The Other Side of the World: Books 1-3: The Other Side of the World

By Suzanne Whitfield Vince

With masterful storytelling, this box set explores the themes of survival, trust and love in its purest form, and takes you on a journey to faraway places before leading you back home again. This stunning collection of Contemporary Romance Stories will surely change the way you look at life.

The Other Side of the World: Rowan’s Story

Sometimes, love can surprise you…

Rowan McClain has everything a girl could ask for, except for love. Army Lieutenant Luke Cartwright has only one thing on his mind. And it’s not love. But when the two begin exchanging letters, anything is possible.

The Other Side of the World: Talia’s Story

Her mission in life is simple: Make a difference in the lives of others…       

After three tours in the Middle East as an Army physician, Talia Fournier accepts a position in a field hospital in South Sudan. Love was never part of the plan. But when she finds herself falling for the sexy and insufferable Jack McCabe, she begins to reevaluate her life.

His only fear in life is falling in love…

But when Dr. Jack McCabe meets the breathtaking new doctor, his resolve begins to crumble. And when Talia decides to adopt a seven year old orphan, Jack realizes an even greater fear: becoming a father.

The Other Side of the World: The Christmas Gift

Sometimes, the greatest gifts are the ones we least expect…

For Dr.’s Talia Fournier and Jack McCabe, life could not be better. After serving as physicians in a field hospital in South Sudan, they have a newfound appreciation for modern conveniences and the safety that a civilized world has to offer.

But when Talia’s father makes a shocking revelation over dinner one night, she feels as though her life has just been leveled by a mortar blast. As she struggles to fit the pieces of her life back together, she turns inward, refusing help from those who love her the most, including the man’s whose ring she now wears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Whitfield Vince
• Release date: Nov 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386702153

Book preview

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD

ROWAN’S STORY

SUZANNE WHITFIELD VINCE

DEDICATION

for will (the real luke),

thank you for opening your heart to love, even when everything inside you resisted

for my sister marianne,

thank you for recognizing the one that mom had hand-picked for me

and for mom,

thank you for picking the perfect guy for me,

i miss you more than words can say

based on a true story

CHAPTER ONE

November 27, 2004

San Francisco, California

ROWAN MCCLAIN LEANED against the vinyl-backed booth—arms crossed, lips pressed tightly together—and girded herself for the battle to come. She looked on as Evan’s eyes followed the server’s retreating form until it disappeared behind the counter. Then he leaned forward, propped his elbows on the table and leveled her with an expression she’d seen one too many times lately. An expression that could cut her down and shred her to ribbons, even without the words she knew would follow. But she was ready for them. At least, as much as she could be.

You’re blowing this out of proportion, Row. I think it’s sweet that you sent the care packages to the troops in Iraq. All I’m saying is, real men don’t read girly books. And neither do intelligent women.

Rowan could feel the steam rise inside her. She opened her mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. She pulled in a long breath and pushed it out slowly in a useless attempt to calm herself.

I’m not having this argument with you again.

The argument where she told him she wrote women’s fiction. That intelligent women do indeed read her books, and so do men. That she’d never heard anyone refer to her books as girly books, except for him. Whatever a girly book was anyway.

It wouldn’t matter anyhow. He didn’t care that she’d received a six-figure advance and a three-book deal from one of the largest publishing houses in New York. He didn’t care that in the two years since she’d been writing, she’d made almost three times as much as she would’ve made at the accounting firm. He didn’t even care how happy writing made her. All he cared about was that she’d strayed from the plan: they’d work like dogs until they each made partner—she at the CPA firm, he at the law firm—and then they’d start their family. He’d seen her career change as a betrayal. And as payment for her betrayal, he’d recently announced that he no longer wished to have children.

No need to get defensive, sweetie. I’m just stating the facts as I see them.

She wanted to rip the smug look off his face, but instead she forced a smile that was pure fiction. Right. Got it. Anything else?

Evan pushed up from the table. Yeah, I’m going out with the guys tonight. Don’t bother with dinner. He reached for his wallet, then slipped it back into his pocket and slid the check across to her. You got this, right? Without waiting for a response, he kissed her on the cheek and left the restaurant.

Rowan paid the bill and left. As she pushed her way past tourists and local residents on her way home, she tried not to think about the excitement she’d felt when they’d first moved into the two-bedroom condominium in San Francisco’s Cow Hollow neighborhood. Just a block from the shops and restaurants on Union Street. A quick jog to the beautiful Presidio. A short bus ride to the downtown offices of the accounting firm she’d worked at when she and Evan had first married. They’d been young, blissfully happy, and ready to take the world by storm. But lately, it felt as though the storm had gotten the better of them.

Chapter Two

December 24, 2004

Baghdad, Iraq

They heard it before they saw it. The muffled explosion. The agonizing screams of their comrades over the radio. The sounds of war. The Humvee skidded to a stop. First Lieutenant Luke Cartwright and three of his men sprinted through the falling debris toward the plumes of smoke that billowed skyward like smokestacks.

