Robert thought about it. “Probably a little bit of both, but I’m leaning more toward the latter. Why?”
“Have you considered that maybe the Navy SEALs might be a better fit?” David told him. “She’s a legacy, which helps. And I know you’re connected up the wazoo with that lot. If anyone can get the Navy to accept a woman in its special forces, it’s probably you, especially with a cadet as talented as Samantha.”
Robert sat back. He did have far more contacts and much more sway with the higher-ups in the Pentagon on the Navy side. And he could get her access to active SEALs with a few favors pulled in. That would be easy enough to organize. SEALs didn’t accept women either, but at least Sam could train with them.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Robert acknowledged. “So besides excluding her from the Challenge, what other punishment did you give her?”
David laughed softly. “She’s paired with De Soto for the rest of the year. I figure that’s punishment enough.”
Robert agreed, finished the conversation, and set the phone down, lost in thought. Hannah came back out at some point with her own cup of coffee, breaking his reverie as she sat down beside him.
“Is everything all right with little missy?” she asked.
“She got disqualified from the Challenge for fighting,” Robert told her.
Hannah flinched in surprise. “Who with?”
“This senior who’s been picking on her. Sasser doesn’t know who started it, but Sammy finished it.”
Hannah laughed a little. “Bet he won’t be picking on her again.”
“No, ma’am,” Robert agreed as he sipped his coffee, watching the boys playing by the stables. He knew Sam would be crushed, but it was for the best. She just didn’t realize it yet.
“You going to tell me what else has been bothering you?” Hannah asked him after a moment.
Robert shot her a sidelong look. “Swear to God, you got antennas coming out the side of your head, woman.”
Hannah grinned. “I just know you well, Rob. Comes with experience, I reckon.”
He sighed, rubbed his brow. “She’s falling in love.”
Hannah looked out across the yard. The Sunday morning sun was already warming the dewy earth, filtering through the large oak trees surrounding the house. “I know.”
Rob glanced at her in surprise. “She say anything to you?”
“Enough.” Hannah shrugged. “Sammy’s a cool one. Gets that from you. You can tell more from what she doesn’t say than what she does sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know if I like this kid.”
Hannah laughed outright. “Lord, I’d be worried if you approved of any boy trying to get into your only daughter’s knickers.”
Robert rolled his eyes. “I’m hardly a prude.”
“No, but you’re definitely not going to trust any guy who’s gunning for your girl, Rob. You may be rich as sin and powerful as a king in these parts, but when it comes to Sammy, you’re just her daddy.”
“I figure I got to let this happen, even if I don’t like it,” he admitted.
“Sam’s going to do whatever she feels like anyhow—just like you would. Might as well let her be,” she advised sagely.
“Even if this guy’s not good enough for her?” Robert asked.
“You’re not the first father on the planet who has said that, and you definitely won’t be the last,” Hannah replied smartly.
They sat on the porch swing for a few minutes in companionable silence, enjoying the breeze and the warm fall air.
“I’m going to give you a nickel’s worth of free advice,” Hannah said after a while.
“I’m all ears.” And he was. Hannah Nelson was the closest thing Robert had to a sister, and she and Grant had practically raised his own children for him when he’d been too lost and depressed to see his way past his wife’s sudden and inexplicable death. They’d been friends for more than twenty years, and he trusted Hannah’s judgment, especially when it came to Sam.
“Even if you don’t like this boy, as long as Sammy does, you welcome that boy and you keep him close. She sees you resisting in any way, and she’ll only dig deeper.”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” Robert asked.
Hannah nodded. “Exactly.”
“I may have put my boot in that already,” Robert admitted, recalling the anger and frustration on Wes’s face as he signed the NDA with a fast scrawl. Wes hadn’t understood it, not really, and Sammy probably wouldn’t either if she ever found out, but he’d forced Wes’s hand to protect her.
When Robert had told Wes it would never be a level playing field for Sammy, he meant it. People automatically assumed that because she was wealthy, she’d have it easy. Human nature. Money translated into automatic dominance, power, and noticeability—and therefore, greater advantages. The Wyatt name carried credibility and respect. But for a girl determined to make her own way in the world, that kind of attention and association would translate into a near-automatic dismissal as well. No one would ever take Samantha seriously. Because the assumption would be that she hadn’t earned it on her own steam, fair or not.
Even worse, what if Wes took private photos of her that could harm her career and her reputation? She’d never be able to live that down—her private humiliations put out for public consumption. A father’s worst nightmare. Robert may have burned his bridge with Wes already, but he wouldn’t take it back. Not for a moment, especially if it meant protecting Sammy, whether she liked it or not.
Hannah considered him before picking up his empty coffee cup. “I don’t know what you did, Rob, but you need to find a way to make things right between you and Sammy, with or without this boy in her life. Because she’s already growing apart from you more every day. And if you let young love drive a wedge between the two of you—” She shook her head as she stood slowly. “Rob, you might not ever get her back.”
