Having the Soldier's Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  He knew about the baby; that was the important thing. And he was there.

  The rest would come.

  Taking her cue from his personal comment, she told him that she’d let everyone at work know that he was back. She relayed their reactions and the personal good wishes to him that had been offered as well.

  He forked the last bite of food on his plate. Chewed it. Swallowed.

  And said, “I’ve been advised to tell you that I need a divorce.”

  Chapter Ten

  There was just no easy way to present it. He’d worked on it all afternoon and determined that the kindest thing was the old “ripping off the bandage” strategy. Do it quickly and get it over with. It seemed to hurt less that way.

  At least the pain was swifter. So, presumably, one could get past it quicker.

  Emily’s fork clattered against her plate, off the edge of the table, onto the floor. The hand that had been holding it was shaking. Pushing aside an urge to hold that hand, knowing that it was just programmed reaction left over from his years with her, he picked up her fork. Set it on the table.

  His movement seemed to spur her into action. Jumping up, fork in hand, she went to the sink. Rinsed the fork. Pulled a paper towel off the roll. Dried the fork. Threw the paper towel away, carried the fork back to the table. Put it on her plate. Those long legs, in that skirt... In a former day he’d have pulled her onto his lap.

  Emily picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. She’d changed her mind about using the fork she’d cleaned? Needed her plate cleaned, too? She’d eaten all of the broccoli salad and most of her chicken. More than half of the potatoes.

  Leaving her plate at the sink, she came back to the table. He expected her to take his plate next. Cleaning the kitchen hardly seemed urgent at the moment, but if that was what she wanted to do, he wouldn’t stop her. Had to give her whatever time and space she needed.

  He wasn’t going to push her. He had six months. And they had a lot to get through.

  He wouldn’t push, anyway. She was pregnant, for God’s sake.

  When his memory provided a sudden flash of his early-morning minutes with Emily in the spare bathroom, he swore silently. He’d just given her stress right after she’d eaten. Bad timing, that.

  Leaving his empty plate in front of him, Emily sat back down. Folded her hands on the table in front of her. She’d curled her hair that morning, and the long blond strands touched the tops of her wrists, even with her sitting up straight.

  Those ends would be silky soft. A whisper on skin.

  “Who advised you?”

  Not the conversation he’d expected.

  He’d told her he’d answer any question honestly.

  “A legal advocate.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  “You sought legal advice today?”

  “Yes.”

  “So...you already have an attorney?”

  “No.” But perhaps he should have acquired one before having this discussion. He only now saw how it would have strengthened his position to have done so.

  She was frowning. “I’m confused,” she said. “Why would a legal advocate advise you to get a divorce? You’ve been home less than two days. I called Chaplain Blaine today. She said that we can’t know anything just yet, in terms of what our future will look like. She said right now the only thing we can give ourselves is time. And counseling, too, of course.”

  Expecting patience to settle over him—an emotion he knew and trusted—Winston was surprised by the instant flood of exactly the opposite coursing through him. He was antsy.

  Emily was going to be hurt worse the longer this continued. What right did anyone have to hurt this beautiful, giving woman any more than was necessary?

  What right did he have to come barreling in without sensitivity enough to give her time to accept the inevitable?

  “She’s right, of course,” he said, as patience finally settled over him.

  Emily’s frown grew. “I don’t get it...why would a legal adviser tell you you need a divorce?” And with a shake of her head, added, “Why did you even seek out his advice?”

  It was all one and the same, wasn’t it? He was obligated to give her the most honest answer. Thinking back over his day, he had to admit... “He didn’t tell me I needed a divorce,” he said slowly, remembering the man’s exact words. “He said I needed to talk to you. Really talk.”

  Face clearing, Emily sat back. “Okay, so talk.”

  He pushed his plate aside, leaned forward, his arms on the table now. Would have liked to loosen his collar, his tie. But knew that when everything was spinning out of control, whatever protocol he could hold on to kept him sane.

  He didn’t know for sure how much she knew. How much they’d told her. But suddenly saw how important it was that she hear it from him.

  She’d see the change in him, given the time they’d both now been advised to take, but she might see it sooner if she knew how it had come about. Why.

  She had a right to know.

  Someday, that child would need to know.

  “We were ambushed by a small community of militants not far from where we’d set up camp.” He didn’t have to give minute details. The bodies falling. All guys he knew. Every single one of them. The blood spurts.

  Closing his eyes, he shut out the picture. This was an exercise he had down pat. A challenge he’d met and conquered.

  “There were seven of us left, including my sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Dane Somersby?”

  Taken aback, he stared at her. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “He sent me a letter, after you’d been declared...dead...” Her voice caught and she stopped. But didn’t take her gaze from his. She looked him right in the eye. That’s how they’d been since the first day they’d met. A lifetime ago.

  Hard to believe he’d ever been fourteen.

