Czytaj książkę: «Navy Rules»

CHAPTER ONE

WINNIE PERRIN ARMSTRONG stared at her computer screen while she stroked her dog’s belly with her foot. Sam, a medium-size shepherd mix, lay under the desk in her bedroom while she indulged in her morning luxury of reading the news before the girls woke up.

The only light in the room came from the glow of the screen. Winnie read the national news highlights, then switched to the local news. She kept an eye on the time—the girls would wake up in the next ten minutes or so.

Former Whidbey Commanding Officer Gives Back to Community

The headline didn’t surprise her. But the accompanying photo and its caption, Commander Max Ford Plans to Coach Youth Soccer, made her sit up straight and grasp her desk.

Commander Max Ford, USN, brought his EA-6B Prowler Squadron back from war. He saved dozens of the sailors from a suicide bomber attack just weeks before the squadron was due to depart from Afghanistan. Ford returned to Whidbey last month after a lengthy stint of rehabilitation at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Washington, D.C. He has signed up to coach community youth soccer. With so many of our children’s parents deployed, the soccer teams are in need of dedicated coaches. Ford leads the way for returning vets to fill the gap and help our young soccer players.

Good thing she planned to tell Max about Maeve—the result of their night together after the Air Show two summers ago…

Winnie looked back at the article and bit her lip. It didn’t mention Max’s wounds, no doubt out of respect for his privacy. She knew about his injuries because she and Sam were going to pay Max a visit today.

You should’ve done it ages ago.

Sam wagged his long, silky tail and she caught a glimpse of the blond fur beneath the black. It matched the fur that grew horizontally out of his pointed ears and in swirls on his belly.

“Good boy, Sam. You’ve got a big day ahead of you.” The first Monday in March. Time to finally come clean with Max. And after she met with him, she’d have to talk to her parents.

So he was going to coach community soccer. Was that going to be another complication? What if he coached Krista’s team?

Sam licked her hand as if he wanted her to know he understood. Of course he didn’t; he was a dog and while his gifts of compassion and companionship were priceless, he wasn’t the human partner Winnie had once had.

Tom.

She let a happy memory of them walking on the sand in Penn Cove wrap around her heart. It’d been more than five years since he died and she still missed him more than she’d ever told her family. Because they lived so close, less than an hour away in Anacortes, they saw her and the girls regularly. They saw how bereft she still was, yet they never pressed her about finding a new man. Even after Maeve was born last year. Winnie loved them for that.

“Mom!” Krista barged into her room, all arms and legs at thirteen. “Maeve’s up and you forgot to dry my jeans again.”

“I’ll get her. Throw them in the dryer. They’ll be done in time for the bus.” Winnie got up and headed for the baby’s room.

Krista let out a long-suffering sigh as she followed her into the hallway.

“Yes, I did, but, Mom, you’ve got to remember to dry things right away or they’ll be wrinkled.”

“Good morning, sunshine.” Winnie ignored Krista’s adolescent rant and took in every second of Maeve’s tiny-toothed grin. The eighteen-month-old clung to the side of her crib and looked up at Winnie as though she were seeing a deity.

“Hi, baby sis.” Even Krista was under Maeve’s spell, talking to the baby while Winnie changed the soggy diaper.

Winnie put on Maeve’s pants, picked up the baby and turned to Krista. “Let’s go get breakfast before you start in on me about the laundry, okay?”

This was like the beginning of any other day in the Armstrong household. Except that today Maeve’s father was going to find out he had a daughter.

Winnie was going to tell him.

No more excuses.

“Sorry, Mom.” Krista was immediately apologetic and her sincerity made Winnie want to pull her close and squeeze hard. Krista had been through so much, not the least of which was accepting that her mother was having a baby two years ago. A baby by a man Winnie had told her “once meant a lot to our family, but can’t be with us right now.”

“I know you are, honey.”

A few moments later, as Winnie prepared Maeve’s breakfast, Krista suddenly asked, “Mom, are you ever going to tell me who Maeve’s father is?”

Winnie dropped the knife she was using to spread peanut butter on a whole-wheat English muffin. It splattered peanut butter all over her slipper.

“Whoops! Thank goodness the baby’s in her high chair!” Her voice was high and brittle as she struggled with an honest answer for Krista.