Flames burst forth from what was left of the Humvee’s engine compartment, and quickly spread through the undercarriage. Luke tugged on the door handle but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, but the door would not give. He ran around to the passenger side but it, too, was sealed shut. Inside, three of his men clawed at the windows, coughing and choking on the smoke that filled the interior. Luke knew the flames were not far behind. Screams from inside sent shivers down his spine. Adrenaline surged through him, intensifying his focus.

This is what you were trained for, Cartwright. Get your shit together.

Grab whatever you can find from the rig and let’s break these windows, he shouted to one of his men. We have to get them out of here. Now.

Luke took the assault rifle from the driver of the vehicle he’d been riding in, removed the magazine and shoved it into his vest. Cover your eyes, he called to the trapped men before raising the butt of the weapon and bearing down on the driver’s side window. The glass cracked but did not break. He tried again and again until the glass finally gave. Reaching his gloved hand into a small hole, he began ripping the glass out. When the hole was big enough, he pulled the semi-conscious driver out and dragged the man to safety.

As Luke returned for the others, another explosion rocked the vehicle. He shielded his eyes from the blast as flames rose and then retreated from the vehicle.

After stripping off his Gore-Tex jacket, Luke hurried back to the vehicle while the other men continued chipping away at the other windows. The passenger on the other side clambered over the driver’s seat and propelled himself out the window. He tumbled to the ground and scampered on hands and knees to the deep mud pit in the middle of the road in a desperate attempt to douse the flames making quick work of his pant leg.

With one more man to extract, Luke climbed through the window to help his men with the soldier in the backseat. Specialist Edgar Thompson’s boot was trapped under the twisted metal, and flames were moving upward from his leg to his midsection. The man jerked and twisted, trying to get free. Gripping the lapels of Luke’s jacket, eyes wide, he cried out, You gotta get me out of here.

Hang in there, Thompson. We’re going to get you out. Luke stripped off his torn gloves and swatted at the flames snaking their way up the man’s torso while one of the other men used a crowbar to free Thompson’s leg. After carefully lifting the injured man out through the back of the vehicle, they extinguished the flames, just as a convoy of military support vehicles arrived on scene.

While the bomb squad scanned the area for further explosive devices, the medical team carried Thompson away from the smoldering wreckage and placed him in the backseat of one of the arriving Humvees. As the vehicle sped off, Luke could still hear the man’s screams.

IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Luke left the medical complex at Camp Liberty. Only then did he notice the twinkling lights coiled around the base of the lone palm tree, reminding him it was Christmas.

Feeling anything but festive, he kicked the door to his trailer shut, thankful to have the space to himself while his roommate, Lieutenant Angel Roddy Rodriguez was enjoying the holiday festivities on base. With no family and no friends back home to speak of, the holidays were a painful reminder of his parents’ tragic deaths on Christmas Eve six years before. He’d been a senior in college. One semester to go. But after laying his parents to rest, he did not return to the University of California in Davis. Instead, he joined the United States Army and had never looked back.

He had just stripped out of his soot-stained uniform when the door to the trailer sprung open. Attached to the other side was Dr. Talia Fournier. She tossed the bags she was carrying onto his bed and plopped down beside them.

Come in, he said sarcastically.

Rough day?

Luke shot her a cross look as he pulled on a clean pair of workout shorts and reached for an Army-issue green tee.

What happened to the bandages on your hands? she asked.

Luke pulled the shirt over his head and glanced down at his hands. Despite the fact that he’d worn gloves during the rescue, the windshield glass had punctured his hands in several places, and after he’d stripped them off to help to free Thompson, Luke had sustained a few burns.

I was just going to shower.

Talia patted the lumpy mattress. When he sat, she took his hands and turned them palms up. After donning a pair of latex gloves and probing the injuries, she shook her head reprovingly.

I’ve seen raw meat in better condition.

Luke yanked his hands from hers and stood up. I’m fine.

Oh, I know you are, tough guy. She tugged his arm and guided him back down, But you need to keep these wounds clean. I’ll leave you some plastic bags and tape to use when you shower.

After extracting a few items from her medical bag, she set to work cleaning and bandaging his hands. He liked watching her work. Liked her intensity, her focus on the task at hand. She was passionate about her job, and it showed. Even with something as simple as bandaging a cut.

Luke could feel her breath on his hands as she worked and he smiled at the irony of it. He was probably the only single man on base who could sit this close to her and not want to kiss her. And who could blame them? With dark hair that hung below her waist and palomino eyes, Talia was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known. But from the first moment he met her, he saw past her physical beauty. Past the tough exterior. In her eyes, he saw a sadness and pain that mirrored his own, and he instinctively knew that he had found a friend in her. A kindred soul.

I’m sorry about Thompson, she said. He’ll be airlifted to Landstuhl in the morning. We’re keeping him comfortable in the meantime.

Tightness constricted his chest. He rose from the bed, opened the screenless window and sucked in a dust-fill breath of air. He took injuries to any of his men personally, saw it as a failure on his part to protect them. Landstuhl Medical Center was the largest military hospital overseas and was the go-to place for severely injured soldiers, but Specialist Edgar Thompson’s burns were worse than Luke had initially thought. Not to mention the smoke inhalation. Will he make it?

Talia pushed out a tired sigh. Not sure. I’ve seen worse. But if he does, it will be a long, painful road.

He nodded slowly and turned back to face her. If you don’t mind, