by Cora Seton
A SEAL’s Devotion
By Cora Seton
Copyright © 2019 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
Excerpt from A SEAL’s Desire
About the Author
Author’s Note
A SEAL’s Devotion is the seventh volume in the SEALs of Chance Creek series, set in the fictional town of Chance Creek, Montana. To find out more about Curtis, Hope, Boone, Clay, Jericho, Walker and the other inhabitants of Base Camp, look for the rest of the books in the series, including:
A SEAL’s Oath
A SEAL’s Vow
A SEAL’s Pledge
A SEAL’s Consent
A SEAL’s Purpose
A SEAL’s Resolve
A SEAL’s Desire
A SEAL’s Struggle
A SEAL’s Triumph
Also, don’t miss Cora Seton’s other Chance Creek series, the Cowboys of Chance Creek, the Heroes of Chance Creek, and the Brides 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)
The Brides of Chance Creek Series:
Issued to the Bride One Navy SEAL
Issued to the Bride One Airman
Issued to the Bride One Sniper
Issued to the Bride One Marine
Issued to the Bride One Soldier
The Turners v. Coopers Series:
The Cowboy’s Secret Bride (Volume 1)
The Cowboy’s Outlaw Bride (Volume 2)
The Cowboy’s Hidden Bride (Volume 3)
The Cowboy’s Stolen Bride (Volume 4)
The Cowboy’s Forbidden 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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“Cheer up,” Curtis Lloyd said. “Boone will find you a bride if all else fails.”
Anders Olsen followed the big, burly man up the steps to the bunkhouse, the informal headquarters of Base Camp, the sustainable community they were both helping to build. Curtis’s dog, Daisy, threaded through their legs, as eager as they were to get inside. It was mid-December, cold and dark.
“I want to find my own bride.” Anders had a little over a month to do so, or he and everyone else who lived here would lose their homes. That was one of the rules. A wedding every forty days, or Martin Fulsom, the billionaire funding the project—and the reality television show documenting their progress—would give the entire property to a developer and show them the door. Anders didn’t want to be the one who spoiled it for everyone else. Six of the ten men who’d started the project had already found wives. Two had children on the way. That was a lot of people who’d be homeless if he didn’t do his part.
He didn’t want to leave Base Camp in any case. He was dedicated to the cause of promoting sustainable living, and the men and women he lived with here had come to feel like family. It had been a long time since he’d had this kind of home. He wasn’t like Curtis, whose family may have disagreed with some of his choices but loved and doted on him just the same. Anders was alone in this world—or had been until he’d arrived here in Chance Creek, Montana, last spring. Now it was getting close to Christmas, and he’d come to feel like he belonged here.
“It’ll all work out.” Curtis pushed open the door, filled the entryway and blocked the light for a minute before continuing into the bunkhouse, pulling off his woolen cap and unzipping the heavy jacket he wore.
Anders doubted it would be that easy, but he followed Curtis inside and shrugged out of his coat, too. He was as tall as Curtis but not as broad in the shoulders or chest. That didn’t bother him. His many years in the Navy SEALs had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt he could hold his own against other men.
Not that he’d ever fought Curtis or even argued with him. They’d gotten along since the first day they’d arrived at Base Camp, neither of them really knowing what they were getting into. Both had answered an ad searching for candidates to help build a sustainable community. They’d known they would need to make a commitment to the job—and the lifestyle. Neither had anticipated the project turning into a reality television show with a host of unusual rules, however.
Only last week Curtis had been the one desperate to find a bride. He’d almost run out of time when Hope Martin crashed her car at the end of their lane on the way to delivering her friend Raina to Bozeman for Raina’s wedding. Curtis had come to the rescue and gotten both women there, even though a blizzard had made that journey quite an adventure. Along the way, he and Hope had fallen in love.
Anders had no idea where he would find a wife. He hadn’t met anyone in Chance Creek, and so far dating apps had been a bust, too.
He’d find her, though. Failure wasn’t an option. A long time ago, before his mother had died, while he was still too young to realize what his father’s business entailed, he’d had a family and home he loved. He’d promised himself one day he’d have that again. He wasn’t going to leave Base Camp if he could help it.
He nearly bumped into Curtis when the man stopped abruptly several feet into the large, overwarm room.
“What the hell is Fulsom doing here—again?”
