Brandon's eyes were wide open as their connecting flight began its descent. He looked over at Chase’s and Ortega’s faces in the two connecting seats. Blessedly, they were in three adjoined seats in the middle row th
is time. The fourth seat was occupied by an elderly woman.
Chase and Ortega had slept through the afternoon flight. Each man's eyes were shut, gripped in the peace of sleep. Ortega's mouth was slightly open, a quiet snore whistling out of his nose. Chase’s head was tipped back against the headrest. His jaw a firm line that brooked no nonsense even in repose.
Not too long ago, Brandon had come upon a similar scene. Though back in the desert both men had lain in the dirt with their eyes closed. Their uniforms weren’t pristine as they were now. Dirt, dust, and blood had covered them. Instead of the calm and soothing voice of the flight attendant giving landing instructions, screams and groans had sounded in the chaos after the gunfire and ear-wrenching explosion had died down.
Brandon hadn't known if the two were living or dead. He was hurt himself, but he managed to crawl to them. Ortega was closer, and Brandon reached out and found the pulse at the man’s limp wrist. Before Brandon could get to Chase, the man was already rising to his feet.
The Terminator, Sergeant Colin Chase had been known as back on the base. His fellow soldiers swore he was more machine than man with how far he could go and his expectations that those behind would keep up. Also for his relentless pursuit of his targets. Their last mission was the first time he’d returned empty handed with no asset and missing one of his own.
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