by Cora Seton
A SEAL’s Pledge
By Cora Seton
Copyright © 2016 Cora Seton
Kindle Edition
Published by One Acre Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Excerpt from A SEAL’s Oath
About the Author
Author’s Note
A SEAL’s Pledge is the third volume in the SEALs of Chance Creek series, set in the fictional town of Chance Creek, Montana. To find out more about Boone, Clay, Jericho and Walker, look for the rest of the books in the series, including:
A SEAL’s Oath
A SEAL’s Vow
A SEAL’s Consent
Also, don’t miss Cora Seton’s other Chance Creek series, the Cowboys of Chance Creek and the Heroes of Chance Creek
The Cowboys of Chance Creek Series:
The Cowboy Inherits a Bride (Volume 0)
The Cowboy’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 1)
The Cowboy Wins a Bride (Volume 2)
The Cowboy Imports a Bride (Volume 3)
The Cowgirl Ropes a Billionaire (Volume 4)
The Sheriff Catches a Bride (Volume 5)
The Cowboy Lassos a Bride (Volume 6)
The Cowboy Rescues a Bride (Volume 7)
The Cowboy Earns a Bride (Volume 8)
The Cowboy’s Christmas Bride (Volume 9)
The Heroes of Chance Creek Series:
The Navy SEAL’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 1)
The Soldier’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 2)
The Marine’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 3)
The Navy SEAL’s Christmas Bride (Volume 4)
The Airman’s E-Mail Order Bride (Volume 5)
Visit Cora’s website at www.coraseton.com
Find Cora on Facebook at facebook.com/CoraSeton
Sign up for my newsletter HERE.
Chapter One
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The eleventh of July dawned warm and still, and Harris Wentworth, only two months out of a sixteen-year stint with the Navy SEALs, knew a storm was brewing. He woke early, like he always did, but for once he was the only one up in Base Camp. All the men in the small tent community were ex-SEALs. All of them had served until recently. They were a vigilant, early rising bunch.
Usually.
Today would be an exception, Harris knew. Last night they’d celebrated the marriage of Clay Pickett and Nora Ridgeway—a wedding that could have as easily been a funeral. A stalker had followed Nora from Baltimore, where she used to teach high school, here to Chance Creek, Montana. He’d gotten Nora alone and nearly killed her before Clay managed to track her down. He’d nearly killed Clay’s father in his attempt to shoot Clay, too. It had been touch and go there for a while with Nora, so her recovery—and marriage—had given everyone a lot of reasons to make toasts and drink to the newlyweds last night.
Champagne, wine, beer and mixed drinks had flowed, and as Harris got up and dressed he could hear snoring from several of the tents around his. So far they’d only managed to build two permanent homes in the community—the tiny house Boone Rudman and his wife, Riley, had moved into last month, and the one that Clay and Nora had moved into last night.
There’d be more, though. One of them would be his—just as soon as he was married, too. The wedded couples got first dibs, and it wasn’t his turn yet.
He’d have to be patient.
Luckily, Harris was good at that.
He knew most of the men who’d joined the small community had come because of their dedication to sustainability. Because they wanted to get the word out to the wider world there was a different way to live—one that saw humans acting as stewards of the planet’s finite resources. Harris believed that, too, and he was proud of the work he was doing here, helping to build the tiny houses.
But that wasn’t the reason he’d decided to join up.
He could still remember the ad he’d answered back in April. Boone had posted it on a private online forum for Navy SEALs. It had been succinct:
Six men needed to join planned eco-community. Must be knowledgeable about sustainability, committed to the goals of our organization, comfortable with being filmed for a reality television show documenting our progress—and willing to marry within the year. Wives provided for those lacking them.
Harris would never admit that while he was all for sustainability, it was that last line that had jolted him into action.
Wives provided…
Harris wanted a wife—badly. But while he’d received medals for bravery, commitment and his sharpshooting skills, he would never be commended for his ability to talk to women. He tried—now and then. Truth was, he was a doer, not a talker, and his dates had a depressing tendency to start off okay, but soon slide into a silence that neither side could pierce. Harris had almost given up on the idea of having a family of his own before he saw the ad.
Now he had hope.
The other men who’d joined Base Camp seemed resigned to the idea of marrying. Martin Fulsom, the eccentric billionaire who was funding the whole venture, and whose idea it was to create the reality TV show documenting it, had made it very clear marriage was required. The hooking up aspect was what drew crowds to watch the show, and Fulsom was nothing if not dedicated to creating publicity for the venture. None of the other men seemed to look forward to marriage the way Harris did, though. Maybe they were keeping their feelings to themselves, but Curtis Lloyd, a burly man with a normally cheerful temperament, had been the latest one to draw the short straw that meant he was required to marry next—and he hadn’t been cheerful about that at all.
