The Letter

by Mina Carter

  A car sat parked on the road across from her driveway. Small, inconspicuous, and drab. A rental car. And propped on it was the hottest guy she’d ever seen. Tall. Dark. Handsome. His heavily-muscled frame screamed male virility.

  As soon as the interest flared, guilt followed like a rabid dog hell-bent on destruction. Grimly, she beat it back. She and Billy had talked about this before he left. She’d always known the possibility existed that he wouldn’t return. And he hadn’t. She’d accepted his death and needed to get on with her life sooner or later.

  “Mom, I’m gonna have to go,” she said, interrupting her mother in mid-flow, something she’d never done before. “There’s someone at the door.”

  He wasn’t; he still leaned against his car, legs crossed at the ankle while he spoke into a cell phone, but her mother didn’t need to know that.

  “Yeah, yeah. Love you, too.” Hattie headed for the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two

  Clicking the phone off, Hattie set it on the counter and glanced about for something to do. Some reason to go outside and not look like she’d done it just to gawk at him. Her gaze fell on the half-full garbage can. Perfect. She grabbed the handles of the bag, knotted them, then headed for the door. Buster, excited by the swift movement, leapt and danced around her.

  “Shh, calm down.” She blocked his access to the door with one leg, trying to open the door and stop him getting out at the same time.

  Buster had always been Billy’s dog, and considered all other men a threat. The last thing she needed was for him to bite Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome out there. Especially if he only needed directions or was at the wrong house or something. A lawsuit would round her crappy day off to perfection.

  The door stuck, as it usually did. She swore and yanked hard. Normally she needed three or four good pulls to get it to un-stick, but of, course, with today not being her day, it came free on the first tug. Her heart lurched and she jammed her body into the gap as Buster tried to get through.

  “No! Basket!” she ordered, pointing at the chewed-up box in the corner he preferred, like a cat, over a proper basket. She’d bought him chewy toys and rope toys, but he’d ignore them all for a box. Even one that was way too small. He didn’t care. Whatever the size, he’d still try and squeeze his doggy butt into it. “Basket, now!”

  He danced around her for a few seconds but a stern glare warned him she wasn’t playing. With a huff, he dropped to all fours and padded across to his bed, throwing a glance over his shoulder every couple of steps as if to say, awww, moooooom!

  Taking the opportunity while he had his back turned, Hattie slipped out of the door. She muttered loudly while heading for the trash can, watching the guy out of the corner of her eye. As soon as he saw her, he straightened, said something to the person on the other end of the phone, and hung up. She pivoted to go back into the house, but he was already striding toward her, sliding the cell into his pocket.

  “Hello? Miss Jameson?”

  Two things happened at once. Feigning surprise, she swung around to answer him while the door behind her burst open and fifty pounds of pit bull launched through it.

  “Oh, shit.” She tried to grab Buster’s collar, but he evaded her grasp and hurtled toward the man walking up the drive. “No! Buster, stop!”

  Horrified, she watched the dog race toward her visitor. She winced. Any moment now, there’d be snarling and snapping teeth. The stranger wouldn’t stand a chance. Not against a dog as big and muscular as Buster.

  There were no screams. Hattie stared at the scene before her in total disbelief. Buster lay on his back, wriggling in delight as her visitor scrubbed his knuckles over the dog’s chest.

  “Who’s a good boy, eh? You’re not mean…no, you’re not. You’re a good lad.” When he’d first spoken, she’d thought he was English, but then picked up the faint hint of a Scottish burr in his voice. Glancing up, he smiled.

  “He’s a lovely dog. Well-built.” He laughed as Buster jumped up and tried to lick his face. “Friendly, too.”

  “No. He’s not, not usually. He hates men. Bites them.” Hattie blinked, still stunned. The few dates she’d agreed to, after pressure from her mother, all had issues with Buster. Almost as though he ensured no man except Billy would be allowed near her. Until now. She frowned. “Who are you?”

