The Letter

by Mina Carter

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Letter

  Copyright © 2014 by Mina Carter

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-706-6

  Cover art by Mina Carter

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

  Look for us online at:

  www.decadentpublishing.com

  The Calendar Men Stories

  Outback Dirty

  February Lover

  Seducing Helena

  Frontier Inferno

  Shockwave

  The Other Brother

  The Letter

  Burning Love

  A Model Hero

  Falling for Her Navy Seal

  Thankful for You

  Snow Angels

  The Letter

  The Calendar Men Series

  By

  Mina Carter

  Chapter One

  It had taken him eighteen months to get there.

  Eighteen months of blood, sweat, and tears in physical therapy to ensure when he carried out his final mission, he did it on his own two feet, and without the aid of crutches. Eighteen months and the only evidence of the injuries that almost killed him were scars scattered over his torso like confetti on the ground and a slight limp. After nigh on twenty years as a soldier, ten with the Regiment, a hail of bullets had ended his career.

  Rick Weeks lifted his chin, opened the car door, and got out. His career didn’t matter. Out of hospital and out of the army, but alive, he’d beaten the clock, his name not joining those inscribed on the regimental clock tower at Stirling lines, who’d died in battle. He felt for the letter tucked in his pocket and sighed in relief when his fingertips brushed along the edge of the battered envelope. He’d survived, but others hadn’t been so lucky. Billy, who’d given him the letter, hadn’t been.

  Billy Lees.

  Rick leaned against the hired car and rolled the name through his mind. The name alone brought the young soldier’s image to mind. He’d always been laughing. Always the joker of the bunch. A smile crossed Rick’s lips at the very memory of Billy’s infectious grin.

  How he’d ended up on a primarily American base, Rick couldn’t remember. He and the rest of the troop were used to being moved around at short notice, put into larger task forces or split into solo or two-man teams for infiltration. They’d been flown in shortly after sunset, ready to go out the next morning. But the go order had been delayed for twenty-four hours, which meant a full day of leisure time; something almost unheard of for their troop.

  Rick had tried to sleep, but after years in the saddle, he couldn’t manage more than a few hours before wide-awake again, filled with energy, his body aching to get up and do something. So he’d wandered the base, searching for a cup of real coffee, and located what appeared to be the only decent machine in the place.

  Of course, he’d been aware of the interest from those stationed to the base full-time. Even though he’d stuffed his beret in his pack by his bunk, it wasn’t difficult to work out that the patrol was Special Forces. But none of the locals dared approach any of them to ask. Until Billy Lees dropped into the seat next to him, that bloody grin all over his face.

  Twenty-four hours later, Billy lay dead and Rick was headed home to the UK via emergency medical transport.

  With a sigh, he let go of the letter and turned his attention to the house in front of him. 1763 Maple Drive, a neat little house nestled between two others. He glanced up and down the road. He’d never get used to how bloody long the roads were in the States. Where he’d been brought up, streets were short and crammed in together, the main street around the corner known locally as the long row, and the house numbers ended at sixty-two.

  Never one to rush into a situation without all the intel he could gather, Rick leaned against the car, taking the weight off his bad leg, and observed the house. Well-maintained, the exterior painted cream, trimmed with white woodwork. A tree-lined drive led up to a small, detached garage. A warm breeze rustled the branches, and blossoms danced on the air like ballerinas in nature’s own version of Swan Lake.

  Picture-postcard pretty.

  The sort of place he’d spent the last eighteen years staring through a window at while being whisked away to be dropped behind enemy lines, often somewhere the British government wasn’t supposed to be and didn’t want to admit to having personnel. The sort of place that, if he got in the shit, he was on his own. Sink or swim. Baptism of fire. Call it what you wanted… men like Rick were the reason the Regiment held the respect it did.

  Some of the windows were open. Brightly colored curtains flapped in the slight wind, cream with red splashes on the first floor, orange in one window upstairs, and pink in the other. Bedrooms? A bedroom and a study? All his investigations revealed he sought a single woman.

  Single because her fiancé, Billy, had been the one Rick hadn’t been able to save.

  Rick doubted she’d be happy to see him.

  He grimaced at another gust of warm air, struggling with the heat as well. He’d flown from London, which meant, being early July, it was pissing down rain. Back home in Scotland, it would no doubt be snowing, and still the lasses would be out in miniskirts shorter than his belt and tops that covered…yeah, well. Scots were hardy creatures. Cold didn’t bother them, but heat was another matter. It wouldn’t surprise him if the scientists announced those of Scottish descent melted at any temperature above mild.

  His cell rang, the jaunty jingle grating on his nerves, but he’d never gotten around to changing the damn thing. He should get on that. Right after this call. Fishing the cell out of his pocket, he shot a quick glance at the screen. Jim Ross. Smiling, he swept a thumb over the screen to answer it.

  “Rossy! How you doing, mate?”

  Jim’s clipped English tones filled his ear. “Can’t complain, thanks, Rick. How’s the leg?”