Harris supposed he couldn’t blame the man given the circumstances; it was strange enough being on a television program that required you to marry, but it was even stranger to find out you had to marry someone you’d never met. Clay was the one who’d originally drawn that short straw—on the day after Boone and Riley’s wedding just over a month ago—but while Clay wanted to marry Nora right from the start, she’d been reluctant before her stalker attacked her. Back then, when it wasn’t at all clear to Clay that he could convince Nora to say yes before the deadline was up, he had agreed to let Boone find him a backup bride to marry, but he’d made Boone agree not to bring her to Base Camp or tell anyone anything about her until his time was up.
After Nora was attacked by her stalker and nearly killed, everyone agreed it wouldn’t be fair to push her to marry Clay—or to push Clay to marry someone else, either. Faced with a looming deadline for the television show, the rest of the men had drawn straws again, and Curtis had picked the short one. He’d been furious.
“I thought I was going to get to choose my own girl,” he’d kept saying. “I didn’t think I’d get Clay’s leavings.” When Boone had tried to show him Samantha Smith’s photograph and bio, he’d waved them away. “What good will it do me to know ahead of time I won’t like her?” he’d burst out. “You’re forcing me to
marry her no matter what!”
That had been a very uncomfortable forty-eight hours at Base Camp. They’d managed to keep the tension hidden from Clay and Nora, thank goodness, so it was a surprise to everyone when Nora rallied at the last minute—the very day before the deadline. She and Clay had married in a matter of hours, and Curtis, realizing he’d been given a forty-day reprieve, had partied harder than anyone else last night.
“You saved my ass, man,” he kept saying to Clay whenever he bumped into him. “I was due at the altar to marry some loser Boone caught trolling the Internet. But you beat the deadline. I’ve got forty more days. And I’m going to put them to good use. Starting tonight.”
From what Harris could tell, Curtis had hit on every female guest at the wedding. He wasn’t sure if he’d had any luck, but Harris was certain the man would be nursing a hangover the size of Montana today.
So would everyone else.
Which meant no one had thought about the backup bride.
Harris exited his tent, zipped the flap shut behind him and made his way to the bunkhouse, where he got a pot of coffee going. Pouring a mug and heading back outside to the fire pit where they ate many of their meals, he sat down on a log and pondered the situation.
Boone had mentioned the woman’s plane was due in early this morning. Before Clay and Nora’s wedding, the plan had been to hold a small ceremony just before noon today and host a lunch to welcome the backup bride to the community. With Nora struggling to get over the attack, Clay so worried about her and Curtis so unhappy about stepping into his shoes, no one had wanted to make a fuss about the wedding.
Now there didn’t need to be a hasty wedding. Harris had overheard Boone explain the situation to Reverend Halpern last night, so there was no danger of him turning up again. Harris wondered what would happen next. Maybe Curtis would fall for this Samantha Smith after all once they’d spent some time together.
But what if he didn’t? What would happen if Curtis refused to marry her? Would Boone find a backup bride for the backup bride?
What would happen to Samantha?
Harris skimmed an eye over the quiet campground, and the empty pastures beyond. He thought about waking Boone to remind him it was time to go fetch the woman, but Boone deserved the chance to sleep in with his wife. He’d taken a lot on his shoulders when he’d helped found Base Camp. A natural leader, the others looked to him for direction, which left him in charge of the bulk of the responsibilities.
Harris was fine with that. He’d had his time of being in charge—of being the man everyone else depended on. He was happy to be one of the followers now.
“Harris Wentworth. Just the man I’ve been looking for.”
Harris nearly dumped his coffee in his lap, and bit back a groan as he realized who had spoken. Renata Ludlow, the show’s director. A sharply dressed, thirtysomething Hollywood type whose mannish, tailored clothing contrasted with her scarlet lipstick, heavy mascara, and the lacy bra that peeked out from the vee of her buttoned shirt, she was notorious for her skewer-sharp questions. She was followed by three camera crew members who looked like they’d drunk as much last night as some of the wedding guests. What the hell were they all doing up this early?
“You’ve been avoiding me.” The director shook a finger in his face. “Time for an interview.”
“Not now.”
“Yes—now.” Her tone brooked no disagreement and Harris knew he was well and truly trapped. This was part of his job—to talk about what he did. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. Spending your days being followed by people wanting to film your every word and move was as hellish as it sounded.
“Fine. Shoot.” He drained his coffee and stared straight into the camera. He knew they all hated that.
“Harris. Harris!” Renata snapped when he didn’t avert his gaze. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Have it your way. Look like an ignorant prick on the show.”
That made him look at her. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t want to look like an ignorant prick.
“So, Harris… Curtis Lloyd says you’ve given up on finding a wife in the normal way, and are looking forward to having one assigned to you. Why is that?” She made a show of scanning him top to bottom. “You’re a handsome devil. I bet you have a way with the ladies.”
Damn Curtis for throwing him under the bus. Harris tamped down his rising anger and simply shrugged. Aside from staring at the camera, it was the best way to rile up Renata and her crew.
“Use your words, sailor.”