“Mom?”

“I heard you, Krista. As a matter of fact, Maeve’s dad is back in town. And I plan to tell him about her soon. I’ll fill you in after I do, okay? I can’t thank you enough for being such a loving sister to Maeve through all of this, Krista.”

Krista shrugged as she ate her toasted muffin.

“It’s okay, Mom. You’ve had a hard time.”

Winnie sighed. They’d both had hard times when Tom died. But that was more than five years ago. And then the unexpected pregnancy—by a man with whom she’d shared an unexpected attraction. That was something she could beat herself up about, but what was the point? She had a beautiful baby daughter and Krista had a baby sister. They were a family.

Still, living by her motto of being open with her children, unlike the way her mother had been with her, was growing more difficult as Krista matured. She’d already been wise beyond her years, but the addition of Maeve to their family had catapulted Krista from preteen to teenage older sister.

“Honey, life isn’t all hard times. We’ve had more than our share, I admit, but there are people with problems so much bigger than ours. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Not many kids I know lost their dad in a Navy plane crash, Mom.”

“No, but trust me, there are a lot of kids your age who have lost a parent to war.”

“I know that, Mom.” Krista drank down the rest of her milk. “I can’t miss the bus and I still need to get my jeans on.”

Winnie smiled. “You mean, you don’t want to go to school wearing your airplane pajamas?”

Krista flashed her a grin before she disappeared into the laundry room. She was open with Winnie about her lifelong love of airplanes and flying, but at her sensitive middle-school age, she wasn’t so quick to share all her dreams with her friends.

“Give me a hug.”

A few minutes later, Krista allowed Winnie to kiss the top of her head before she bent down to pick up her overstuffed backpack.

“Bye, bye!” She wiggled her fingers at Maeve, who was in the step-down living room in full view of the kitchen, playing with her soft blocks. Sam sat near her, as if babysitting.

“Ba ba, sisseee!” Maeve was just like Krista had been at the same age. A busy chatterbox.

The front door closed behind Krista and Winnie looked at Maeve, who’d decided to return to the kitchen.

“Let’s get you moving, too, girlfriend. Mommy’s got a lot of work to do today.”

* * *

THE REFRAIN OF “MY Girl” came from her cell phone and she smiled when saw her sister’s ID.

“Hey, Robyn.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Winn. Brendan, put the hammer down right now!” Robyn said in her stern “Mommy” voice. Ten years older than Winnie, Robyn and her husband had undergone in vitro fertilization, which had produced the two-year-old who ruled his parents’ lives.

“How did he get the hammer?”

“Doug and Brendan made a birdhouse yesterday and the tools are still on the workbench.” Robyn’s voice reflected impatience—at Winnie’s constant nagging to be more mindful of safety or at Brendan’s morning antics, Winnie couldn’t be sure.

“So how did he get into the garage?” Winnie loved her sister but they raised their kids very differently. Winnie had been an organized parent from the start; it had seemed like a prerequisite for a Navy wife. Not to mention her sanity, which relied on tidiness. Even as a child Winnie liked to have all her toys and books organized.

Not Robyn.

“He’s figured out how to open the doors.”

“Ouch. Time for some sliding bolts, up high.”

Robyn sighed.

“Yeah, I think I’m headed to Home Depot with the little guy today. What are you up to?”

“The usual. I don’t have any orders going out until next week,” she said, referring to her fiber orders. Sales would pick up over the next several weeks, as retailers were beginning to order for the following season. She’d started the business from scratch four years ago when she’d discovered, by accident, that there were a number of private farms on the island that raised fiber-producing animals, including sheep, alpaca and llamas.

Winnie’s lifelong love of knitting had led her to the few knitting and crochet groups in the area, where she met the farm-owners and listened to their wistful dreams of being able to market their own fiber. Winnie had dreamed with them until Tom’s death—and the realization that she needed a means to provide for her and Krista. The insurance they’d received was more than generous, but Winnie never looked at it as anything other than a means to pay for Krista’s future education.

Winnie had founded Whidbey Fibers with only three sheep farmers. Today she had almost two dozen clients not just on Whidbey but on a few of the outlying islands like San Juan and Orcas, too. Her fibers included merino, alpaca, llama and angora.

Robyn chuckled.