  “He said you saved his life...”

  So she did know. At least some of it.

  “Did he tell you how?”

  She shook her head, her gaze almost pleading. She needed this.

  Something he could actually give her.

  “I turned traitor.”

  Pulling back, she blinked. Frowned. Shook her head. “No way.” Then shook her head more fiercely. “I will never believe that, Winston. Come up with whatever stories you must, but don’t insult me with lies.”

  He almost smiled. Could feel a small appreciative hint of humor inside him. That quickly faded away. “Dust in the Wind.”

  The old song from his father’s day had become a mantra, living over there in the Afghan desert.

  “For all intents and purposes, I became a traitor,” he modified his words. “The way we were ambushed...it seemed probable that someone on their side had infiltrated us somehow. We were sitting ducks. So I went AWOL. Left without anyone knowing, without orders. We had no idea where or how they were getting our intel, so I couldn’t afford to tell anyone.”

  “If there was a traitor of the US side, he’d have shared your plan with the enemy, and the men who were honorable, would never have allowed you to go.”

  Right. He’d forgotten how often she’d been traveling along his same thought process. The memory didn’t bring comfort. Just made it all harder.

  And more necessary to get the job done.

  “I hid out in the desert for a day, and then, with my uniform shirt on a stick, went walking into their little village. I’d seen a group of kids playing and stayed close to them, figuring that they wouldn’t shoot and risk hitting one of them. In their own perspective they’re a lot like us. Loyal. Protective of their own.”

  But he was getting off course.

  “Long story short, I gave them enough information to convince them that I wanted to be one of them. And then gave them en
ough false information to allow my comrades time to get out. I knew a group of friendlies were close, I just had to provide distraction so they could get to my guys. After my goal was met. All I had to do was wait for a chance to escape. And in the meantime, I figured that I’d spend my days gathering intel, in the event I actually made it out. And every other day, it seemed, I was given another challenge. Something else I had to do to show my loyalty. That first day, I had to kill a soldier, one from the US side, and bring him to them.”

  That had been a choice where he’d crossed another line. Turning over one his comrades.

  The look of horror on her face came and went quickly. Its existence at all was confirmation of what he knew. There were just some things a man did from which he couldn’t come back.

  The fact that he even could...

  “Winston.” Her hand touched his arm. Softly. She left it there, her fingers slowly moving against his skin.

  “I, uh, before I’d entered their camp...after I went AWOL... I knew where one of our men had been stationed and slaughtered. I found him. Put on his bloody uniform, dressed him in mine. Just that easily, I became Private First Class Danny Garrison. The kid...he’d been born to an older couple who doted on him. Who’d been so afraid for him to deploy. And yet he’d been the most willing, most dedicated of all of us. I admired the hell out of him. Of all the deaths that had happened that week, his...”

  No. He stopped talking.

  She only needed the facts. No sense making things messier than they had to be. Clouding things prolonged the inevitable. He knew this. Had survived by it.

  “I knew I was walking into eventual death.” He looked her right in the eye when he admitted the god-awful truth. He’d been willing to leave her, to do something that his job hadn’t even required him to do.

  That had been a choice that changed everything.

  “And knew that when it was all over, the man who’d walked into that enemy village would likely be hailed as a hero. I wanted that for Danny’s parents. So I moved his body away from his designated post to a place I’d more likely have been, having gone AWOL. He was pretty mutilated. Cause of death was clear. It was unlikely an autopsy would be done.”

  “That makes no sense, Winston. Recovered military bodies are sent to Dover, identified by fingerprints and dental records.”

  Of course she’d know that. He had, too.

  “When you’re over there...” He shook his head. Trying to make someone a hero by giving him credit for something that you were ashamed of having done?

  No, wait. He wasn’t at all ashamed of what he’d done. He’d saved lives of men he knew. And now, with the far-reaching effects of what he’d learned, who knew how many more would be saved?

  He’d done the right thing.

  Just not something the Winston Hannigan who’d left California, who’d been married to Emily Hannigan, would have done.

  Danny hadn’t had a wife or kids. The choice would have made his parents proud.

  “His face was... There wouldn’t have been enough for dental records,” he said. “But you’re right, if I died, as expected, the US military likely would have been able to identify me.”

  The navy—and the special ground force operators—thought he’d made a smart choice, posing as an already-dead soldier. To protect his own future. The enemy combatants with whom he’d lived had likely never heard of Petty Officer First Class Winston Hannigan.

  And by using Danny that way...

  Maybe he’d hope to ensure, as best as he could, that his uniform would be found, that Emily would be notified right away, to save her the angst of not knowing...

  As though a light had been shut off, Winston went to a dark place inside. A place he’d discovered within himself during his time in that desert. He spent a lot of time there. It was quiet. Peaceful.

  Thoughts came more clearly. He’d detoured off point. He went back.