  Her visitor stood, controlling Buster’s antics with a firm hand on his collar. Anyone could see he was used to dogs, maybe even used to pit bulls as a breed. He didn’t seem to be at all bothered by the sharp teeth showing in the distinctive pit bull smile. Buster grinned up at him in adoration as the guy extended a hand to Hattie.

  “I’m Rick Weeks. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Hattie’s hand was already out, ready to shake, but when he spoke, she faltered. Rick Weeks. She knew that name thanks to one of the men in Billy’s squad. Rick Weeks…Sergeant R. Weeks. The soldier who’d carried her Billy back to base while both of them were badly wounded. Billy had taken his last breath seconds after the gates closed behind them.

  “I…I….”

  Faced with the man who’d been with Billy when he died, she lost her ability to speak or even think.

  From what she’d been told, Billy’s squad had been ambushed in one of the nearby towns. Scattering, they’d been forced to take cover in the ruins. Insurgent activity in the area meant the base couldn’t send out a rescue party. She’d never been able to get an answer on why the British were in the area. But, according to the short letter she’d been given, a British soldier had found Billy injured and taking shelter in a building on the edge of town.

  Together, Rick and Billy waited through the night then made a break for the base at dawn. They’d almost made it, the base in sight, but a sniper opened fire. Billy had taken the brunt of the fire, bullets riddling his slender frame to slam into the soldier who carried him—who continued to carry him, running for the safety of the base. The British soldier was hailed as a hero and Billy came home in a metal box.

  Now, that soldier—Rick Weeks—stood in front of her, the name given a face, and she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Except….

  “Go to hell.”

  Then she burst into tears.

  In the course of his long career in the military, Rick had dealt with many things. He’d done HALO jumps, scuba insertions behind enemy lines, organized guerrilla warfare in places the British government denied any knowledge of having a military presence and survived lad’s nights out in some of the roughest places in Britain. Hell, he’d helped one camp doctor deliver a nanny goat’s twin kids. Bloody thing hadn’t even been grateful, managing to land a solid kick in the middle of Rick’s chest, dumping him on his ass in the mud.

  After that, he’d prided himself on being able to handle anything. But despite all the commendations on his file and the reputation he’d acquired for having a cool head under fire, the sight of one small woman in tears floored him.

  Rick stood like a bloody guppy, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a few seconds. Then, giving himself a swift mental kick in the ass, he stepped toward her.

  “Shhh,” he murmured, voice low, and reached out to pat her arm awkwardly. His first instinct was to wrap her in his arms and hold her until she stopped crying. But given the circumstances, and the fact that she’d told him to go to hell, that didn’t seem appropriate.

  Shit, what should he do? Being shot at was fucking easier than this. At least then he had a defined procedure; take cover and return fire until whoever it was stopped shooting at him. Simple.

  Crying women? That sort of training hadn’t been covered in any of his combat courses.

  Her slight movement, a half-turn toward him, shut down his overthinking and led him into basic instinct. Taking another step closer, he wrapped her in his arms, tight to his chest. God, she is so tiny.

  Over six feet tall and packed with hard muscle due to the training required for his job, Rick had long since gotten used to the female of the species being s
maller and more delicate than him. But Hattie was something else. Average height put her a good half-foot shorter than he, and her slender curves fit into the hard lines of his larger body as though she were the missing piece in a puzzle.

  “Shhh, it’s okay.” He muttered soothing words, not knowing or caring what he said.

  Her sobs tore him apart, the soft sounds tortured, as though they’d been torn from her soul. He hated to see a woman in tears. It cut him on a deep, instinctive level…filling him with the need to do something—anything. But he couldn’t. Not this time. The very fact that he stood there, and not Billy, meant that he could never make this right for her.

  “I’m sorry, Hattie,” he whispered into her dark, glossy hair, and felt like a shit for noticing she smelled nice. Really nice. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Walking her backward, he lowered his ass to sit on the low wall along one side of the driveway and sat her in his lap. Rick closed his eyes. If he’d thought she fit well against him standing, having her in his arms had to be perfection. He was no stranger to women. Hell, he loved women.

