by Debby Giusti
Fighting off the desire to remain wrapped in his embrace, Michele slid onto the leather seat, feeling an instant weariness. She waited for Jamison to round the car and climb behind the wheel.
“I could have driven my own car back to post.” Although she attempted to sound strong, the faint tremble in her voice spoke volumes about how she really felt.
“Not after that blow you took. You need to take it easy. The EMTs agreed, as I recall.”
She nodded. “They did say something to that effect.” The doctor had done so, as well, which she didn’t mention. “I appreciate your help, Jamison, and hate tying up your day. I shouldn’t have been so careless.”
He put the car into gear and pulled onto the main road, heading back to Fort Rickman. “Stop blaming yourself for everything that happens, Michele. I never should have allowed you to drive to the cemetery alone. As soon as I realized your safety could be at risk, I raced to catch up to you.” His eyes were filled with regret as he turned to look at her. “You weren’t at fault, Michele. I was.”
“I’m just glad you got there when you did.”
He reached out and briefly squeezed her hand. “Have you remembered anything else about the driver?”
She shook her head. “Everything happened so quickly. All I could think about was getting out of the way.”
“Thank God, you weren’t seriously hurt.”
The muscles in her neck tightened. “I’m not sure God had anything to do with it.”
She turned toward the window. When they had dated, Michele’s heart had softened to the message Jamison had shared about a loving God who wanted the best for His children. Jamison’s enthusiasm and commitment to Christ had made her rethink what had happened to her brother and the reasons she had retreated from the Lord. She knew there was a higher power who gave life. Her problem was the seemingly fickle way in which He took that life away.
Oil and water didn’t mix. Jamison was a believer and deserved someone who shared his faith. Not a woman who rejected anything to do with God.
“It’s still about Lance, isn’t it, Michele?”
Jamison deserved answers that she didn’t know how to put into words. Michele worried her fingers and tried to pull the random thoughts pinging through her mind into some type of order.
“It’s...it’s not just Lance,” she finally admitted. “Other things have happened.”
“Like?”
What could she tell him? Like her father being wounded shortly after he had arrived in Afghanistan. Her mother had prayed for his safety, but God hadn’t listened, just as He hadn’t listened two years ago when Michele had asked God to keep Lance safe.
Fast-forward to when Michele’s resolve had started to soften, and she had tentatively asked the Lord to watch over the CID agent she was beginning to care about in a very special way. Not long after that, her worst fears had been realized when the shooting on post almost claimed Jamison’s life.
Suddenly chilled, Michele ran her hands over her arms.
“Cold?”
Without waiting for her reply, Jamison turned on the heat. She was grateful for his response to her unspoken need. Her body temperature had plummeted since she had gotten into the car.
“Why don’t you close your eyes and relax?” Jamison suggested. Relieved she wouldn’t have to answer any more questions, she settled back in the seat.
Her eyes grew heavy, probably from the muscle relaxer the doctor had given her. She drifted in and out of sleep, hearing snippets of a conversation Jamison had on his cell.
“She’s okay, Dawson. We’re headed back to post now. Tell Chief Wilson I’ll brief him back at the office, once I ensure Mrs. Logan and Michele are safe at home.”
Feeling the car decelerate, she blinked her eyes open, surprised they were already at her parents’ quarters. Both military policemen parked behind Jamison. Roberta met them on the sidewalk, her cell phone in hand.
“Your father just called with good news. He pulled a few strings and got the general’s approval to move up the brigade’s return. If everything goes as planned, they should arrive Friday morning.”
Michele attempted to smile. “That’s wonderful news.”
“Major Hughes will be on board the first plane.” Roberta glanced at Jamison. “Stanley wants him escorted off the aircraft ahead of the other soldiers so he can be reunited with his children in a private area.”
“I’ll ensure that’s taken care of, ma’am.”
Supporting Michele’s arm, he helped her from the car and guided her toward the house. “Security needs to be tightened for the homecoming ceremony, Mrs. Logan. It might be wise to schedule a briefing for the family members this evening. Although it’s short notice, I can reserve the auditorium on post.”
Roberta nodded. “The wives were already planning to get together tomorrow to make goody bags for the soldiers who don’t have families. The barracks need to be swept out and dusted for the guys, the beds made, that type of thing. I planned to send a reminder email to the wives later this afternoon. Information about the briefing will be easy enough to add.”
“I’d like to review some safety measures they can take around their homes, as well as the security we’ll put in place at the airfield.”
“Of course.”
Michele and Jamison followed Roberta inside. A few of the wives had remained at the house and were still in the living room. They looked up as Michele excused herself to change clothes. She stopped on the stairway to hear her mother share the good news about the unit’s return. The women seemed visibly relieved.
Michele felt just the opposite.
Bad news came in threes.
Yolanda had been murdered.
Lance’s gravestone had been desecrated, and Michele had been wounded in a hit-and-run accident.
What worried her now was her father’s safety during his last hours in Afghanistan.
Michele rubbed her hands over her arms to stave off the chilling anxiety that swelled up within her and filled her with dread. Until tomorrow morning when her father’s plane took off, Michele would be waiting to learn if tragedy would strike again.
