The Price of Valor

by Susan May Warren

  She had lived through worse—much worse—pain than a little sprained ankle.

  Gritting her teeth, she found her feet.

  Yanked open the door to the apartment.

  Footsteps thundered above as she banged through the flat. Empty except for a cat, which spooked and hissed at her.

  She flung herself into the hallway, fled down the stairs.

  Then she was out into the street, the pain a dull hum as she ran for her life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HAM HAD GIVEN UP any attempt at sleep around three a.m., when visions of Signe running intermingled with Aggie’s crying and the screams of onlookers as she dangled from the Ferris wheel basket.

  He might never sleep again until he knew his wife was safe.

  After two hours of staring at the ceiling, he got up and made coffee in the Marshall family kitchen where he, Aggie, Jenny, and Orion were staying the weekend. A little winery-slash-farm outside of the cities near the town of Lester, Minnesota.

  The kitchen was quiet, with a basket of oranges sitting in the middle of a black granite island that seated at least eight. The house was old—a farmhouse that had been added on to over the years and recently renovated. Beamed ceilings arched over a huge range with a double oven, probably used to make the apple and cherry pies the Marshalls sold in their tiny shop. A long farmhouse table with benches and chairs boasted a fresh arrangement of sunflowers in the middle.

  All of it reminded Ham of his farm growing up, back when his mother was still alive. Maggie Jones had known how to make a home.

  Ham stared out the window as the teakettle heated water, his travel French press filled with dark grounds, his eyes watching as the sky moved from black to blue gray, with hints of red and orange simmering across the horizon.

  His mercies are new every morning.

  The familiar verse from Lamentations filled his mind, overlaced the nightmares, and soaked into his bones.

  He just needed enough wisdom, enough grace for today.

  The teakettle started to whistle, and he turned it off before it woke the family sleeping in the many bedrooms upstairs. He filled his press and waited for the coffee to steep.

  The town and the nearby communities had suffered a tornado a couple years ago. Ham had driven down with North for a day or two to help with cleanup, had met Garrett Marshall, the owner of the winery, and realized he knew his son Fraser who served with him on Team Three back in the day.

  Funny how life worked. Now Fraser worked for Ham, deployed as private security for a humanitarian aid organization in an undisclosed area of the world. And Ham was making coffee in his kitchen, about to sit on the stone back porch to watch the sunrise gild the grapevines that grew in tall rows in the backyard.

  Okay, more accurately acres and acres of rolling green. The backyard had a fire pit, a couple wine-barrel tables, a swing, and a patch of pretty landscaping for the occasional private weddings the winery hosted.

  The smell of recently cut grasses from nearby fields drifted in through the open windows and stirred up memories as Ham pressed his coffee and poured it into a mug.

  Memories of the farm in southern Minnesota. Of chasing Signe’s stupid rescue dog, usually with a stolen shoe, sock, or worse, his car keys, through the fields.

  Memories of Signe laughing as she tried to ride his only horse, the one who blew up her belly whenever they saddled her so it would fall off.

  Memories, too, of those cold days when he’d pull up in his father’s pickup on his way to school, holding his hands to the vents as he waited for her to emerge from her grandmother’s house.

  He took a sip of his coffee, sinking into the sweet memory of her weaving her fingers through his as they sat on the haymow watching the fireworks arch over the Mississippi River. “Promise me we’ll always be together.”

  Her words, not his. But he promised.

  Of course they would.

  Ham shook the memory away and headed outside, the stone chilly on his stocking feet. He found an Adirondack chair and sat down, fatigue embedding his bones.

  Tired. Not just from his fruitless night, but tired of waiting. Tired of wondering.

  Tired of ignoring his broken heart. And yes, Aggie healed it, mostly. But the ache was deep.

  He took a sip of coffee and heard breaths, feet slapping on dry earth.

  Garrett Marshall appeared in a pair of shorts, a long-sleeve shirt, and a hat, running down the pathway from the apple grove.

  He ran by a classic red barn—their wine barrel storage—and past a new tasting portico they’d built since the tornado, then along the hosta-lined driveway.

