During the time we spent in Afghanistan, our team took on a Marine, Chase Morgan. Reaper and Havoc took a shining to him and began teaching him everything they knew. Pretty soon, he earned himself a call sign for his ability to make water catch fire. It was after he showed us this skill, his name was born; Diesel. Granted he did catch flak for his movie star good looks, and I've no doubt it helped to steer the men along in giving him the name. Diesel would share stories of his brothers back in Charleston; he made the historic city sound almost magical.
“Two hours, I wouldn't want to crowd Diesel or his kin.” Taking back the flyer, he tucks it safely inside his shirt pocket. “When we get done with this shit, I'm gonna call her and have her start the paperwork.” He picks up his whittling from before, Reaper’s way of ending a conversation.
“Hey, anyone know if Kincaid has a sister or a wife?” Doc asks the group, a white sheet of paper dangling from his fingers, while his eyes flicker over the words on the page.
“Both. Why do you ask?” Havoc looks up from his own letter as he answers.
“Cause I got a letter from one of them.”
Kincaid was a fellow SEAL we met when we did a joint mission with the 53rd Marine division. He ended up staying with us for about four months while Havoc recovered from his injuries.
Chief jumps to his feet, snatching the letter out of Doc's hands. “You lucky, motherfucker.” He laughs as he scans the letter. “Harper Kincaid is the sister and one of the sweetest ladies to walk the planet.” Chief tosses the paper back to Doc. “She works with the USO and Navy League to make sure single soldiers aren't forgotten during the holidays.” Doc continues to read and reread the letter, turning the page around and checking the back. Chief has a Cheshire grin on his face, keeping the rest of the story to himself.
“Good news, Ladies,” Havoc adds, turning the postcard we all know had to be from his Mother. “I was too slow in letting Athenia Pantel know I was looking for a good Greek girl to marry and she accepted the proposal of George Kalavesis instead.” Havoc would be hard pressed to find a career in Hollywood, as his acting skills suck.
“Awe, don't fret, son. Your sweet momma will have a new girl lined up before you know it.” Havoc turns the post card sideways, flinging it at my head. I laugh as I catch it with ease, enjoying the photo of the Isle of Cyprus on the front.
“What about you, LT? Any news from home?” Chief asks, his own letter folded in his hands. I knew better than to think I could wait until I had a moment alone, as a team, we shared practically everything. I pull the four envelopes from my pocket, peering at the return addresses and logos. “Well, First Mortgage can offer me a free evaluation on my current rates.” Chuckling, I toss the junk mail into the dirt at my right. “Next, we have an offer to make the grass of my lawn greener.” Reaper snickered at that one as it joined the pile. “A letter from my baby sister, no doubt telling me about the new guy in her life I’ll need to kick the shit out of for breaking her heart.” I shove the letter back into my pocket. Savannah was in love with the idea of being in love. She hopped like a fucking bunny from one obsession to the next; tossing everything she had into the relationship, being used for her name and her bank account.
“Finally, we have an airmail letter from Kennedy Forrester.” The red, white, and blue stripes along the border of the envelope, lightweight, almost tissue paper texture. Years ago this paper was common when sending mail overseas, when the price was dictated by the weight of the post. Sliding my callused finger under the seal, I separated the flap from the glued edge, taking care not to rip the fragile paper as I removed the thin letter.
Zack,
I hate the way we left things. I know I said I would be there for you no matter what happened, but it scared me when you started asking for information I wasn't comfortable giving you. I want to help...
I stopped reading the letter the second I realized it wasn't intended for me. My name is Zach, not Zack. Picking up the discarded envelope, I noticed the last name is wrong as well. Zack Michels, instead of Michaels, the only thing correct was the APO address. “Which was delivered to the wrong Zach.” I add, as I know my team is waiting to know who Kennedy is. “I’ll look up the poor bastard when we get back and give him his letter.”