*
September—Sunday Afternoon
Camp Swift, Bastrop County, Texas
S A M A N T H A
Sam dragged the mop back and forth across the concrete floor of the men’s barracks, her exhaustion and general achiness making her slower than usual. She stopped for a second, dragging a sleeve across the sweat on her brow before she glanced over at Alejandro. He was sitting in a corner, shining boots and ignoring her, the blatant hostility dwindling into the tired, bitter disappointment that permeated the room.
The reactions of the other A&M cadets had shifted from shocked to curious to outright mockery after Sasser announced the news that she and Alejandro were out of the running. Sam felt alternately justified and ashamed about her actions—a total conflict. On the one hand, she wouldn’t let Alejandro get away with what he did, but on the other, she’d wished she’d been more patient and premediated in her response. She could have been far sneakier in her retaliation had she not let her temper get the best of her, but she was proud she’d gotten her licks in despite being at a disadvantage. Either way, it was a crushing disappointment. She’d wanted to cry and rage and hash it out, but the one person she’d normally talk to about this wasn’t speaking to either of them.
Sam listened to Rita humming while she scrubbed the floors in the barracks bathroom. Rita was beyond pissed with the both of them, and justifiably so. But their disqualification meant she’d made it onto the list for the final Ranger Challenge team when Sasser announced his selection, so there was a little bit of silver lining that particular cloud.
Rita may not be the best shot, like Sam, or the fastest at obstacle courses, like Alejandro, but she had the makings of a damn good soldier—a contender in her own right—and getting onto the final team would be a feather in her cap no matter which platoon Rita decided to enlist with upon graduation. And that was the only reason Rita was whistling while she worked. Sam was certain of it.
Frustrated and exhausted, Sam hunched her shoulders and kept mopping, moving methodically from one end of the floor to the other, keeping her hea
d down, focusing on getting through today so she could make it back to her place and lose herself in the sweet relief of a few hours’ sleep. She was angry and sad and hurting, but none of that would help her, and she’d just experienced firsthand what happened when she let her emotions get the best of her.
Rita came out of the bathrooms with a bucket and cleaning supplies. She looked at Sam first and then Alejandro. “I don’t know what the hell beef you two have with each other, but it’s gone too far,” she declared, hands on her hips. “You two need to get it together. You’re harming more than yourselves and your military careers at this point—you’ve hurt me and you’ve hurt the Corps.”
Sam stopped mopping and Alejo stopped scrubbing. They both looked at Rita wearily.
“Don’t get me wrong—” Rita continued. “I’m happy I made the team, but we both know the only reason I’m in there is because you’re out. You two are the best we’ve got, and because you’re acting like stupid assholes, our school might not win for the first time in years because we don’t have our best out there. Feel me?”
“I’m sorry, Rita,” Sam sighed, rubbing her brow. “I fucked up—I know that. I’m sorry for letting you and the team down.”
“Yeah, you did.”
Alejandro shocked Sam by setting down his brush, walking to Rita and pulling her into a close hug. “Lo siento,22 coz,” he murmured, squeezing her gently. “This situation is all chueco23 now, and it’s my fault. I take the blame.”
Rita pushed him back, looked him dead in the eye. “You gotta make this right, Alejo. I don’t care what’s gone down between the two of you, but you gotta do better now—and not just because I’m pissed as shit with you. You’ve got a future, mijo. You made me believe we could do this together, remember?” Rita’s eyes filled up with tears. “We got into college, man. How many guys we grow up with get this far? And now you almost ruin your only way out?”
“I know,” Alejandro sighed, squeezing her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better, coz.”
“Yeah, you will.” Rita looked over his shoulder at Sam. “That means you too, jaina.”
Sam nodded tiredly, and Alejandro looked over his shoulder at her, the hostility between them dulled down to exhausted aggravation.
“You two dumb shits are the best cadets in the program, hands down,” Rita pointed out. “Think about how much you could accomplish if you got over yourselves!”
Alejandro crossed his arms, and Sam rolled Rita’s words around her tired mind. They’d lost the chance to prove themselves through the Challenge, but that didn’t mean they didn’t still have opportunities to stand out.
Sam looked Alejandro square in the eye. “We don’t have to like each other. Hell, we probably never will. But we’re both damn good individually, and your cousin’s right. We could be unbeatable if we figured out a way to work together paired up.”
Alejandro considered her warily. “Go on.”
“Think of all the FTXs we’ll blow out of the water between the two of us for the rest of the year. We could come out with the highest ratings of anyone here,” Sam continued. “Way I see it, we could expend all our energy trying to screw each other over, or we buckle down and figure out a way to beat every single record the A&M has ever seen.”
“She’s right, Alejo,” Rita added, squeezing her cousin’s shoulder.
Alejandro stayed quiet for a couple minutes, mulling over the options, and probably weighing how much he hated Sam versus how much he thought he could gain from an alliance with her.
Sam stood still and serious, waiting for him to come to his senses.
“You slack off or drag me down in any way, I’ll end you,” he said after a long pause.
Sam smiled slowly. “Check your ego at the door, De Soto. You’ll do well to try to keep up with me.”
He crossed the room and slowly, deliberately extended his hand. “The goal is we beat every ROTC record we can this year,” he said, his voice and expression completely serious.