  But instead of veering toward the front door, he slowed, leaned against one of the posts on the back porch, and stretched his legs.

  Then he walked over to Ham.

  Garrett always reminded Ham of an older version of Kevin Costner, lean, serious, pensive pale blue eyes, and a rare but sincere smile. He sat down next to Ham. Wiped his arm across his forehead. “We’re going to call that five miles, if my wife should ask.”

  “At least.” Ham took a sip of his coffee. “Maybe even seven.”

  “Let’s go with that.” Garrett leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. “I’m trying to keep my ticker from going out on me, like my brother’s did. What’s your excuse for getting up so early?”

  Ham looked at his coffee.

  “Right. Still stuck on a Ferris wheel.” Garrett shook his head. “I remember when the tornado blew through here—my son Creed was missing for five days, trapped with his cross-country team. I don’t think we slept more than an hour here or there the entire time we were looking for them.” He leaned back. “Hate to tell you this, but you don’t stop worrying about your children, no matter how old they are. I pray every day for Fraser, out in parts unknown, and Jonas, chasing storms, and Iris in Italy, and Ned, still in SQT with the SEALs, and—”

  “Ned is a SEAL? How did I not know this?” Ham said. “Fraser never mentioned it.”

  “You know how the Navy is—Ned shut down all his social media accounts when he went into BUD/S. SEALs are targets—”

  “I know. I guess I’ve been in my own world.”

  A hawk screeched out of the sky and scattered a flock of sparrows.

  “What’s really going on, Ham? You were single last time we met—and now you have a ten-year-old daughter?”

  It felt for a second like he’d sat down with his father on the porch, one of those rare occasions when his stepmother wasn’t around to shut them down. Ham’s chest tightened with the memory.

  He liked Garrett. He was a man of faith. Prayer.

  “I’m still married to her mother,” Ham said. “Her name is Signe, and we got married right after I made it through BUD/S. We grew up together on neighboring farms in a small town just south of Winona.”

  “What happened?”

  Ham took another sip of his coffee. “I don’t know. I was deployed right after we were married, and we hadn’t seen each other for an entire year—not a great start to marriage, I know. But I thought . . . well, I was pretty idealistic. She’d moved on with her life. Took me five years, but I finally found her. And when I did, she said she thought I got the marriage annulled.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  Ham sighed. “I don’t know what I wanted. I guess . . . well, maybe what I wanted wasn’t fair to her. I mean, I couldn’t expect her to sit around and wait for me to come home. She’d always dreamed of a bigger life. Doing something significant. Getting off the farm and seeing the world. And that’s exactly what she did.”

  “What you both did,” Garrett said. “Except she did it with your daughter in tow.”

  He hadn’t thought about that. The challenges she must have faced protecting and raising Aggie. “I didn’t know I had a daughter until a few months ago. She survived a boat wreck off the coast of Italy.”

  He was still pushing the fact that Signe had kept Aggie a secret around his heart, trying not to let it land to
o long in one place, to put down roots and deepen the wounds.

  “If I had known about Aggie, I would have gotten out of the military—”

  “Really?” Garrett asked. “That’s a pretty big sacrifice for someone who’s worked so hard to become a SEAL. Maybe that’s why your wife didn’t tell you. Not that it excuses it, but maybe it might put a little pinprick into that hot ball of anger you have rolling around inside.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Sure you are. You lost ten years of your daughter’s life. Any father would be angry.”

  Ham finished his coffee. “I’m just . . . well, I wish she would have asked for help.” He set the cup on the round stone fire pit. “Fact is, I think Signe is in trouble. Big trouble. And it has me worried. She’s still alive. I found a burner phone hidden inside a stuffed unicorn that she’d given Aggie, and I called her. She practically hung up on me, but not before she told me not to look for her.”

  “Which only makes you want to look for her.”

