Warmly,
Lindsay McKenna
To Chief Michael Jaco, U.S. Navy SEAL (retired),
Seal Team 6, Red Man Squadron.
Thank you for your twenty-four years of service to our country.
Thank you for helping me with all things SEAL
in my forthcoming Shadow Warriors series.
I appreciate your expertise and help.
You are a true hero in every sense of the word.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
1
December 20
“Morgan, you can’t say no,” Laura pleaded as she stood in her husband’s large office at Perseus headquarters, hidden deep in the Rocky Mountains of Montana. Though his office, which was next to the war room, where so many mercenary and military missions were launched, was officially closed for the holidays, Laura had come to talk to her husband as he wrapped things up. The Five Days of Christmas celebration she ran every year was at the top of her agenda. But there was one important detail she felt had to be taken care of first.
Now, as she watched him scowl and rummage through several top-secret military reports on his desk, love for him welled up in her heart. With silver flecking the temples of his black, short hair, Morgan was getting even more handsome with age.
He lifted his head, and his blue eyes softened as he looked at his wife—at her blond hair in tempting disarray around her slim shoulders, her arms crossed and those soft lips of hers set in a petulant pout. She wore a bright red, cowl neck mohair sweater, dark green slacks and simple oxfords. A piece of green holly with red berries was fastened in her hair. Sighing, he ran his hand across his chin. “Listen, I’ve tried everything to get Colt out of our safe-house condo. He’s hurting, Laura.”
Uncrossing her arms, she perched her hip on the side of Morgan’s desk and gave him a beseeching look. “I know his mission over in Kosovo was successful. So why is he holed up?”
“It was successful,” Morgan agreed, leaning back in his leather chair. Just gazing into Laura’s tender eyes made him feel better. She was his anchor. She always had been. And even now, after carrying four beautiful children in that petite but oh-so-strong body of hers, she looked just as young and vibrant as when he’d met her so many years ago. “Colt’s suffering from mild PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder—according to Dr. Jennifer Ramirez, our staff physician.”
“Well, if that’s so, then all the more reason to get him out of there and back with normal people and society.” She stretched out her hand. “Morgan, you know what PTSD is. You’ve suffered from it for years because of your experience over in Vietnam and later, after you were kidnapped. The last thing you needed was to be alone at times like that. Colt Hamlin has worked for you for seven years now and I agree that he needs downtime. But with people.” With a mischievous grin, Laura said, “He can help me with the Five Days of Christmas celebration.”
Groaning, Morgan sat up, folded his hands on his desk and raised one eyebrow. “You’ve got that look in your eye, sweetheart. You’re making me nervous.”
With a lilting laugh, Laura reached out and covered his massive, hairy hand with her own much smaller one. “Now, darling...”
“Now I know I’m in trouble.”
“Colt is, actually,” she replied playfully. Patting his hand one last time, Laura eased off the desk. “I have a plan, Morgan. One that I think can help Colt and help me.”
“Uh-oh...”
“Don’t be such a fussbudget about this. Hear me out, will you?”
One corner of his mouth crooked. “That look in your eyes is still there. You have a plan. I feel like I should already be waving a white flag of surrender....”
Chuckling, Laura said, “Listen, you know Abbie Clemens, the biology teacher over at the high school? The teacher that Jason loved so much?”
Morgan nodded. “Sure I do. She’s helping you with the Christmas celebration, right?”
Laura’s smile deepened. “Yes, she is. What I want to do is lure Colt out of hiding and ask him to help Abbie. She takes care of all the decorations for these five days, and I’ve got my hands full with all I’ve got to do.”
“You’re matchmaking—again....” Morgan gave his wife a warm look. He couldn’t stop the smile from edging his mouth. Laura stood there, her shoulders back, her smile effusive and her eyes glimmering with happiness.
“Well...” she murmured coyly, “I just feel it’s time Abbie got back into the mainstream of life. Her husband died two years ago in the line of duty while working with Perseus. It’s the least we can do to help her, Morgan. She’s ready to let go of her past.”