  “When I was ordered, as a sign of sovereignty, to deliver up a body, it was as though what I’d done with Danny had been preordained. I went to the body I’d left sitting up against a tree, in my own uniform. He’d been dead less than twenty-four hours. From a distance, I shot it without hesitation. Multiple times. With a couple of my new ‘brothers’ looking on. Then I walked alone up to that pile of mutilated flesh on the ground, lifted it up against me, carried it all the way back to the village and gave it to them.”

  He’d delivered up Danny’s body, preventing the young man’s parents from ever having his body back. From having a proper burial.

  But not before he’d ripped off the top left of the shirt Danny had been wearing, leaving his own identifiers for anyone to find in what was the site of an obvious massacre.

  He’d done it all. One thought leading to the next.

  “If you’d been killed in the village, I was told that chances were the insurgents would have sent your uniform, or some kind of identifier, as a taunt, but they’d have destroyed the body,” Emily said.

  Which would have made Danny the hero.

  They may or may not have sent the uniform. If he’d been killed in that village, chances were his body—and uniform—would have ended up in a burn pit. There were a lot of ifs. Some more sound than others. Just like his thinking that day in the desert, when he’d known he’d never see Emily again.

  And maybe changing identities with Danny hadn’t been his best thinking.

  The fact that, even so, Emily had followed the train of thought bothered him.

  But this—him being here with her—wasn’t about him.

  “Killing” Danny, handing over his body, hadn’t been the only life-altering thing they’d required of him. It was enough, though, to show Emily that some changes were irrevocable—the price one paid for the choices one made.

  No need to tell her more—to hurt her in a way that would change her forever, too. As long as the goal was met—as long as she was free to move on to a happy life—his job would be done.

  When he realized that her hand was still on his arm, because she squeezed it, he moved. Sat back.

  “It’s just going to take time, Winston,” she said softly. “The longer you’re here, living your normal life...the sting will become more manageable. And you’ll start to see things from a different perspective.”

  What the hell? She was a counselor now? Or parroting what she’d heard from whoever all she’d called that day? A bout of frustration spewed before he could stop it.

  “Why does everyone seem to think I don’t know my own mind?”

  “I can’t speak for everyone else. I just know you. The way you reacted over there, it’s what I would expect from you, Win. You were in an untenable situation. With people dying around you. You’d had a few weeks’ training in ground combat...”

  He wanted none of it.

  “Can you just do one thing for me?” she asked.

  “What?” He didn’t know if he hoped he could or couldn’t at that point.

  “Can you just give this all some time? Wait on the whole lawyer conversation. We don’t even need to talk about the baby. Just give us some time.”

  What choice did he have? He needed her happy.

  And everyone was telling him the same thing. Take some time. Give it time. No one seemed to get that he’d just given it two excruciatingly long years. He needed to live his life. And to make that happen, bottom line—he had to follow orders.

  “How much time?”

  Her shrug, the expression on her face...he recognized it. She was laying her heart open to him, not laying down the law.

  “I’m guessing you’ll know,” she said now. “Or I will.”

  The plan would work better with a set period. A date. But he didn’t want to put it out further than she’d need. She was the one who had to figure out that they weren’t going to work. He was already there.

  “Fine,” he said
. Mentally giving her three months, tops. Until they at least revisited the conversation. He needed time on the other end to get a lawyer and get divorced before his six-month leave was up.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’ve been advised to tell you I need a divorce. Emily closed her eyes, then opened them again, focusing on the computer in front of her, willing herself to block Winston’s words from her brain. She’d been told to take a few days off, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t work from home. Concentrating on campaign strategies, convincing news and television sources that her clients’ information was of interest to them, working out print advertising deals that were the most financially beneficial, gave her mind something productive to focus on. Well...mostly productive. Coming up with ways to reach consumers in a world overloaded with media and fake news. With one of her current products, she’d been in meetings with retailers to convince them to at least give a chance to her new and inventive way to make in-store advertising more effective.

  Winston had gone out to the garage after their dinner conversation. She’d heard him at his workbench. Opening drawers. Reacquainting himself with his tools? Or cataloging their value for a fair split of marital property?

  No. She couldn’t afford to get maudlin. The week before she’d been a widow. Today she was a wife. Bleak could turn into miraculous in an instant.

  Winston needed time. She couldn’t take anything he said right then as absolute gospel. It wouldn’t be fair to him to do so.

  And their baby... If she’d known he was alive, there was no way she’d have had herself inseminated. He was struggling enough, working through two years of his life lived in a way he never would have chosen without being forced, trying to find himself in the life he’d left behind. Adding a baby into that...

  No matter how wonderful that news...even in a normal, blessed life, there were moments of doubt. And some anxiety over the irrevocable changes that were coming.

  Not only would he be responsible for himself, but she’d landed the responsibilities of fatherhood on his shoulders.