FIVE
Jamison stared after Michele as she climbed the stairs to the second floor of her parents’ quarters, inhaling the scent of her perfume that still swirled around him. She had gone through so much today and seemed exhausted on the way home. Suggesting she rest in the car had provided the short-term reprieve she had needed.
Wanting to ensure that she was okay before he returned to CID headquarters, Jamison stepped into the kitchen and made a series of phone calls to reserve the post auditorium for the briefing that evening and line up the military police to patrol the area. His last call was to the Fort Rickman airfield to alert them about the returning flights on Friday and the need for secure arrangements for the reunion ceremony. The doorbell rang just as he disconnected.
Roberta greeted Chief Agent in Charge Wilson, a tall and muscular African-American who was the head of Fort Rickman’s CID.
“Good to see you, Mrs. Logan, although I’m sorry about the circumstances.” The chief pointed to Dawson who followed him into the foyer. “You know Special Agent Timmons.”
“Yes, of course. We met earlier.” She smiled as Jamison joined them. “Agent Steele has been a great help both last night and today.”
“Sir.” Jamison nodded to his boss, then acknowledged Dawson. “Miss Logan just returned home from the hospital. Other than being tired and bruised, she seems okay.”
Wilson turned to Mrs. Logan. “A relief to all of us, ma’am.”
The few ladies who remained in the living room stood, gathered their purses and walked into the foyer, nodding to the CID agents on their way to the door. “Roberta, we need to be going.”
Mrs. Logan escorted them outside to say goodbye. While she was gone, Jamison filled his boss and Dawson in on the brigade’s new flight schedule. He also informed them of the wives’ briefing that evening and the requests he had made for securi
ty from the military police.
The chief pursed his lips. “After what happened at the cemetery, I want round-the-clock protection for Mrs. Logan and her daughter.”
Jamison was one step ahead of the chief. “I have two men stationed outside, sir, and two additional military police will be here shortly to provide increased surveillance.”
“Excellent.”
“The Freemont police are compiling names of people in town who may have visited the cemetery today,” Jamison continued. “I want to question anyone who might have seen the black car that hit Miss Logan.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Agent Timmons can work with the Freemont police. You need to focus on Colonel Logan’s family.”
Jamison held out his hand. “Sir, I’m more than able to ensure their safety and handle the investigation.”
“I’m not insinuating you can’t, but Agent Timmons will be the lead investigator on this one. In addition to keeping the colonel’s wife and daughter safe, I want you to coordinate security for the brigade’s return.”
Jamison swallowed his frustration. Although the shift was subtle, his relationship with the chief had changed after the shooting ten months ago, and not in a positive way. Being taken from the lead on this case drove home the point that Wilson wasn’t pleased with his performance.
The front door opened, and Mrs. Logan stepped back inside. “Can I offer you gentlemen a cup of coffee?”
The chief shook his head. “Not for me, ma’am, but I would like to talk to you for a few minutes about Mrs. Hughes.”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Logan pointed to the living room. “We’ll be more comfortable in here.” Dawson and the chief quickly settled into two Queen Anne chairs across from the couch where she sat.
Unable to move forward, Jamison remained in the hallway, hearing his manipulative father’s voice taunt him from the past. “You’ll always be a failure, Jamie-boy.”
Turning at the sound of footsteps, he watched Michele descend the stairs, bringing with her more of the sweet floral scent he had noticed earlier. Her hair was damp, and she had evidently showered before donning a flowing skirt and a silk top that hugged her slender body. She smiled, and the voice from his childhood disappeared.
“You look lovely,” Jamison said, feeling a swell of emotion in his chest.
Before she could reply, the doorbell rang.
He glanced out the window. A beige van bearing the florist’s shop logo was parked on the street. The florist stood on the steps, a bouquet of flowers in hand.
Surprise flickered from his eyes when Jamison opened the door. “Hey, sir. Long time no see. I’ve got a delivery.”
“Miss Logan was in your shop earlier today, Mr. Sutherland. You could have saved yourself a trip.”
Embarrassment tugged at his lips. “Actually, the order came in after she left. After you left, too, sir. And the flowers are for Mrs. Logan. Is she home?”
Gently nudging Jamison to the side, Michele reached for the bouquet. The arrangement included yellow roses and white mums with baby’s breath and a few other varieties Jamison couldn’t name. “They’re beautiful. I’ll give them to my mother.”
Mrs. Logan excused herself from the living room. “Why, isn’t that bouquet exquisite? Who are they from, dear?”
Michele opened the card. Her expression clouded ever so slightly as she read the card. “Dad sent them.”
Mrs. Logan either didn’t notice the change in Michele or refused to respond. Instead, she turned her gaze to the florist. “Thank you, Teddy.”
“The pleasure is all mine, ma’am. Be sure to let me know when Colonel Logan plans to return to Fort Rickman so I can place the order for the welcome-home ceremony.”
“If everything goes as scheduled, the unit should arrive on post Friday morning.”
“I’ll contact my wholesaler about the delivery.” With a brief nod, he walked back to his truck. Jamison waited until the florist’s van was out of sight before he closed the door.