“And you think bringing snarling, grouchy Colt Hamlin into her life is a good thing? Are you a sadist?”
Laughing at his good-natured jab, Laura moved around the room. “I know he’s grumpy right now. I just happen to feel Abbie will be like a healing ointment to his emotional wounds. And if she can handle petulant, hormone-driven eleventh-graders, I’m sure she can deal with Colt.” Laura pirouetted, taking in his office as she spun around. There were maps of the world on the walls, photographs of their four children, whom Morgan doted upon, and a pair of crossed Marine Corps ceremonial swords to attest to his time spent in that branch of the service.
Morgan watched his wife move with grace around the windowless room. His office was in the basement of the Perseus complex, hidden beneath a Victorian home. Because of the nature of his super-secret work, Morgan did not want to be found by his enemies...and he’d made many over the last fifteen years. He also wished to protect his growing family. Once, several years before, Laura, their oldest son, Jason, and Morgan himself had been captured by drug dealers who wanted to get even after Morgan’s mercenaries destroyed their trade in several key regions of South America.
Frowning, Morgan recalled that horrible experience. Laura had suffered badly at the hands of her captors. His son Jason, although very young when it happened, had been scarred, it seemed, for life. Before the kidnapping, Jason had been an outgoing young boy. Afterward, he’d become withdrawn, a loner, angry and rebellious...even to this day. If it hadn’t been for Abbie Clemens, who was like a second mother to Jason, Morgan doubted that his son would have gained an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy to follow in the Trayhern family’s two-hundred-year-old tradition of military service.
Guilt ate at Morgan. His family had suffered needlessly because of his own arrogance, his confidence in Perseus and its ability to protect his family...and the families of people who worked for him around the world. It had been a lesson he never wanted to repeat, so he’d gone underground—literally disappeared—so that no terrorists, no drug dealers, however powerful, could hunt Perseus down and take out their rage and revenge. Moving to the very small town of Philipsburg, Montana, deep in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, had been a brilliant tactical decision. Here, Perseus staff were relatively safe, although none of them let down their guard completely.
As Laura turned and smiled winningly at him, Morgan knew his goose was cooked. He could never say no to her. He loved her too much to deny her anything. Besides, what she was asking was more than reasonable. She was right: Colt needed to be pried out of hiding. Being with people would help him heal.
“Well? What do you think? Can you phone Colt? Tell him you need him, Morgan? Fib a little and tell him you’re overwhelmed with work and that you usually do this running around for me in preparation for the Five Days of Christmas celebration, but you can’t this time. Colt will understand that. And he’ll help if you ask him.”
Giving her a wry look and then gesturing to the mission plans on his desk, Morgan growled, “I don’t think I’ll have to fib one iota about being overwhelmed with work.”
Laura came over, slid her arms around his massive shoulders and placed a warm, lingering kiss on his crooked mouth. In response, he lifted her and se
ttled her on his lap. With a sigh, she placed her brow against his and whispered, “I love you, Morgan Trayhern.”
“You love me because you can wheedle anything you want out of me, whenever you want it,” he chuckled as he lifted his chin and placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. Drowning in her warm gaze, he added, “But I know you love me for other reasons, too.”
“You’re such a teddy bear, darling. My teddy bear—big and gruff. But underneath,” she continued, sliding her hand against his chest, “you’ve got a heart of gold. I know you care what happens to Colt. And I can see you’re worried about him, though there’s nothing you can do about it personally. Maybe my plan won’t work fully, but Abbie’s lonely and so is Colt. Why not bring two lonely people together? Maybe the Five Days of Christmas celebration will help them.”
Catching her sparkling gaze, Morgan placed his hand over his wife’s as she pressed against his white silk shirt and red tie. “Okay, I’ll give him a call. But no promises, all right?”
* * *
When the phone rang, Colt Hamlin nearly leaped out of the chair he was sitting in. A bottle of whiskey, one third of the contents gone from his drinking bout the night before, sat next to the red phone. The phone rang again. Irritated, he snatched it up.
“Yeah?”
“Colt? This is Morgan.”