No, Harris thought. He wasn’t going to use his words. He wasn’t in the Navy anymore, and Renata couldn’t give him an order. He shrugged again.
She narrowed her eyes. After a long moment, she said in a silky tone, “Tell me, Harris, do you think disaster follows you?”
Harris blinked, then cursed himself for letting her get to him. “Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it like that.”
“You were ten when Hurricane Andrew hit Florida.” She cocked her head. “You were already the man of the family, weren’t you? Where did your father go?”
Harris shrugged again. Who knew? He certainly didn’t.
“You saved your mother and sisters.”
He shifted. That old story. “I didn’t save anyone.” They’d done what any sane person would do—spent the duration of the storm in the trailer park’s cinder block recreation building with the rest of the tenants who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—evacuate before the storm hit. It had easily withstood the driving winds and rain.
Nothing else had.
Harris had rescued his family, but not in the way Renata meant. He’d never forget walking out of the building into the wasteland the storm had left behind, or the way his mother, Audrianna, had collapsed into a sobbing heap not twenty paces from the door. He’d left his younger sisters clinging to her and raced ahead to examine what was left of their home. Trouble was, he couldn’t find it. It was completely gone, along with every possession they’d owned, including the beater Subaru his mother drove to work at the laundromat, and the three hundred and fifty dollars she’d squirreled away behind one of the trailer’s paneled walls for a rainy day.
It had taken weeks before they could make their way to family in New Orleans, and during that time Harris had been the one to find food and water, the one to get them to the emergency shelters and sign up for aid. He’d been the one to wrangle a phone call to his aunt and uncle and persuade them to wire money for bus tickets, and he’d kept his grieving mother and terrified sisters safe until they pulled into the Greyhound station in New Orleans and were met by their kin.
Normalcy had returned, although it took years for his mother to get over that storm. The four of them had settled into one room at his aunt and uncle’s house. His mother and sisters shared the double bed. He slept on a foam mat they tucked away underneath it each morning. When she wasn’t working at the corner store where Aunt Olivia had helped her find a job, Audrianna spent hours on the little house’s front porch, staring into the distance.
Seeing nothing.
Harris was the one to make sure his sisters made it to school. He was the one to remind her to buy them clothes, go in and talk to the teachers, make them get their homework done. Aunt Olivia did her best, but she had four kids of her own to raise, along with a full time job.
“You were twenty-three when Katrina hit,” Renata said, breaking into his thoughts.
As if he’d ever forget. Five years into his service, he’d come home on leave to see his family and make sure his sisters were walking a path that would get them out of the kind of poverty and desperation they’d grown up in. So far it had been working. Della was already at LSU with a full scholarship. Belinda was starting eleventh grade with straight A’s and a slew of after-school activities. He was so proud of them—and of his mother, who despite her fears and struggles always held down a job and did her best to keep her girls on the straight and narrow path.
They should have gotten out. He’d wa
nted them to evacuate. But by then Uncle Manny was in a wheelchair with a crushed hip, and the nine members of the combined two families still at home depended on one Chevrolet Cavalier to get around. No way they could pile into it for a drive that might take days, let alone carry the food and clothing they’d need for the trip. No way Uncle Manny could bear that much time in a car, anyway. His aunt refused to leave Manny behind, and Audrianna refused to leave her sister, no matter how many times Harris urged her to take Belinda on one of the city buses and get out of town.
“The dikes will hold,” Uncle Manny kept saying.
Of course, they hadn’t.
“Tell us what happened,” Renata encouraged in a low voice. She must have seen the traces of his memories on his face.
“I got them to the roof. Kept them safe until help came.”
“Which took days,” Renata prompted.
Days. Nights. A nightmare passage of time that still haunted his dreams. The water had risen so fast he’d nearly lost his uncle before he’d gotten the rest of them to the roof. He’d had to dive under the rising water in the narrow stairwell to rescue Manny from the bottom of the stairs where he’d been waiting his turn in his wheelchair, and drag him up into the attic, out a window and onto the roof, his sisters, cousins and aunt screaming and straining to get him up over the eaves trough. He’d spotted his nephew’s inflatable beach boat on the way out, grabbed it and used it to rescue neighbors, strangers—even a couple of cats and dogs.
“I did what I could.”
“You saved twenty-seven people that day, counting your family—and in the days following you kept them fed and alive. You’re the kind of hero this country needed during that disaster. What kept you going through that nightmare?”
The memory of the four awful days before help finally arrived hit Harris like a punch to the gut. The water. The heat. The smell. The bodies. During the long, hot days he’d foraged for food and water as best he could. At nights, he’d perched on one end of the roof and kept watch, crouching there, straining to see and hear as screams and shots rang out in the distance from time to time. Someone had thought to grab the bugout bag his uncle—ex-soldier that he was—always kept stocked. Manny had handed him the revolver and ammunition it contained that first day. “There was a time I’d be the one keeping watch and saving lives. Now it’s on you,” he’d said.