  Ham lifted a shoulder. “She grew up pretty rough. Her mother was a drug addict—meth—and Sig lived with her grandparents most of the time. But they were old and weren’t keen on raising another daughter, so she sort of ran wild. Got into trouble. And I got her out of it. That’s what I do. I look out for people. I help them. I don’t sit on my hands and wait. I find them and bring them home.”

  “Especially if you think they’re in danger.”

  Ham nodded.

  “You can’t fix this, Ham.”

  Ham frowned.

  “I know you want to—that’s the way you’re built. You’re a good man who does good things for others. But the fact is, despite your desire to help, clearly she’s asked you to stay away. And that doesn’t just make you worried, it adds to your anger, because now you’re helpless.”

  “Are you sure you’re just a vintner?”

  “I coach hockey sometimes too.”

  Ham surrendered to a smile. “No wonder Jenny speaks so highly of you. Said you really helped her when she lived here.”

  “Jenny was our first foster child. Came to us pretty wrecked—her mother had just been murdered. Lots of counseling. Lots of anger. She dug into school, however, made great grades, and by the time she left for college, she had her head on straight.”

  “I think Orion is hoping to ask for your blessing to marry her.”

  Garrett smiled. “I know. Not that I have any say in Jenny’s life—she’s her own woman. But I’m honored that she still thinks of this place as home.”

  Garrett got up. “You know, maybe your wife is still trying to protect you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “And Aggie?”

  Ham drew in a breath.

  “Fact is, maybe it’s not just your wife but God who wants you to wait. Maybe work a little on compassion. Forgiveness.”

  Ham picked up his coffee cup, stared at the inside, the fragrance of coffee still emanating from the depths. He hadn’t thought about forgiveness—because of course he forgave her.

  But yes, if he were honest, a dark ball of anger simmered inside him.

  Maybe . . .

  Well, what he wanted most was a face-to-face with the woman who had broken his heart, stolen the first ten years of his daughter’s life from him, and now refused to make it right.

  Refused to let him help her.

  Refused to come home.

  So maybe yes, waiting was exactly the right thing to do. Because he might not like what came out if he were to have that little chat.

  Or maybe, in that moment, God’s grace would blow in, take over.

  That, of course, was the crux of it. Letting God be in charge. Ham blew out a breath. “I need more coffee.”

  “And I need a shower.” Garrett walked over to the door. “Then, wake up your daughter. I have some eggs that need gathering.” He winked and headed inside.

  Ham followed, poured himself another cup of coffee.

  The stairs squeaked and he looked over to see Orion coming down. He wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and was walking barefoot. “You’re up early,” he said to Ham.

  “So are you.”

  “I heard Garrett talking and thought . . . well, um . . .”

  “He’s in the shower. But my guess is you’ll get a yes.”

  Orion ran a hand through his brown hair. “Yeah, well, maybe this isn’t the right time. It’s only been a couple months—”

  “Love doesn’t have a timetable. If you’re ready, then . . .” Ham took down a mug. “Coffee?”

  “Black and strong, please.”

  “By the way, are you up for flying to DC tomorrow? There’s a fundraiser White wants the team to attend.” He handed Orion the mug.

  Orion leaned a hip against the counter. “A fundraiser. Right.”

  “That’s what we’re calling it. For now.”

  Orion took a sip of coffee, and Ham was turning to go back outside when a cry sounded from an upstairs bedroom.

  Orion startled, but Ham put down his coffee and was already heading toward the stairs.

  The old farmhouse had a plethora of bedrooms, but Aggie was in the one at the top of the stairs, first one on the right, with the twin beds and a faux fireplace. He knocked on the door, then let himself in.

  Aggie sat up in bed crying, her blonde hair in knots, the covers clutched to her chest. The sun streamed blood-red fingers into her room, through the eyelet curtains.

  “What’s going on?” Ham asked and sat down on the bed, pulling Aggie into his arms.

  “I dreamed about Mama. I dreamed that . . . that a bad man was after her. That he was trying to hurt her again.”