Instantly, Colt sat up. Scowling, he changed his tone. “Sorry, boss. I wasn’t expecting any calls,” he said contritely.
Morgan accepted his apology for the snarling start to their conversation. “Don’t worry about it. Listen, I need your help. I’m plowed under here with work. Laura needs my help in setting up things for our Five Days of Christmas celebration, but I can’t make it, Colt. I was wondering if you felt well enough to take my place. All it means is a lot of running around, pulling things together, working behind the scenes.”
Colt rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He’d barely slept last night. And drinking whiskey probably hadn’t helped. He felt fractured. Raw. “I don’t do parties, Morgan.”
“I understand. I’m not asking that of you, Colt. I am asking for your time, and maybe some driving here and there. Maybe helping some of the women set up decorations at our home. That’s all.”
Rubbing his chin, which had a two-day growth of beard on it, Colt said, “Yeah...okay...I can do that.” After all, he owed Morgan big-time. Under any other circumstances, Colt would eagerly do anything for his boss. Right now, though, he was hurting so much that he wondered if he could keep himself glued together and focused enough to help anyone at all.
“Great. I’m appreciative. Take the car in the garage beneath the condo where you’re staying over to Abbie Clemens’s place. Here’s the address....”
Colt found a pencil and paper and wrote it down. Philipsburg was a small town—less than 2,500 in population—and was like a second home to him when he came off missions. He knew the layout well.
Hanging up, he sighed. The condo, which was decorated in a Western motif, was silent—and lonely. Getting up stiffly, he padded on bare feet across the thick, dark blue carpet to the bathroom. First, he’d better shower and shave. Otherwise, this woman called Abbie would freak out over his rough appearance.
* * *
The heavy knock on Abbie’s back door, off the kitchen, made her jump in reaction. It was an aggressive kind of knock, not a friendly one, that was for sure. Slipping off the chair and placing the half-finished pine swag on the table, Abbie hurried to answer it. Would that be Colt Hamlin already? It was nearly 9:00 a.m. Laura had called to say he would be coming by to help. Glancing through the window, which was wreathed in pale pink, Victorian style curtains with a swag of holly with bright red berries across the top, she could see a very tall, large man standing on the porch. Snowflakes twirled lazily from the gray sky behind him.
Abbie’s heart beat a little harder as she opened the door. The man standing before her reminded her of an angry grizzly bear, a species that lived in this part of the Rocky Mountains. He stood about six foot one inch tall, and his shoulders were massively broad. His black hair was cut very short, with one rebellious curl dipping over his furrowed brow. He was built like a boxer, she decided as she quickly perused the unhappy set of his face. Everything about Colt Hamlin was square—his build, the shape of his jaw, his broad forehead. His nose looked like it had been broken many times. Her gaze ranged upward to his eyes. Though they were bloodshot, she could see they were a forest-green color, the pupils dark and huge. Intuitively, Abbie sensed that he was very tired and stressed out. Laura had warned her when she’d called that Colt was like a bear with his foot in a trap, and to take him in stride.
“Hi,” she greeted him a little breathlessly, and stuck out her hand. “You must be Colt Hamlin? I’m Abbie Clemens. Thanks for dropping by to help me with this stuff. I really appreciate it.”
Colt stared down at her proffered hand. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. Dressed in an apricot mohair sweater and cobalt-blue corduroy slacks, Abbie Clemens stood about five foot five inches in height, her medium-boned frame probably weighing in at about a hundred and thirty pounds. Her face was plain, but was set off by a riot of curly, carrot-red hair tied back from her heavily freckled, pale face by a pink-orange-and-white scarf. What drew him unexpectedly were her large blue eyes, which were soft and warm, and a wide, smiling mouth that sent a sheet of heat all the way through him to his toes. Her engaging smile was genuine. And the sparkle of welcome in her eyes appeared to be, too.
Jerkily, he lifted his hand and enclosed hers. Such a small, delicate hand covered with copper freckles, compared to his own bear paw. Clearing his throat, he growled, “Yeah, I’m Colt. Morgan Trayhern said you needed some help?”