Anders leaned sideways to get a look and saw Martin Fulsom deep in conversation with Renata Ludlow, Base Camp’s director, and Boone Rudman, another member of the community. Fulsom was a fit, energetic, silver-haired man in his late sixties, whose outsized personality filled any room he entered. Renata was a trim woman in her thirties, her raven-black hair tucked into a bun, her professional clothing finally modified from her usual pencil skirts and aggressive white blouses to slacks and sweaters because of the cold weather. She was even wearing winter boots instead of the stiletto heels she had favored well into November.
Beside them stood a man Anders vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place. A rangy, sandy-haired, smug-faced man who was watching Renata in a way that spelled trouble.
“Who’s he?” And
ers murmured to Curtis.
“Hell, isn’t he that guy from that show? The one where they stalk everyone?” Curtis asked.
Greg Devon, one of the other unmarried members of Base Camp, a serious man with a shock of black hair, edged closer to them. “His name is Clem Bailey. He’s the host of Track the Stars,” he said in an undertone. “Fulsom’s siccing him on Renata.”
“What do you mean?” Anders asked.
There wasn’t time for Greg to answer before Boone, who acted as the de-facto leader of their community since the whole thing had been his idea, called out, “Everyone sit down. Mr. Fulsom’s got something to say.”
Anders knew he wasn’t the only one biting back a groan. Fulsom had a penchant for drama. He liked to come and tell them exactly how they were screwing up. If things got too quiet in California where he lived, he came looking for trouble here.
Fulsom stood at the front of the room and looked at each of them in turn, as if making sure every one of them was paying attention. They were, since all their futures depended on him. Fulsom was the one who’d bought the ranch they were building Base Camp on. He was the one who’d organized the television show and made sure it got the publicity it needed to remain one of the top-rated programs in the nation. He was a thorn in their sides but one they couldn’t ignore.
“I am sick of your bullshit!” Fulsom boomed suddenly.
Anders looked around at the others. They were all long past responding to the billionaire’s histrionics, except maybe Hope, who had only been at Base Camp for a handful of days. This was the way Fulsom began most of his speeches. There was always a complaint, followed by a demand.
An outrageous demand.
“I told you I wanted action,” Fulsom went on. “Adventure. Controversy. SEX! And what happens?” He turned on Renata. “You and nearly the entire film crew abandon your posts because of a little snowstorm last week, and you”—he pointed at Curtis—“try to leave the one remaining crew member behind when you embark on the adventure of the century. Which means Byron here”—he pointed to a young cameraman—“had to chase after you and managed to total a very expensive four-by-four in the process, along with everything inside it. That means this week’s episode is entirely filmed on outdated, insufficient camera equipment, and it very nearly wasn’t filmed at all. What is this? Amateur hour?”
Anders settled in. This could take a while.
He was right. Fulsom droned on in a similar vein while Renata glared at Byron, and Byron did his best to fade into the woodwork. All the while Clem’s smug smile grew wider.
When Fulsom finally calmed down, he gestured the newcomer forward. “This is Clem Bailey. He’s come to lend a hand to this production. Clem knows how to spice up a television show. He’s got ideas. Big ideas! And he’s got the balls to see them through. Plus, he knows how to keep a bunch of puissant, know-nothing, self-absorbed actors in line!”
Actors? Anders straightened. So did the other men in the room.
None of them were actors.
They’d all fought for their country as Navy SEALs. Survived situations Fulsom could only dream of—
“Yeah, now I’ve got your attention,” Fulsom said. “You’re supposed to be men of action, so get out there and do something worth filming, for God’s sake. And you!”
Anders recoiled when Fulsom pointed at him, caught himself and straightened again. He should have known this was coming.
“It’s your turn to marry, so do it—spectacularly. Got it?”
“Got it.” But Anders had no idea where to start.
“I understand you thought you were going to save the world, but you don’t seem to be very… effective… at it.” Laura Wright tucked her shoulder-length honey-blonde hair behind her ear. Only a moment ago, she’d placed her napkin on the table and pushed her dinner plate a fraction of an inch away from the edge, signaling an end to the meal.
Evelyn Wright tried not to flinch at her mother’s harsh assessment of her career so far. It was true she’d arrived back in Virginia on crutches a year ago after being medevaced out of rural Angola when she’d broken her leg in two places, but she had healed quite nicely. She might not make it up Mt. Everest, but that had never been on her agenda anyway. She was already on the hunt for a new job at an NGO overseas.
“You’re still in debt,” her father, Wayne, added. “Now, of course we were happy to step in and help the daughter we love cover her unexpected bills, and we appreciate how hard you’re working to make your repayments on time, but we hoped you’d stretch to pay them faster. At your age, you should really be saving up for a down payment on a house.”