  “Oh, you know.” He cast a glance from his denim-clad legs to the battered, sand-colored boots. Like him, they were years out of fashion and seen better days, but still comfortable. “Still attached, despite someone’s attempts to the contrary.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Ross chuckled. “You know what they say, can’t keep a good man down.”

  “Down, no. Good?” He grinned, looking up as a car went by behind him. Ingrained habits forced him watch it until it disappeared around the corner. Big SUV, red, One passenger, a male. Late fifties. Gray hair. Cap.

  Rick concentrated on the call again, angling toward the house. “You’ve been out drinking with me, mate. I’m not just good.” A sound suspiciously like a snort filtered from the other end and he waited for the sarcastic reply. It didn’t materialize.

  Instead, Jim’s tone dropped.

  “Listen, mate. I’ve got a reason for ringing.”

  “I rather thought you might have.” Rick tucked his free thumb into his belt loop, resting most of his weight on the car. He’d joked about his leg, but in real
ity, the flesh hidden under the denim was marked and scarred from a sniper’s attempt to turn his hip and thigh into Swiss cheese. He wouldn’t be winning any bikini contests soon, that’s for sure. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Well. I heard on the grapevine that the sawbones at Queen Liz’s had signed you off. You up for a little action? I’ve got a sweet little deal going on in the Middle East. Cushy number, minimal risk. Two weeks, all expenses paid, babysitting a civvie.”

  Rick closed his eyes, instantly transported to the heat and chaos of Iraq, Afghanistan, and other places that weren’t referred to by name on any of the mission briefings he’d been given. The only constant in all of them the men around him and the weapon in his hand. In his mind, gunfire shattered the air. Shouted commands—his—and his patrol moving like a well-oiled machine. The memory of kicking a door, the ancient, dried-out wood crumbling under his booted foot as it collapsed inward. Frightened faces in the scope of his rifle. Half a second to decide whether they were friend or foe. Whether they lived or died.

  He’d never be rich or famous. If he died, the world would keep revolving, his passing marked by only a few. But in those moments in battle, he held the ultimate power. A heady feeling and a responsibility shattering far lesser men.

  But, not his responsibility any longer. He’d been done the moment he carried Billy Lees still-warm body back to base, the knowledge that he hadn’t made it in time a weight on his soul.

  “Sorry, mate.” The sound of a door opening reached Rick’s ears and he opened his eyes. “I’m good. I’m on a bit of a jolly in the States then I’ve got something lined up. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Oh, no worries. Perhaps another time. We should catch up when you get home though. Go for a night out on the town.”

  “Yeah, mate,” he murmured, his attention only half on what Jim said as the screen door on the side of the house opened and a woman emerged, carrying rubbish bags. Even from where he stood, he heard her muttering and swearing. Something about, idiot admin staff who can’t get their records straight. “That’d be good. Listen, something just came up. Can I give you a call when I get back? Thanks, catch you then.”

  He thumbed the phone off and slid it into his pocket, watching the woman walk across the drive to the bin. She threw back the lid and it slammed into the side of the container with a loud bang. Another muttered curse reached his ears as she threw the bags in. Hattie Jameson. Billy had shown him her picture when they’d met, and the image of the pretty, dark-haired girl never left Rick. Like Billy, she’d been smiling. Although still the prettiest thing Rick had ever seen, she wasn’t smiling anymore.

  He approached her, his boots crunching on the stone drive. Even though she’d moved from the address on the letter, finding her had been easy. Amusement filled him for a second. He was more used to gathering Intel in a hostile environment and trying not to be noticed. Given the nature of his previous occupation, tracking one civilian woman not in hiding had been child’s play. He’d taken advantage of the benefits of good Internet access, public records, and chatty locals willing to tell him anything he wanted to know about Hattie.

  Usually, the people he tried to find didn’t want to be found and often had a violent reaction to his arrival. On a normal day, the bastards tended to try and shoot him on sight, something he couldn’t imagine the sweet young thing Billy had described to him doing.

  “Hello? Miss Jameson?”

  ***

  Oh no, they fucking didn’t. No fucking way.

  Hattie Jameson stood in the middle of her kitchen, staring at the letter in her hand. She couldn’t believe the words in front of her, even though printed on the page in black and white. Rubbing her eyes with her free hand, she blinked to clear the pressure spots and read again. Yup, just as she’d thought: a letter to her fiancé, Billy.

  Her late fiancé, Billy.

  Dear Mr. Lees,

  We apologize for contacting you via letter, but we were unable to locate any other contact details for you….

  “No shit.” She lifted an eyebrow. Unless they had a direct line to the afterlife or a damn good medium, not one of those TV bullshitters, no way were they getting in touch Billy.

  According to our records, you have expressed interest in volunteering for events to raise money for The Hero Family Fund. Our goal is to provide scholarships and assistance to the families left behind….