Michele had taken the flowers into the kitchen. From where Jamison stood, he could see the colorful bouquet lying on the kitchen table. Sometimes he felt as if he were stumbling around in the dark without night vision goggles when it came to Michele. After she had run away to Atlanta, he had phoned her a number of times, but the calls always went to her voice mail. Finding out where she lived had been easy enough. The hard part had been trying to stay away from her.
One night when he had allowed his emotions to get the better of him, Jamison had driven to Atlanta and parked outside her apartment, trying to decide what to say when he knocked on her door. Just before he’d climbed from his car, Michele had stepped outside on someone else’s arm.
Driving back to Fort Rickman that lonely night, he’d vowed to wipe her memory from his mind. The problem was he hadn’t been able to remove Michele from his heart.
In hindsight, he should have sent flowers to woo her back or bouquets while they were dating to convince Michele that, despite the danger of his job, what they had was special.
No matter how he tried to rationalize her actions, he still felt betrayed. He had loved her once. Seeing Michele today, lying injured on the side of the road, had made him realize how much.
* * *
Michele leaned against the counter in the kitchen and stared at the flowers, feeling the lump that had instantly formed in her throat when she’d read her father’s card.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to find Jamison staring at her as if he could see the need written on her heart.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern softening his gaze.
“Nothing.” She wrapped her arms defiantly across her chest. “As I keep telling everyone, I’m fine.”
Instantly she regretted the sharpness in her tone.
He bristled. Of course, he would.
If only he would join the other agents in the living room so she could have a moment to pull herself together.
He stepped toward her.
Needing a distraction, she grabbed scissors from a drawer and reached for the bouquet. With quick decisive motions, she plucked a flower from the bunch and snipped off the lower end of the stem.
Jamison moved closer. “Was it something I said?”
“Of course not.” Pulling in a deep breath, she tried to untangle the confusion she felt. “It...it was my mother.”
Michele reached for a second flower. “She didn’t mention why Dad sent the bouquet. He knew today would be hard on her.”
“Because of Lance?”
Michele nodded. “She doesn’t talk about my brother, although for some reason she did last night. I don’t think she goes to the cemetery or leaves flowers at his grave. It’s as if...”
Still aware of the medication’s effect on her, Michele tried to gather her thoughts. “It’s as if she doesn’t want to deal with his death.”
“Maybe that’s her way of running away.”
Michele glanced up at Jamison, knowing there was more to his statement than just her mother’s response to losing a child. For a long moment, what was unspoken hung in the silence between them.
“We all handle grief in different ways,” she finally said, reaching for a glass vase and another flower.
He watched her work and then wrinkled his face as if he had never seen anyone arrange flowers. “You cut off the ends of the stems?”
She ran water into the vase. “The blooms last longer when the old ends are trimmed away.”
“Like a gardener prunes a bush or vine?”
She smiled. “You weren’t a country boy, were you?”
“Hardly.” He choked out a rueful laugh, brief and bitter. “More of a drifter. My dad and I moved often, usually in the middle of the night when he was running from the law.”
Something he hadn’t revealed to her when they were dating. “I take it your father wasn’t the best of role models.”
“That’s an understatement.” Jamison tapped his fingers on the counter as if to
diffuse the nervous energy that came over him along with the memory of the past.
“Yet you’re a good man.”
He stopped tapping. She saw conflict in his eyes.
“So, who helped you growing up?” she asked, hoping to deflect the intensity of his gaze.
Jamison rolled his shoulders, perhaps to ease the tension she could see in his neck and splayed hands. “I threw the discus in high school. My coach encouraged me to go into the army. A chaplain when I was in basic training filled in more of the blanks. He taught me about working hard and doing my best.”
Michele heard the admiration he had for both men in his voice and saw the stress lift ever so slightly from Jamison’s physical bearing. The memory also brought a smile to his lips.
“The chaplain made his point to a bunch of green recruits by explaining how we needed to whittle away at the deadwood of the softer life we had lived before we came into the military. After a ten-mile road march, his message started to have meaning. By the time I graduated as the top trainee, I had taken his words to heart.”
“Top trainee.” Michele raised her brow. “That’s impressive.”
Jamison shoved off the praise with a shake of his head. “My drill sergeant takes all the credit, as well as the chaplain.”
“Because he encouraged you to succeed?”
Jamison nodded, then paused for a moment as if thinking back to those beginning days in basic training. “In retrospect, he was probably talking about pruning, although he never used the word. He said changing was painful, but we would be stronger in the end.”
Michele reached for another flower. Her fingers touched the fragile petals of the bloodred rose. “Losing someone I loved changed me—but it hasn’t made me stronger.”
He stepped closer. Too close. She could smell his aftershave, a masculine scent that reminded her of sea breezes. She couldn’t help but think back to the nights she’d kissed Jamison on her doorstep and then come inside with the smell of him clinging to her hair. Those nights, she had fallen into bed, hugging her pillow and reliving his lips on hers.
As much as she wanted to change the subject, she couldn’t. “Is Lance’s death supposed to make me stronger?”