A stream of tingles flew up Abbie’s fingers into her arm as she released Colt’s massive hand. For all of his masculine strength, she had to give him credit: he hadn’t crushed her fingers. When she saw surprise flare in his narrowed eyes, she wondered why. Self-consciously touching her flyaway hair, which always looked uncombed because it was so curly, she stepped aside. Abbie knew she was not beautiful, not even pretty. She had accepted that her oval face, her straight nose with flared nostrils, and her polka-dotted skin slathered with hundreds of freckles she refused to hide with makeup, did not make her look glamorous.
“Come in,” she invited, and gestured to the huge, white oak table where the pine swags lay. “Just take off your coat and have a seat here at the table while I finish off these last two decorations.”
Abbie watched with compassion as he self-consciously jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stepped hesitantly through the door. The dark brown leather bomber jacket he wore had obviously seen a lot of wear and tear. The white silk scarf beneath, spotted with melted snowflakes, gave him the look of an aviator. As he shrugged out of the jacket and placed it on the back of an oak chair, she smiled a little nervously.
Colt wore a maroon, fisherman’s knit sweater, the wrinkled collar of a white shirt peeking out from beneath it. Everything about him shouted of stress. Laura had warned Abbie that he was suffering from PTSD. She knew what it was because some of the children she taught had suffered from it—especially Jason Trayhern, due to his kidnapping at an earlier age.
Treading gently, Abbie watched as Colt’s gaze skittered around her bright pink kitchen, with its Victorian-style curtains. Going over to the sink, she put water into the copper teakettle. “Tea or coffee? You look like you could use one or the other.” She kept her voice light and teasing. When his gaze whipped to her, she froze momentarily. He had the eyes of a hunter or predator—always shifting, always moving and restless. Abbie knew he worked for Morgan, but not in what capacity.
“Yeah. Hot tea sounds good.” When he saw her jolt, then freeze, he realized he was snarling again. Damn. Clearing his throat, he added, “Thanks.” It sounded lame.
Grabbing the chair, Colt pulled it out and sat down. The fragrant scent of pine surrounded him. There were at least a dozen thick ropes o
f woven evergreen branches on the large, rectangular table in front of him. Sniffing again, he said, “What’s that smell? Cinnamon rolls?”
Grinning, Abbie put the teakettle on the gas stove and turned it on. “Sure is. Have you had breakfast?” Colt probably weighed around a hundred and eighty pounds, she judged. And his cheeks were hollow. He wasn’t eating enough.
Shrugging, he muttered, “I’m not hungry.” There was that snarl again, he thought with dismay. Every feeling was visible in her face. That shook him. In his trade, no one showed any expressions or emotions. Colt reminded himself that Abbie was a schoolteacher, not a spy or a mercenary. Her eyes were lustrous and so blue that they reminded him of the deep, breathtaking azure of a wide Montana sky in summertime. As he studied her, he saw her eyes grow tender. It was almost a physical sensation he received as she gave him that gentle, caring look.
“Are you sure? I can whip you up an omelette and some bacon real fast. I don’t have to have these swags over to Laura’s for an hour.”
Rubbing his throat with his long, thick fingers, Colt muttered, “I got a cold comin’ on or somethin’....”
“Ohh...well, in that case I’ll put a little honey and lemon in your tea to soothe it.” Reaching up on tiptoes, she grabbed a jar of honey from the cupboard and placed it on the counter. Her heart bounded as she turned and looked over at Colt. He was watching her with such intensity that Abbie wondered if the zipper on her slacks was open or something. Maybe he hadn’t been around a woman for a long, long time.
Unused to such raw male scrutiny, she opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of reconstituted lemon juice. In her job at the high school, she didn’t meet many men who were single. Though Philipsburg was a tourist destination during the summer months, it mainly attracted families seeking an outdoor experience in nature. Abbie felt her skin prickle pleasantly. She was enjoying Colt’s frowning inspection, but found it hard to believe he was attracted to her—Miss Plain Jane of Philipsburg, as she wryly referred to herself in moments of acute loneliness.
A Proposal for Christmas: State SecretsThe Five Days of Christmas Page 21