She clasped his hand. “Agreed.”
“And we don’t hang out or talk or braid each other’s hair between training, right? We’re not friends,” he said sternly. “We’re just partners.”
Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “The only thing we do together is go down in history as the best military duo this school has ever seen.”
Chapter 25
September—Monday Morning
Professor Purcell’s Office, Texas A&M
W E S L E Y
Wes stood outside Professor Purcell’s office for a good ten minutes, pacing, and planning what he was going to say. It had been a long damn weekend, and Wes felt like a freaking yo-yo—high from Sam on Friday, side-swiped by her father on Saturday, then nearly manic trying to come up with viable alternatives to, or at least some damn good excuses for, bailing out of a contest he’d practically begged his way into.
Any way Wes looked at it, he didn’t have a good enough alternative for the story, and Purcell wouldn’t be satisfied with any excuse Wes gave, no matter how reasonable. Purcell wouldn’t want to hear that Sasser had pulled his access, and Wes definitely wasn’t admitting he’d signed an NDA like a complete coward just so he could screw himself over by violating said NDA within thirty-six hours of signing it.
But there was no way to face the music except to just do it. So Wes stepped up to the door, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Come in.”
Wes opened the door after he heard Purcell’s muffled response. “Sir, can I have a moment—”
“Goddamn, these are terrible.” Purcell sat behind his broad, old desk, a dozen photos spread out in front of him.
Wes stepped forward and peered down at the desk, curious about what Purcell was referring to and more than a little willing to procrastinate on his admission.
They were photos of inmates—harshly done, a cross between mug shots and austere black-and-white portraiture. Miranda’s work, Wes realized quickly. The result of her portraits was harrowing—you wanted to dislike the subjects. They looked exactly like the murderers and rapists they’d been convicted as, not as sons and fathers and brothers. Wes had thought Miranda was going for a more empathetic feel, something to show the humanity of these prisoners. Flawed, certainly, but still—individuals with lost souls, given the slant of her article.
“Miranda’s a damn good writer, don’t get me wrong, but—” Purcell lifted up a sheaf of papers he’d already edited and red-inked—clearly her Statesman article submissions. “That girl has no understanding of light or composition—”
“Or how to humanize her subjects,” Wes finished for him, leaning over the desk. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the article.
Purcell handed it over and Wes skimmed through it.
Holy shit, it was good.
Damn good.
There were some novice errors and a little hyperbole, but Miranda had the chops to write at a national level, and she was still only a junior. Wes realized suddenly that even if he had gotten to do the articles as he’d intended, she probably would have smoked him—with the exception of the photography, that is.
“She was always going to hand me my ass, wasn’t she?” he murmured, looking up at Purcell.
His teacher smiled behind his hand. “Well, you said you needed a pace car.”
“If you call Dale Earnhardt’s #3 a pace car,” Wes replied.
Purcell chuckled softly. “I like your gumption, though, Wes. I like that you’re taking this seriously.”
“Sir, about that…” Wes bit his lip, setting Miranda’s article down.
Purcell sat back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap. He had the look of a man expecting to receive bad news.
“I can’t write the articles as I originally intended,” Wes admitted in a single rushed breath, like the faster he said it, the less likely his favorite professor and advisor would be disappointed by the admission. That, or maybe he was afraid that if he didn’t say it fast, he wouldn’t say it at all.
>
“Why?” Purcell asked, cocking his head.
“A couple reasons: Sasser pulled my access and is threatening intellectual-property-rights claims from the school if I try to publish anything without his say-so, and I—” he swallowed. Forced himself to continue. “I’ve developed feelings for my subject. I’m not impartial on this anymore. Doing a story on her specifically would be exploitative of a personal relationship I’m developing with her, and I don’t want—I can’t be that guy. No matter how badly I want this internship.”
Purcell leaned back in his chair. “This the girl from the time-lapse you took? ‘The Unnamed Muse’?”
Wes looked at him blankly. “How did you know?”
Purcell rested his chin on his clasped fingertips as he watched Wes over his horn-rimmed glasses. “This girl the reason you got so interested in the internship to begin with?” he asked instead, ignoring the question.
Wes shuffled uncomfortably. “At first.”
Purcell cocked his head. “And now?”
“I realized I wanted to do more with my skill than just impress a girl,” Wes admitted. “But I’m not willing to use her to do it either. So that’s changed.”
Purcell nodded. “I see.”
“Do you?”
“Honestly, I thought you’d be in here sooner,” his professor told him. “Sasser called me and told me he wasn’t supporting the article idea, after I’d pulled the strings to get you in there in the first place.” He smiled grimly at Wes’s look of surprise. “Sasser and I go back. He wanted me to know it was nothing personal.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Purcell leaned forward. “Because I wanted to see how seriously you were really taking all this, Wes. When I saw you still working on the article anyway, I figured maybe you’d figured something else out. I liked the initiative. I liked that you weren’t giving up the first time it got hard.”
“Even if I didn’t have a chance?” Wes picked up the draft of Miranda’s article again. “Miranda was going to win, hands down—no matter what I wrote.”
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