  In all their myriad sizes and shapes, there wasn’t a thing he didn’t like about them. Their soft curves, satin skin…the feminine little moans and gasps he could wring from them when he had them beneath him, at the mercy of his lips and tongue. He loved their taste, the textures under his hands as he explored…everything about them. He’d had more than his fair share of experience, but he’d never found that special someone to share his life with.

  Although, to be fair, given what he did for a living, that was a fucking big ask. What woman would want to be left back in dreary old England during his postings, often at short notice, overseas. For months sometimes. With no guarantee he’d return. Not everyone did. Not everyone beat the clock. Some, like Billy, came home in a metal box. He’d been there. Flown home with the bodies of fallen comrades, a final honor guard for warriors who’d paid the ultimate price. A duty none of them would ever dream of refusing.

  Like the letter in his pocket, crumpled and battered after he’d carried it for so long. But he still remembered when Billy had given it to him. After the coffee and ensuing conversation the night before he’d headed out on mission, he’d never expected to see the young American again. Rick and his patrol were a ship-in, ship-out sort of team. As soon as they got the go-order, they were out in the field and on mission, and once that mission was done, they didn’t piss about. The Regiment extracted them, patched them up, and put them out again. Whenever and wherever they needed to be.

  That time though, things had been different. Split from the rest of his team, Rick achieved his objective—fuck, he couldn’t even remember what that had been now, he’d undertaken so many missions that they all merged into one—and been enroute to the base for his pick-up on foot. LPCs, the leather personnel carrier, a favorite of the Regiment.

  Thanks to increased activity in the area, he’d altered his original route and approached the base through one of the nearby towns. He’d found the remains of Billy’s squad less than a few streets in. Or, rather, he’d been privy to a rather gruesome street parade with the bodies of the American soldiers in the starring role. Unable to help the dead men, he’d marked the direction the insurgents were headed and melted away into the ruined town.

  He’d found Billy a few streets away from the edge of town. With the base in his sights, Rick would’ve walked right on by if he hadn’t caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Injured and alone, the kid had managed to take cover in a tiny alleyway. One way in and out, easy to defend…if you had enough ammo.

  Rick always had enough ammo.

  They’d sheltered overnight, staying deep in the shadows to avoid detection. He’d patched Billy up, making sure he didn’t bleed out from the holes in his leg. The kid had gotten lucky; the bullets had gone clean through, missing anything major, but he’d been as scared as fuck though, his voice shaking when Rick got him talking. About anything. About his training, his mates, the girl waiting for him at home. Anything to take his mind off the shitty situation they were in.

  He’d described Hattie so perfectly Rick saw her in his mind. Love shone so brightly in Billy’s eyes, it’d made Rick uncomfortable at first, as though he’d intruded on something private and personal. Then jealousy reared its ugly head. Envy for what Billy had: love with his girl and a sheer love for life that had long since been scoured out of Rick. Hope. He was too jaded for hope.

  “Here.” Billy held out an envelope, the earnest expression in his eyes entreating Rick to take it. It didn’t take a genius to work out what it was. Every soldier wrote that letter. The missive that would be sent should the worst happen. They usually started, If you’re reading this, then I’m not coming home. Even Rick—as hardnosed as he pretended to be—had written one to the twin sister who’d been his rock over the last year and a half. Over his entire career.

  He shook his head, not wanting the responsibility of Billy’s letter. “You give it to her, mate. When we get home.” But Billy wouldn’t be dissuaded, so fucking stubborn Rick had accepted it to shut him up.

  They’d moved out an hour later, the pre-dawn light hazy and deceptive. It wasn’t much of an edge, but in enemy territory and with an injured man, Rick would take whatever he could get. He’d operated on less before.