“I’m trying—” Life in Richmond wasn’t cheap, and she hadn’t been able to drive for the first six months she was home. Taxi fare added up, as did everything else. Still, a pang of guilt twisted inside her. Her parents had paid her exorbitant medical bills up-front when she couldn’t cover them. Now she was paying them back.
Slowly.
Her mom was right; she didn’t have much to show for her efforts so far.
“We’ve been thinking,” Laura said.
“A lot,” Wayne put in.
“You’re not exactly the marrying kind; that’s clear.”
Ouch, Eve thought. Not the marrying kind? That was harsh. For one thing, she was only twenty-nine, and there was plenty of time for her to find a soul mate. For another, she thought she had found a potential husband until three months ago—when she’d confessed to her boyfriend, Heath, she was looking for a new overseas job, and he’d texted her two days later to say he was leaving her for a systems engineer named Claire who had just finished her dissertation. “I need someone like me. Someone who wants to live in Virginia,” he’d said. “Claire doesn’t flutter around the world like you do. She sets goals and stays in one place long enough to accomplish them. So do I. You and I just aren’t compatible.”
That accusation still stung. Weren’t opposites supposed to attract?
“You’ve worked for AltaVista for seven months.” Her father broke into her thoughts. “I think that’s your longest stint with any company, isn’t it? You like… variety. But variety doesn’t get you a retirement fund.”
Retirement fund?
Eve tried not to sigh. Her parents loved to talk about retirement. They were getting close to retiring themselves, so she supposed it was natural it was on their minds, but again, she was twenty-nine. Plenty of time to—
“Honey, the thing is—you’re really blowing it,” her mother said flatly.
Eve straightened. “That’s not fair. I’ve got a great job at AltaVista—”
“A great job for someone who didn’t finish school,” her father said, “but you’re not going to climb the ladder any further there until you get your bachelor’s degree, at a minimum. You know you need a master’s to get anywhere.”
So this was to be a conversation about school, their other favorite topic. She’d done a semester at the University of Richmond right out of high school, which was where she’d met Heath, but then she’d gotten involved with Amnesty International and ended up traveling around the world for several years, moving from NGO to NGO—until her ignominious return home in pieces.
After a couple of months on her parents’ couch, she’d been hired by AltaVista Imaging as a receptionist. Since then she’d moved into the quality control department. It turned out she had a good eye. Her boss had begun to hint there might be work in management for her—someday.
If she was willing to do the schooling.
“Getting your degree is going to take a lot of time if you’re working, too,” Laura said. “Meanwhile, you’re not making any progress toward owning a home.”
“A home is the cornerstone of any retirement plan,” Wayne added.
Eve stifled a groan. They’d hit upon a guilt trifecta: retirement, homeownership, higher education. Not necessarily in that order.
“Honey, it’s time to grow up,” her mother said. “And grown-ups have a degree, they own their own home
, and they have a plan for later in life.” She sat back. “It’s obvious to us you’re making no progress toward any of that.”
Which made her what—a kid? Sometimes she felt like a kid. But she was a world traveler, Eve reminded herself, lifting her glass of water to her lips in order to buy time. She’d fought for better living conditions, equality and safety for people in multiple countries. She was supporting herself now, too. Maybe she was living in an efficiency apartment, and maybe her savings account was languishing as she paid down her debts, but—
“Here’s our offer, kiddo,” her father said. “We will pay for school if you move home—”
Move home? Eve nearly choked on the water she’d just swallowed. She was not going to move home. “But—”
“And,” her mother said, holding up a hand to forestall her protestations, “we will also loan you enough money to cover building costs for a tiny house. We’ve chosen a spot for it near the fence in our backyard.”
Tiny house? Eve swallowed again. Her parents were going to help her build a tiny house in their yard? Years ago, when she’d graduated from high school, she’d proposed the idea, wanting to go straight into activism instead of college. They’d shot it down.
“You’ll have to do most of the work yourself, and of course you’ll have to pay us back for it,” her father cautioned her, “plus nominal pad rent once you’re all settled in. Once you pay us off, however, you’ll own the tiny house. Later, if you want to buy land of your own, you can move it with you.”
Despite her frustration, Eve realized her parents were doing their best, trying hard to make their vision of her future palatable to her particular wants and needs. They’d been listening to her all these years, after all. They wanted her to be happy.
“Since you’re single, and likely to remain so, you won’t need much square footage,” her mother said. “Which is good. We don’t want the neighbors complaining.”
“But if the right fellow comes along, you can always sell your tiny house and upgrade to something bigger,” her father said jovially.
