by Kaki Warner
Praise for the novels of Kaki Warner
“A truly original new voice in historical fiction.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas
“[An] emotionally compelling, subtly nuanced tale of revenge, redemption, and romance. . . . This flawlessly written book is worth every tear.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Romance, passion, and thrilling adventure fill the pages.”
—New York Times bestselling author Rosemary Rogers
“A romance you won’t soon forget.”
—International bestselling author Sara Donati
“Draws readers into the romance and often unvarnished reality of life in nineteenth-century America.”
—Library Journal
“Kaki Warner’s warm, witty, and lovable characters shine.”
—USA Today
“Halfway between Penelope Williamson’s and Jodi Thomas’s gritty, powerful novels and LaVyrle Spencer’s small-town stories lie Warner’s realistic, atmospheric romances.”
—RT Book Reviews
Titles by Kaki Warner
Blood Rose Trilogy
pieces of sky
open country
chasing the sun
Runaway Brides Novels
heartbreak creek
colorado dawn
bride of the high country
Heroes of Heartbreak Creek
behind his blue eyes
where the horses run
home by morning
texas tall
Rough Creek Novels
rough creek
home to texas
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Kathleen Warner
Excerpt from Rough Creek by Kaki Warner copyright © 2020 by Kaki Warner
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9781984806222
First Edition: June 2021
Cover design by Judith Lagerman
Cover image by Callipso/Getty Images
Book design by Gaelyn Galbreath, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To all those in uniform who have sacrificed so much to keep this great country safe, I thank you.
Stay strong. Stay safe. Come home.
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for Kaki Warner
Titles by Kaki Warner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Excerpt from Rough Creek
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center
Landstuhl, Germany
April 2018
Army Second Lieutenant KD Whitcomb drifted on a cold dark sea, lulled by the steady hum and beep of the machines that surrounded her bed. She knew she was in a hospital, in a room with a big window looking out onto the nurses’ station. But she didn’t know why or how long she’d been there. Nothing made sense and thinking was too hard.
Occasionally nausea or deep, throbbing pain in her abdomen and back and hip would pull her toward the light. She would become groggily aware of noise beyond the window or movement around her, people touching her while voices spoke in soft, hushed tones. Then a warm rush, and she would sink back into the safety of the uncaring, unfeeling drift.
The room was never dark. Sometimes the light was so bright, it hurt to open her eyes. But occasionally, during the hush of night when the halls were quiet and the overhead lights were dimmed, she could keep her eyes open for brief periods. During one of those times, she saw a man standing in the hall, watching her through the window.
He was tall, with a stern, unsmiling face. Not in an army uniform. Black shirt, black ball cap with writing above the bill. No scrubs or white coat or stethoscope, so not a nurse or a doctor. She didn’t know who he was, or why he was there, or why he watched her so intently. It worried her, the not knowing. Even with all the pain meds dripping from the IV line into her arm, she felt a spark of fear. But all she could do was close her eyes and hope he went away.
Later—an hour, a day?—she felt hands touching her. Movement by her bed. Voices again. Bright light against her closed lids told her it must be day. That awareness awakened the pain and she grew anxious, waiting for the warm rush that promised oblivion and forgetfulness in the gentle, peaceful drift.
Instead, the footfalls receded.
Then silence.
But she wasn’t alone.
She could sense a presence nearby. Heard breathing, the rustle of cloth.
An image of the figure at the window burst into her mind. Fear shot through her body, and with a gasp, she forced open her eyes.
The man in the black shirt stood beside her bed, looking down at her.
She blinked up at him, her thoughts in disarray, not sure if he was real, or why he was there, or what he wanted. She heard him breathe, watched his cold blue eyes lock on to hers, and knew he expected something from her. But what? Why?
She slid shaking fingers toward the red call button, then froze when she saw the holstered gun on his belt and the badge beside it. In an instant, everything came rushing back. Fear clutched at her throat. She sucked in air, her head reeling as terror flooded her mind.
Farid smiling. Gunshots. Pain. Blood. I shouldn’t have left her. I should have looked for a gun. I should have gone back as soon as they started shouting.
The beeping of the machines grew louder, faster. Voices intruded, jerked her back to her hospital bed. The man was talking to her nurse, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart. Vomit burned in the back of her throat. It was an effort to swallow, to think. But before she could bring her thoughts in focus, the nurse hurried away and she was alone with the dark man again.
She struggled to speak, finally managed a raspy whisper. “Captain.”