“You always say you don’t have a lot going on, Winn, but you’ve got tons to do every day or you wouldn’t be the famous businesswoman you are.”

“Yeah, right.” Winnie brushed off Robyn’s compliment. Robyn was talking about the attention Winnie had received last season for taking her business to the international level by procuring a client in Victoria, British Columbia.

“I do have one important appointment today—an assignment with Sam, up in Dugualla.”

“When? Can you meet me for lunch?”

Winnie bit her lip. Despite her praise of Winnie’s success, Robyn didn’t really understand how much work her fiber production business was, on top of two kids, her volunteer work and no husband.

Robyn had always been there for her. Sometimes she just forgot Winnie’s extra burden.

“I’d love to meet you but I have no idea how long this one will take. I’m driving Sam out to a residence—the client wants to be able to spend time with Sam but not at the base hospital or even on the base.”

Please don’t ask any more questions.

“You’re a good soul, Winnie.” Robyn didn’t ask for more details—she knew that Winnie’s canine therapy work was confidential.

Of all people, you can trust Robyn with who your new client is.

Robyn was the one person who knew the whole story, knew who Maeve’s father was. Robyn had never betrayed her, even to their mother.

Maybe she should tell Robyn. But Robyn would kill her if she found out Winnie was driving up to Max’s today.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that the mother of the autistic boy I told you about wants you to bring Sam over at some point.” Robyn was off on another tangent, nothing new for her sis.

“Have her call the base. Maybe there’s another dog therapy team available. I only work with returning sailors at this point.”

“I told her that, but she sounds desperate.”

“She has to work through her pediatrician.” Winnie sensed Robyn’s frustration, and she wanted to help, but she and Sam could only be in one place at a time. Since she’d started dog therapy with Sam a year ago, requests for service work had increased tenfold.

She’d begun it with the intent of giving back to the Navy community that had so strongly supported her and Krista in the aftermath of Tom’s death. The basic obedience and Canine Good Citizenship tests had been easy for Sam to pass. True to his German shepherd genes, he was incredibly intelligent and motivated to please his trainer, Winnie.

“Okay, then, I’d better go. Brendan is off on a tear!”

Winnie laughed. “Of course he is. I still say you’d enjoy a day or two on your own each week. For your sanity, you know?”

“Maybe we could just switch lives for a day.”

Winnie understood what Robyn meant. Winnie had the girls taken care of, between school and day care. She had to—she didn’t have a husband or partner to support her. But true to her oversensitive nature, Robyn panicked at the immediate silence on the line.

“Oh, Winnie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Stop it, Robyn. I know exactly what you meant. Please, please let it go.” Robyn ran on guilt as much as caffeine, a trait both girls inherited from their devout Catholic mother. Whenever the three of them got together over a cup of coffee, their father accused them of sounding like a beehive in overdrive. Thank God for their father, whose patient nature made him a revered high school teacher and track coach, and had kept their family on an even keel when they were younger.

“All right. But if your day turns out differently, come and meet me for lunch, okay? We can get takeout and eat it while Brendan naps.”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Winnie turned off her phone with a sigh of relief.

Thai takeout in front of Robyn’s woodstove sounded like pure bliss. But the chances of there being enough time to drive up to Anacortes, the town north of Whidbey Island, and back again to get the girls from school in Coupeville, were slim.

She still had to finish her fiber inventory. Whidbey Fibers’ success wasn’t an accident. She’d taken the energy she’d focused on her marriage and put it into the corporation, client by client.

The farm-owners were, for the most part, great at raising livestock and producing viable quantities of fiber, but getting it spun into usable yarn was another story. Drawing on her business background, Winnie had recruited machine- and hand-spinners across the Pacific Northwest and became the liaison between the farmers, spinners and yarn shops. She’d begun receiving orders from Europe and Australia within eight months of start-up.

Her business model was unique in that instead of simply purchasing the fiber outright, she shared the profits of the finished product with the farmers. This increased their motivation to produce and created a camaraderie in the Whidbey Island fiber community that hadn’t existed before. Instead of competing, each farm benefited from the success of all the farms. She also employed hand- and machine-spinners who transformed the fresh fiber into usable yarn.

As she walked by bin after bin of sheared wool and alpaca and checked off her inventory master list, Winnie’s mind drifted back to her other commitment for today.