  But luck hadn’t been with them. Billy’s leg started to bleed heavily as soon as they moved out. Normal patrol movement was out of the question. Rick half-carried him, his left arm around the kid’s waist to keep his gun hand free. Firing from the hip wasn’t the most efficient, but needs must.

  The base had been right there. In sight. Gates open, waiting for them. Rick grunted, the kid heavier than he appeared. “Nearly there, Lees. We’re good,” he’d promised.

  That sniper made a liar of him.

  “I’m sorry,” Rick muttered, dragging himself back to reality as memory clawed at him and tried to pull him under. He brushed his lips against Hattie’s hair. She’d stopped crying and leaned on him. For half a second he gave in to temptation, closing his eyes to lose himself in the fantasy that she was his. That a woman cared enough for him to shed tears over his sorry arse, a happy reconciliation rather than a mission he’d been dreading.

  Before Rick could say anything else, he was interrupted by a large, excited body jumping up, landing in Hattie’s lap. Teary-eyed, she gasped then laughed as Buster wriggled his way between them, panting and licking both their faces.

  “Silly dog.” She rubbed the pit’s ears. “Used to do this with me and Billy as well. Never would let us cuddle without being in the middle.” Her breath caught on a half-sob again and Rick needed to do something. Now.

  “He’s probably hungry.” Holding her tight in his arms, he started to stand, letting the dog slide from her lap. “Let’s get him fed and you settled. You got a kettle in there?”

  Chapter Three

  What is it with the British and tea?

  Bemused, Hattie settled on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter while Rick moved around the small room as though he’d lived there all his life. Sgt. Rick Weeks. Here. In her kitchen. He lined two mugs up as the pot boiled, and he’d even located a teabag lurking in the back of her cupboard. Left over from one of her mother’s fads, it had been languishing there untouched for months and would have remained so if not for the tall man in front of her. Hattie didn’t normally like tea, but tired and emotionally worn, she didn’t argue.

  “Milk and sugar?”

  Something about the patient tone in his voice clued her in that he’d already asked the question. She blinked and dragged herself out of her daydream. “Just milk, thanks.”

  He smiled, the crooked expression altering his features from severe to stunning, and she had to avoid staring. Seriously, the guy is a soldier? What the hell were they putting in the water over in England?

  “There you go,” he said, handing her the tea and she caught the faint trace of an accent again.

  “You’re not British.”
>
  He blinked at the accusation and leaned against the counter, cradling the mug in his big hands. “I am, why?”

  She took a sip of the tea. Nice. Not at all like the weak dishwater her mother had managed. “You don’t sound British. You have the faintest hint of an accent. Scottish, or maybe Irish?”

  “Ahh.” Comprehension dawned and he smiled again. God, she’d do anything to keep him smiling. “You’re mixed up, hen. I’m not English, I’m a Scot. But I am British, much as it pains most Scots tae admit it.”

  “Ohhh.” She looked into her cup, swirling the liquid around, trying to cover her ignorance. It didn’t work. The heat sweeping over her cheeks told her the blush had escaped anyway. “I didn’t realize there was a difference.”

  He rubbed Buster behind his ears and the dog flopped on the floor to present his belly. Rick chuckled, the low sound sending a shiver along her skin that should be illegal. “No worries. You did well to pick up my accent. It usually only makes an appearance when I’m tired.”

  “Why?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it, a sudden and intense curiosity about him overtaking her.

  “Why, what? Why am I tired?” He folded his arms over his broad chest and rested the mug on one muscled forearm. “Over twenty years serving her Majesty, usually in the arse-end of beyond, will do that to a bloke.”

  That he was a soldier was obvious. He moved the same way Billy had when he’d come back from basic training. Tight. Controlled. As if aware of everything around him and how it related to everything else. She got the feeling hours, days, maybe even weeks from now, Rick would be able to describe her kitchen right down to the mismatched mugs on the drainer. But as much as he acted like Billy, with Rick it was somehow…more. Like that behavior ran deeper, stronger than it had in her late fiancé.