The man stepped closer. “Say again?”
She licked her lips, tried again. “Captain . . . Mouton . . .”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. She didn’t
make it. Neither did Farid.”
No! KD clenched her eyes against an onslaught of pain. Her stomach rolled. She grappled for the pink bowl wedged between her pillow and the bed rail, and vomited up dark, bitter bile.
A hand supported her until the retching stopped, then it took the bowl away. Trembling with exhaustion, she slumped back against the pillows. A cool, damp cloth pressed against her forehead.
“What can I do, Lieutenant?” a deep voice asked. His voice. The man with the gun and the badge. “Should I get the nurse?”
She was afraid to move her head or open her eyes. Every time she did, it felt like her brains had liquefied and were sloshing around inside her skull.
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
“No.” The spinning slowed enough that she opened her eyes.
This time, her vision was clearer. A beard-stubbled face hung over her. Tired blue eyes. A squarish face. More worried now, not as grim or threatening as when she’d first seen him. No black ball cap to keep the dark hair from sliding down his forehead. But she knew who he was now, and why he had come.
“Farid . . . shot her?” she asked.
“We’re still investigating.”
“I should . . . have checked. He . . . had on a robe. I didn’t see a gun.” Every word was an effort.
“He who?”
“Farid . . . Captain Farid.” KD closed her eyes and fought back another wave of nausea. The whirling in her head slowed but didn’t go away.
“If you’re up for it, Lieutenant, I have a few questions.”
Of course he did. He had a badge and a gun. He would want to know it all.
She opened her eyes. “You’re . . . criminal investigations. CID.”
He nodded. “Warrant Officer Murdock.”
“Here to . . . arrest me?”
“CID investigates. We can’t make arrests or file charges. We leave that to the board of inquiry.”
“Am I . . . in trouble?”
“Should you be?”
Tears welled up. “I shouldn’t have . . . left her.”
“Why did you?”
“The boy . . .”
“What boy?”
“She sent me . . . to find the boy.”
He said something, but she was so weary, she could barely form a thought. “I didn’t see . . . the gun.” She was dying. Sinking. Her lids felt heavy as stone. “I should have . . . checked. . . .”
He spoke again, but the drone of his voice faded into the hum and beep of the machines as darkness sucked her down.
When next she opened her eyes, he was gone. It was dark and a nurse was fiddling with her IV bag.
“How’re you feeling?” the nurse asked.
“Like . . . I’m dying.”
“You’re not.” The nurse gave a practiced smile. “The doctor will be by in the morning to give you a full report. And Warrant Officer Murdock said to tell you he’d be back in a day or two. Still nauseated?”
“Whenever I . . . move . . . my head.”
“That’s the pain meds. I’ll see if I can get you something to settle your stomach. From one to ten, how bad is the pain?”
More pain meant more meds, which meant more vomiting. “Five . . . maybe six,” KD lied. She was willing to suffer a little pain to clear the fog in her brain and stop the churning in her stomach. She was a soldier, after all. And when Murdock came back with his questions, she had to be ready. Because he would want her to relive that bloody, terrifying day when everything fell apart.
CHAPTER 1
Forward Operating Base Hickock
Northern Afghanistan
Three days earlier
The seven o’clock supper rush was over and the mess hall in the inner compound of the FOB was almost empty, except for two Special Forces guys bent over a map spread across a corner table. KD and Captain Mouton were the only diners, enjoying their first real meal in four days.
Mouton, a battle-hardened veteran on her third tour in Afghanistan, led the base’s Female Engagement Team and was KD’s next-in-command. Raised in southern Louisiana, Nataleah had clawed her way out of the swamps to earn a track scholarship at LSU. After graduation, not wanting to go back to the bayou country she’d left behind, she had enlisted in the army, which was about as colorblind as any place could be. Her harsh upbringing had prepared her well for the hardships of an active combat zone in inhospitable terrain, but it was her rich Cajun background and quirky sense of humor that got her through the worst days. In the short time KD had been in Afghanistan, she had learned a lot from the captain, especially how to laugh in dismal situations. Like the fruitless and frustrating patrol they had just concluded.
But now, after four days in the field with a Special Forces unit that never seemed to rest, the two women had shed their heavy armor, taken real showers, put on clean ACUs, and hurried to the mess for hot food on an actual plate. It wasn’t great, but it sure beat MREs gobbled down in a dust storm.