Her therapy-dog visit.

Max.

She’d accepted the assignment knowing full well that she risked losing the secure life she’d built for herself and the girls.

Self-recrimination washed over her. She took a ball of alpaca out of its bin and held the soft wool to her cheek. She should’ve told Robyn who her client was. When Robyn found out, and she would find out, she’d be furious that Winnie hadn’t told her she was finally going to tell Max about Maeve. Rightfully so, as Robyn had been her support and anchor through the past five years. She’d never judged Winnie and had kept her deepest secrets secret.

Ever since Winnie learned she was pregnant, Robyn had been adamant that Winnie needed to tell Max he was a father. And it wasn’t that Winnie disagreed. The timing had been hell, with Max headed to war. She’d planned to tell him when he returned, but then his deployment was extended.

Risking such a huge emotional upset to a man at war was not something Winnie would ever do.

Shivers of apprehension chilled her as she looked out the back window of her fiber studio onto Penn Cove. The gray sky covered the white-capped bay and she knew the waves on the western side of Whidbey would be even more powerful.

A spring storm was coming in from the Pacific. She hated making the drive up to the Naval Air Station on the slick black road, but her volunteer time at the base was one of the few sacrosanct commitments in her life, besides the girls.

She loved her daughters and wanted to cherish each moment with them. But she also relished her work and needed time alone to think about how to manage her burgeoning career without the neediness of a teen and toddler weighting her every move.

As she prepared to leave the studio, she paused in front of the window that overlooked the street. Her building sat in between the rocky narrow coast and a side road off Coupeville’s Main Street. Winnie watched the rain begin to fall. When she came back from this afternoon’s therapy visit, everything would be different.

She leaned her head against the studio’s front door and closed her eyes. She tried to let the rain pattering against the window panes of the century-old building soothe her.

It hadn’t been her choice to be a single parent to Krista. A mishap on an aircraft carrier had dealt a devastating blow to her life when it killed her husband and Krista’s father, Tom, more than five years ago.

She’d had a choice, however, in how she made a family for Maeve, her baby. She’d deliberately refused to tell her family, except for Robyn, who Maeve’s father was. Her parents had wondered if she’d used Tom’s frozen sperm. She’d assured them that wasn’t the case, but as they became more persistent she let them think whatever they wanted.

She’d told Robyn about Maeve’s father—with instructions to tell Max if anything happened to her. But she needed to tell Max herself; he deserved to know before anyone else did that he was Maeve’s father. Unfortunately she’d learned that a life can end with no notice, and that included her own.

While her parents had no idea who’d fathered Maeve, it was pretty clear soon after she was born—with dark, straight hair—that she had a different father than Krista, who shared Winnie’s curly blond mane.

Maeve’s father had moved back to Whidbey Island two months ago. In spite of her best intentions to tell him he was a father as soon as she could, she’d still procrastinated.

It’d been two years, three months and five days since she’d last seen U.S. Navy Commander Robert “Max” Ford. It seemed more like three minutes.

Especially when she looked at her beautiful baby daughter.

* * *

COMMANDER MAX FORD, United States Navy, sat on the deck of his dream home and stared out at Dugualla Bay. The Cascade Mountains were snowcapped, as they’d remain for most of the year.

As a junior officer, J.O., he’d idolized the Commanding Officer of his squadron who’d owned this place. When his Commanding Officer got divorced and the house was sold as part of the settlement, Max bought it. He’d rented it out while he was stationed in Florida, and eagerly returned to his prized home just under two years ago, when he took the Executive Officer/Commanding Officer, XO/CO, job in his squadron. He’d had his Change of Command party here last year and the world seemed to be his to conquer.

He’d been so much younger only a year ago. His Aviation Command of Prowler Squadron Eighty-One had been in front of him. He’d led over two hundred men and women into battle over Iraq and Afghanistan. They’d all come home intact.

Except him.

He raised his arms overhead to stretch his back, as the physical therapist had taught him. The shrapnel had been removed and the scars were healing.

Too bad his brain couldn’t get stitched back up so easily.

“You have PTSD. You know the drill, Max. You’re one of our Navy’s finest. We’ll get you a great job on Whidbey, shore duty, and give you time to heal. Then we’ll see where it all falls out for an O-6 command.”