  Again. Ham’s jaw tensed. “Shh. He’s dead, honey. He’s not going to hurt her.” But oh, he wanted to dig into that statement. And frankly, couldn’t stop himself from adding, quietly, “Did he hurt her a lot?”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “She tried to hide it, but . . . yes. Sometimes he came into our room and dragged her out, and I’d hear shouting in the hallway.” She leaned back. “He scared me.”

  Ham’s chest had fisted into a hard knot—yes fury, but horror too—but he kept his voice gentle as he pressed his hand to her cheek. “Did he . . . did he hurt . . .” Oh please, no. “You?”

  Her eyes widened. “No. He called me his sladkaya. His sweetie. He liked to tell me stories about his life in Russia. He never . . . he never hurt me.”

  Ham had to tighten his jaw against the images of a terrorist talking to, even touching, his daughter.

  Thank you, Signe. Whatever she’d done to appease Tsarnaev, it was enough to keep Aggie safe.

  Ham could weep with the unexpected, deep prick of compassion.

  “Can we call her?” Aggie reached for her unicorn, digging out the phone inside. A small flip burner phone. He kept the phone off to conserve the battery, but Signe had given it to her daughter to keep in touch with her.

  Spy craft.

  He hated that he suspected it of her, but of course Signe was a spy. There was no other way his brain could compute the choices, the sacrifices she’d made.

  Aggie handed him the phone. “Please?”

  Wait. But his daughter was staring at him with those big, pretty eyes, so much longing in them, and they just reached in and wrapped around his heart.

  He powered on the phone. Felt the bang of his heart as he dialed the only contact in the list.

  Listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

  No voicemail. The call simply disconnected.

  Ham stared at the phone. Glanced up at Aggie. A tear streaked down her cheek.

  “She’s not coming back, is she?” Aggie said.

  Ham flipped the phone closed. Pulled her against him. And tried to keep the ball of fear—and fury—in his chest from exploding.

  Today, the whole world would be his.

  Orion just needed to figure out the right words.

  He sat across from Jenny at Shakey’s Pizza, the smell of rosemary, garlic, an
d basil rising from the open kitchen to her right, a fire crackling in the hearth to her left, country music playing in the background, and the ring box burning a hole in his pocket.

  Jenny, I love you. Will you marry me?

  Eight words, and they should be easy enough, but they stuck like paste in his throat.

  Of course she’d say yes. Right?

  He’d been pretty jazzed for the last twenty-four hours, frankly. It started when he reached over Ham’s shoulder and snagged Aggie, nearly out of midair. Orion’s heart had lodged into his ribs when he saw the little girl dangling from the Ferris wheel, and he climbed up behind Ham without a thought to his knee.

  Which worked perfectly, thank you.

  Aggie had crawled into his arms and clung to him like he was, well, Jake. Unca Jake, Aggie called his teammate—and Orion didn’t want to name it jealousy but something inside him did a hooyah when she asked him today to play basketball with her. Had high-fived him after he taught her how to shoot a hook shot.

  Ham’s daughter was adorable, with her blonde hair and cute smile, and frankly, it had him wondering what his own kids might look like.

  Someday.

  He might be getting the cart ahead of the horse.

  But he’d also been a hero to the kids trapped in the other basket. He’d stayed with them until the firemen extended the ladder to their perch.

  Jenny had looked at him differently when he climbed down too. He couldn’t put a finger on the change in her, but something . . . well, he hadn’t really been on his game since the fall on Denali, and all this PT had made him feel like an invalid.

  Not anymore.

  So, yeah, he felt the wind under his wings a little, and maybe that’s why he’d followed Garrett into the barn this afternoon, after lunch.

  He’d cornered Jenny’s foster dad in the winery as the man was checking on a batch of fermenting wine.

  The place smelled of yeast and oak, big fans keeping the space cool even as the autumn air sneaked inside. Orion wore a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans and probably should have dressed up for this event, but since Garrett wore the same thing, maybe it would earn him points.

  Jenny had told him that Garrett and Jenny Marshall—Jenny called them Papa G and Mama J—had given her the home she never thought she’d have when she went into foster care. Somehow in his gut, Orion knew that asking Garrett for his blessing to marry Jenny was the right move.