“Ever eat gator?” Nataleah asked, forking up another bite of chicken.
KD shook her head.
“Tastes like quail, but chewier. Kinda fishy. I prefer nutria.”
“What’s that?”
“Swamp rat.”
Never quite sure when Nataleah was joking, KD kept eating, hoping the captain wasn’t going to launch into another of her roadkill recipes. Not knowing when they’d be sent out again, she focused on her meal, eating as much as she could, as fast as she could. She might pay for it later, but at least she’d go to bed with a full stomach.
Although Female Engagement Teams had been officially disbanded several years earlier, there were still remnants in rural, tribal areas of the mountain provinces. Since Afghan women were forbidden to speak to men not of their families, female soldiers were invaluable in bridging that communication gap. Their purpose was to gain the trust of female villagers who might be able to provide intel on insurgent activities in the area, distribute health information and humanitarian supplies, and offer help where needed.
KD enjoyed doing it. Her teammates were tough women. Fully trained and combat-ready, they had to be fit enough to keep up with the SF units to which they were attached, and calm enough to make sound decisions under fire. KD was proud to be a part of it, and thought she was holding up well, despite the harsh conditions. She might be small and wiry compared to most of her team members, but she had great endurance and was able to carry the weaponry, armor, and thirty-five-pound pack as easily and for as many miles as the other women. Still, she was glad to be rid of it after four days of carting it around.
In the distance, the whup whup of rotor blades indicated another helicopter was landing at the helo pad in the outer compound. KD stopped chewing and listened for the boom of mortar rounds or staccato bursts of gunfire. When she heard nothing unusual, she resumed eating.
“Maybe it’s supplies,” Nataleah said, starting on her pudding. “We run out of toilet paper, you see some real fighting, yeah.”
They were low on laundry soap, too. The only clean clothes KD had were the ones on her back. Since they were within the relative security of the inner circle of the FOB, both women wore stripped-down versions of their ACUs—Army Combat Uniforms. Baggy multi-cam-patterned pants tucked into their lace-up boots, and the standard padded, long-sleeved combat shirt, designed to minimize hot spots and chaffing when worn under the tactical vest and armor.
It helped. Most of the time.
They had left their vests, helmets, and rifles in their quarters, although each woman wore a Beretta M9 sidearm in a drop holster attached to her thigh, and carried extra ammo, combat knives, and radios on their belts. And like their SF counterparts, who rarely followed army regs, KD and Nataleah wore ball caps rather than the usual goofy camo patrol caps.
Hardly an outfit a Gunther County debutante from Rough Creek, Texas would have sported,
but KD was okay with that. Having been raised in wealth on a sprawling Texas ranch, she was proud to be making her own way rather than relying on the family trust fund and connections.
But she wouldn’t mind a manicure now and then. Maybe even a pedicure and facial. Or an overnight trip to a Dallas spa with her three sisters.
Static crackled on Nataleah’s radio. A voice said, “Captain, you back? This is MP Specialist Rogers at Com.”
Frowning, Mouton unhooked the radio from her belt. “Yeah, I’m back. And this better be good, Rogers, or your ass is grass and I’m the lawn mower.”
“There’s two women at the inner gate looking for you. One’s in ACUs, but unarmed. Says she’s your Afghan interpreter. The other is local. At least, I think she’s a woman. Hard to tell under all those clothes. Seems upset. The dog didn’t detect explosives, but the women won’t come inside the gate.”
“On my way.” With a weary sigh, Nataleah hooked the radio back to her belt. “Probably another complaint about a guy beating on a woman. Assholes.”
“Shouldn’t that be a job for the army MPs?” If the captain was called away, KD would have to go, too. No woman left the inner compound alone.
“It would be, if the complaint was on one of ours.” Mouton pushed back her chair and stood.
KD stood, too. “You don’t think it’s on us?”
“Better not be. Our guys know better than to interfere in local issues.”
Local issues, KD thought in disgust. Like the beatings of women, honor killings, abuse of children. She hated that part of her job.
As they walked across the mess hall, the SF guys, ever-vigilant, studied them for a moment, then went back to their map.
“Then if it’s local,” KD went on to Nataleah as they stepped outside, “shouldn’t the ANP take care of it?” There was a sizable contingent of the Afghan National Police stationed in the outer ring of the FOB. Usually, they handled village or tribal issues. KD didn’t want to suit up and go out again. She just wanted an uninterrupted night’s sleep on a real cot.