His boss, the Wing Commander, had done everything Max would have done for one of his own charges. He’d been compassionate, honest, strong.

But having been a commanding officer himself, Max saw beyond the clichéd promises.

Max had seen the look of resignation in his boss’s eyes. He didn’t expect Max to return to a real Navy job. His operational days were done. No one came back whole from what he’d seen—the monster who’d appeared in the form of the suicide bomber he’d prevented from killing hundreds of fellow servicemen and women.

Instead of preparing his squadron for another deployment, during which they’d become the well-honed warriors they’d signed up to be, he was sitting on his deck, staring at the Cascade Mountains, waiting for some volunteer social worker to bring over a dog.

A dog.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs. Max planned on having several once his Navy days were over. Hell, since he was on shore duty indefinitely, he could even consider going to the animal shelter in Coupeville and adopting himself a real dog. Something big and furry. He’d never been a tiny-dog fan. If the dog handler showed up with anything smaller than a bear cub he wasn’t going to work with it.

His problem wasn’t with the dog per se. Max’s problem was with still needing therapy. He’d accepted the weekly meetings with the on-base counselor. He’d met with the PTSD support group and shared his feelings. Yet his therapist thought he’d benefit from some dog time. Dog therapy time.

He blamed himself for asking what else he could do to help the other sailors. It was getting too painful to go back to the base day after day and not be able to walk into a hangar that he’d practically owned. Not to face a squadron of courageous young men and women and know that he was leading the best team on the planet. Know that he was the CO they could count on to lead them through hell and back.

His therapist had suggested canine therapy.

“Do you mean so I can give therapy to other vets?”

“No, Max. So you can get some healing from the dog. The caretaker isn’t a therapist, just a handler. You and the dog form the bond.”

“But you mean I’ll do this so I can then provide the same service to others, right?”

Marlene Goodreach, his therapist, had shifted in her seat. Her face was lined, no doubt because of the countless tales of horror she’d helped sailors like him unburden.

“Max. This is about you. You’ve done brilliantly—your physical wounds have healed, your memory is back. But you’re still resistant to facing your own anger and disappointment over the change in your career plans. I think working with a therapy dog would help the tension you still have in your gut.”

Max had learned that the price of throwing himself into his recovery and hoping to eventually help others was that his therapist got to know him too well. He didn’t have the option of keeping his emotions from Marlene.

At least the counselor had agreed to let him meet the dog and its handler on his own turf, away from the looks of pity on base NAS Whidbey Island.

He clenched his hands around the porch railing. Only when his grip became painful did he force himself to breathe and release his grip. He despised the well-meaning comments, the compassionate glances, the fatherly pats on the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, Max. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Hey, you’ve had command, you brought the team home, relax.”

“You’ve earned this shore tour. Enjoy it.”

“Why not retire after this, take some time for Max? You’ll make O-6, what’s your worry?”

He didn’t even like working out on base anymore. Too many familiar faces. He flexed his feet. The soreness in his calves was a testament to the extra-long session he’d put on the spin bike he’d bought. He kept it on the glassed-in deck upstairs, so he could watch the sun come up as he rode in place.

He saw the sunrise every day. Sleep wasn’t a given for him anymore.

The dark clouds threatened rain but so far only gusts of tropical warmth rustled the underbrush under tall firs that waved with the wind. Spring on Whidbey meant chaos as far as the weather was concerned.

He saw the approaching car before he heard it. A compact station wagon. As it neared he recognized the larger shape in back—the dog.

The woman in the driver’s seat made him catch his breath.

No.

It was the same honey corkscrew hair, the same generous mouth under the too-round-to-be-classic nose.

Was this some kind of joke? The very woman he’d guided through the fires of her own hell when Tom died was here to reach a hand into his purgatory?

More importantly, the woman who’d rejected him and whom he’d avoided since his return.

He stood as she brought the car to a stop in front of his house. She stepped out and walked straight to the back. There was no mistaking her graceful gait, her purposeful stride.

Winnie always knew where she was going, save for that brief tortured time after Tom’s death.

She opened the back of the wagon and commanded the dog down. It was a big dog but not a fluffy soft breed. The mostly black coat ruffled a little in the strong breeze.