  She stopped reading, the print too blurred to see through her tears. Billy had signed up to aid the families of soldiers killed in action. Just like him. Agreeing to help others without an inkling he’d come home in a coffin himself. Killed in some godforsaken desert, in a uniform she’d never wanted him to wear. He’d argued the tradition stretched back generations for Lees’ men to sign up and do their bit.

  And like the others, Billy hadn’t made it home alive.

  The rest of his squad were listed as MIA. He’d only made it to the American soil of his base because of a British soldier who’d been injured in the same attack.

  She blinked to clear her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. Not crying. Not going to happen. Billy wouldn’t have wanted her to cry. He’d have wanted her to get on with life, even without him.

  We would like to invite you to participate in a charity calendar we are organizing on behalf of the HFF, and your initial shoot has been booked for….

  What the fuck? Hattie scanned farther, her frown deepening. Bastards. They’d actually gone ahead and booked the location and a photographer, all without speaking to Billy. Hell, all without checking whether he was even still alive. Unbelievable.

  She dropped the letter on the counter. She couldn’t do this. Not today. The fourth was always bad enough, with the fifth being Billy’s birthday, but this just a few days before….

  Anger consumed her. Tears won the battle and coursed down her cheeks. She wadded the letter into a ball and hurled it across the kitchen. Buster, Billy’s pit bull, launched out of his basket. Hattie somehow managed a smile as the most uncoordinated dog in history careened through the corridor, bouncing off both walls, chasing the paper ball with glee.

  He trotted back to drop the scrunched letter at her feet then sat and gazed up at her. His tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth as he panted, adoration in his dark eyes while he waited for her to throw it again.

  “Oooh, no.” She bent to pick it up. Eww. Dog slobber. Lovely. “Not in here. You already trashed three hall tables and two lamps. And let’s not even talk about my best heels, hmmm?”

  At the mention of heels, Buster flopped to the floor and covered his eyes with a paw.

  “Big old mutt.”

  Relenting, she scrubbed her knuckles across the top of his head to let him know he’d been forgiven. She’d needed the smile even before the letter. Today had turned out to be one of those shitty days becoming all too frequent.

  After oversleeping, she’d been woken by her landlord hammering on the door. Stumbling out of bed, she’d tripped over Buster—whose guard-dog abilities were in serious doubt—and finally made it to the door to find out the impatient pain-in-the-ass had already gone. The rent was never late, but the landlord always started his hammering routine at least a week beforehand.

  Then the coffee machine chose that morning to die. Completely. Not even a flicker of life to give her hope. Ten minutes and a complete dissection of the kitchen later, she’d found three single-serving packets of instant coffee. Dumping them all in the same mug, she’d inhaled the aromatic steam and sighed in contentment. Her bliss at that small victory lasted until the mail arrived.

  But it was all good. She was strong; the last year had shown her that. She could do this. Almost as though it heard her thought and accepted the challenge, life upped the ante and the phone rang. Taking one look at the number, she groaned.

  Her mother.

  She couldn’t simply not answer it, as much as she wished to, so prepared to endure the ensuing guilt trip.

  “Hi, Mom. How you doing?”

  “I’m glad you as
ked that. Terrible. Just terrible….”

  Ten minutes later, Hattie regretted the decision to answer the phone. As she’d suspected, the conversation had been a variation on the usual I’m never going to be a grandmother theme. During the virtual monologue, her mother concentrated on herself and how badly she felt Hattie treated her. And did she not realize that her poor dear mother wasn’t getting any younger? Or was Hattie too interested in her own life, and going out partying, or whatever young people did these days, to care about her poor, old mother?

  Not once during the tirade did she pause for breath, or bother to ask how Hattie was. Instead, her only concerns were what she wanted, namely grandchildren, and the fact that Hattie losing her fiancé a mere eighteen months ago was an inconvenience.

  The one time Hattie mentioned she didn’t have a candidate for the father of the grandchildren, her mother shrugged the problem off. “Sperm donor, my dear. Or a one-night stand. If you want these things, you’ll find a way around the problem. Think, dear. I’ve always told you that.”

  God, would she never stop?

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed it tiredly while making noncommittal noises in reply to her mother’s tirade. Although she’d long ago grown used to the weekly lectures about how she failed to live her life as her mother wanted or expected her to, the current rant gathered momentum at a rate of knots.

  Flicking a glance at the calendar, Hattie suppressed a groan. Of course. They were less than a month away from her mother’s semi-annual blowout guilt trip. The one lasting hours and leaving Hattie feeling like she was worse than Genghis Khan, Dracula, and Hannibal Lecter, all rolled into one.

  She peered into her mug and grimaced. Empty. Not even a dribble of precious caffeine remained in the bottom. She couldn’t do this today. Not without coffee. Not with the letter. Not with Billy’s birthday days away.

  “Yeah, Mom. I can’t believe it either,” she said during a pause in her mother’s rant and crossed to the sink, intending to set her mug in it. She stopped halfway.