The rumbling of tires starts at the same time sniper fire resumes. I look to Reaper who has already lined up his rifle to the ridge to the West of us. Two shots ring out, one additional from the sniper and the second from the barrel of Reaper’s gun. We all collectively stand as the convoy stops in a swirl of dust behind us. We have a job to do, regardless of wrongly delivered mail, surprise packages, land purchases, and good Greek girls.
Reaper hesitates, his gun still raised to the ridge, finger remaining on the trigger. “The kid was right, you know?” Remaining still a second longer before lowering his gun and standing beside me. His green eyes flash to mine, a knowing smile framing his face. “I do miss the smell of warm pussy in the morning.
CHAPTER TWO
Kennedy
“That's it, Mr. Green, let sugar do her magic.” Clenching the bridle in hand, my eyes bouncing back and forth between our patient, John Green an injured veteran from California, and Sugar our four year old Gelding. It had taken me three visits to convince him he wouldn't fall off the horse, injuring himself further. His wife contacted us almost a year ago when he came out of surgery unable to move his legs. Navy doctors gave him a less than five percent chance of ever walking again after his accident involving an IED explosion.
“I need you to focus on the movement of her hind legs.” Equestrian therapy was once considered nothing more than voodoo to the medical community. All that changed when a celebrity or two showed marked improvements after attending this very facility.
“Memorize how she sways back and forth.” Mr. Green closes his eyes while holding the horn with one hand and the reins with the other; his knuckles are white from the intensity of his grip. “Remember to breathe, Mr. Green.” I add with humor.
Most of the patients start out in much the same way, scared to death of climbing on a horse, and trusting a spit of a girl to keep them from falling. Sabrina Hall, the owner and my boss, tells me it’s the charm of my southern accent that wraps them around my finger and helps them feel at ease.
“Looking good, John.” Speaking of Sabrina, she is perched by the gate, her salt and pepper hair pulled back in a low ponytail, tan corduroy shirt hanging over the top of her jeans, the legs tucked into her boots. “Keep this up and you’ll be walking by Christmas.” I appreciated her optimism, always believing everyone would be a success story, and while I have seen quite a few patients take those steps doctors said would never happen, Mr. Green would not be one of them. Unfortunately, my time here in Colorado was up and I was expected back in Atlanta by the end of next month.
I would miss everything about Colorado, the fresh air which filtered through the mountains, the snow as it piles high in the dead of winter, and the majestic mountains peaks, stretching with effort to touch the sky. Mostly, I would miss the freedom of doing what I love without fear of disappointing my family, specifically my mother, with my dirty boots and worn out blue jeans.
When I first arrived in Colorado Springs, I called my parents to share the delights I’d found here. Mother reminded me the altitude was much too high and would result in unbearable headaches for her, inhibiting any travel plans I would allude to. Somehow she managed to deal with the discomfort when her bridge club gathered in Aspen for a weekend retreat. My being three hours from her provided no reason for her to make a stop to say hello, not that I expected any less from her.
Growing up as a child of John and Claudia Forrester came with certain privileges, and even greater expectations. According to my mother, women of my upbringing were to be well versed in languages, culture, and design. All the necessary skills I would need in order to land a proper husband, one with deep pockets lined with old family money and southern society holdings.
I wanted to stand on my ow
n, pave the way to my future with hard work and dedication, not by dropping my last name or asking for favors. I’d always wanted to work with horses, since the first pony my daddy ever bought me, a deep love was born. As I grew older, I learned of different ways horses were used in the modern world. A documentary on paraplegics gave me the passion to help those injured in an accident by way of horses.
When I graduated high school, my mother tried to force me to attend the same college she and my sister did. I begged my father to let me attend the University of Colorado and then allow me to stay an additional two years to fellowship train with Sabrina. He was hesitant, upsetting my mother wasn't something either of us enjoyed, but he allowed it, with stipulations of course. I loved working here; the smell of hay, the sounds of the horses as they woke in the morning, even cleaning out the stalls gave me a smile, which lasted the whole day.
Sabrina had offered me a full time position, but I couldn't accept it. I would keep my word I gave to my family and return to Atlanta. My mother had called daily with updates of teas and charity events scheduled in the next few months after my return. I was surprised she didn't have a list of men she wished me to entertain as well. While I would do as she asked and return to Atlanta, I wouldn't be following in her footsteps and joining any society groups. I had my heart set on something much bigger than chairing an event.
“Heard you come in early last night.” Sabrina, my best friend as well as boss, maintains her view of Mr. Green as he passes by us. “Date not go well?” She’s trying to hold back a smile, the lines around her mouth giving her amusement away.
“You know as well as I do Ethan and I have nothing in common.”
I didn’t have the heart, or perhaps courage, to say no to the young man who came to the center three months ago to take photos for the reporter doing a story on Sabrina. Ethan Porter, a freelance photographer from Denver, is everything I don't particularly find appealing in the opposite sex. His blonde hair, brown eyes, and pale skin were not on the list of attributes I wanted in the man I chose to date.
Ethan had been sweet and considerate with his compliments and openly flirting, returning virtually every weekend to see if I would grant him the honor of taking me to dinner. I tried to explain to him my time here was quite limited, but he remained persistent, continuing to drive the hour each way on the chance I would say yes.
“Yes, but does he know this?” Unable to control the laughter bubbling up inside, a chortle leaves her throat, quickly evolving into a belly laugh. Sabrina had enjoyed more laughs when it came to Ethan and his affection for me than what I would consider appropriate. At first, she—as many friends do to one another—teased me for having captured his attention. When he wouldn't stop his pursuit, her teasing took on a life of its own.
“Go ahead and laugh, but I'm fairly certain we have seen the last of Mr. Porter.” Shifting the humor to reflect the odd sense of accomplishment I felt after the conversation I had with Ethan. Sabrina accused me of being far too polite to ever intentionally hurting anyone’s feelings. Too bad she had never been the recipient of a backhanded compliment served with a glass of freshly brewed sweet tea.
“Oh, this should be good,” her laughter ceasing, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “What, did you pull out the stern face and then bless his heart?” Shaking her head as her focus returned to observing me work. “Your southern anecdotes only work on the locals who understand them. Men like Ethan find them to be like foreplay, always diving in for more.”
She was right, from the first moment I arrived in Colorado, I had one person after another asking me to say a plethora of words, repeating them mockingly at the slowness of how I spoke. “Actually, I used something I learned in a movie I watched a few years ago.” Sugar had begun to slow her footing, slacking off when she thought I was too busy talking to Sabrina. Clicking my tongue, I let her know I was still watching her.
“You doing all right, Mr. Green?” His knuckles were no longer white from the death grip he had earlier, still grasping the horn and the reins, it was now in a more relaxed fashion.
“Yep, but she’s right, it's the sound of your accent keeping me on this horse.” Even I couldn't avoid joining in the laughter at Mr. Green's honesty.
“Careful, Mr. Green, next time I'll put you on Loco.” A once explosive smile was now a line of concern, and I had to work hard to keep my game face on.
“What kind of name is that for a horse?”
Sabrina chose this moment to disappear into the stables, her way of hiding her face and ruining my teasing. Loco is a rescue horse we found abandoned on a farm the owners lost to the bank. Extremely malnourished and skittish as hell, but I managed to get him to trust me enough to get in the horse trailer. It took a lot of work, sleepless nights and a few prayers, but now Loco is one of the best horses we have around here. When it came time to give him a name, José the handyman around here said we were crazy for keeping an animal who could snap at any moment. The name and the horse are working out just fine.
“Keep working hard and watch yourself, and you’ll never have to find out.”
***
I brushed the dirt and shedding hair from Sugar, a mindless task I have always enjoyed. It's a good time to let your mind wonder, ponder over the events of the day. I refused to think of the day when I would no longer have this escape; too busy keeping up the facade of being the daughter my mother needs me to be.
“You were about to tell me how you got rid of stalker boy with your movie knowledge.” Startled from my musings of doom and gloom, a gasp leaves my mouth and Sugar pushes back two steps. “Whoa, there.” I croon, trying to calm her, swallowing my fear, as it isn't good for her.
“Easy girl.” Sabrina makes her way around to the front of Sugar, talking to her in hushed tones.
“Go ahead, Kennedy. Sugar wants to know why her favorite snack giver won't be coming by anymore.” Huffing, I know she will keep after me if I don't tell her the whole story.
“Ethan wanted to pick me up, as you are well aware.” Stepping back from the horse and tucking the brush into my back pocket, I remove the carrot I have as a reward, placing it under Sugar’s nose “We both know how well that idea went.”
My dating experience was sadly limited. Friends told me I was too picky and should take a guy home just to get a release. I never bought into the casual sex thing; I had been the girl all those public service announcements had reached. I never touched drugs, never cheated on a test or skipped class. Never once did I give my number to a boy I didn't know or let a guy pick me up from my house.
“So we agreed to meet at Simone's, over by the hospital.” I watch Sugar eat the carrot, her lips curling away from her teeth as she enjoyed the well-deserved treat.
“When I arrived, he was already there with a glass of red wine waiting for me.” Sabrina quirked an eyebrow at me, knowing how much I hated red wine. “When the waiter came by asking what I would like, I took the opportunity to set things straight.”
Following Sabrina out the door of the stall, I rubbed my hand down the nose of Sugar one last time. “Doesn't sound too scandalous, kind of boring really.” She shrugs, continuing down the hall toward her office.
“Hey! Do you want to hear this, or would you rather pick fun at me?” A slow glance over her shoulder briefly shows me her unamused eyes before turning back around.
“As the waiter told us of the chef's specials, I slid the glass of wine in his direction, ordered the lamb chops and politely asked him to remove the wine and bring me a glass of water with lemon instead.”
As we turned out of the stables, I caught the incredible aroma of Martha’s, famous chicken and noodles. Her food was legendary, and a nice bonus for working here. A far cry better than the food I had back in my room last night.
“As soon as the waiter excused himself, Ethan asked if there was something wrong with the wine. I leaned forward, checked to see if anyone was listening, and excitedly told him I had used an ovulation kit earlier in the day and if everything
went well with the date, we could be parents before the first snowfall.”
For the first time in a long while, Sabrina didn't have a witty comeback. No carefully crafted words to make me cringe or shake my head. “As the waiter set our plates down, Ethan received an urgent phone call and had to leave, begging for my forgiveness and a rain check.” I was taking far too much amusement in my accomplishment than I should; boasting about deception was not a good character building exercise.
“So you pulled the almost pregnancy card and sent him packing?”
“I know, I know. It was dishonest and I shouldn't have done it, but you have to admit he was becoming a pest.” I argued, why I’m not sure.
“Oh, Kennedy, you're not the first girl to toss that particular card and you won't be the last.” Her tone was the same Lucia, our cook back home, would use when I did something she didn't approve of.
“Listen, you are a pretty girl with your whole life ahead of you and there is a blank canvas before you, just waiting for bad decisions and regrettable boyfriends. As you get older, you will learn the art of seduction and how to tell a good lie.”
Several of the ranch hands already stood in line, no one wanted to miss Martha's Sunday dinner. Sabrina picked up a plate, holding it out for me to take. “But until you can perfect the lying part, you might want to knock off the politeness and soak up some pure bitch.” My mouth dropped open in surprise, eyes wide no doubt.
“Ethan called you on your poker face,” she nodded to the table behind me. I found myself turning around slowly, terrified at what I would find.
“Those came for you after Mr. Green’s wife picked him up. Peach roses, at least a dozen in total, sat out of place on the wooden table beside the military picture of Sabrina’s son. While their beauty was unquestionable, the rationale was, Ethan knew I was leaving in less than a month, moving halfway across the country to disappoint my mother even more than I currently do.
Signed, SEALed, Delivered (Trident Brotherhood Book 1) Page 2
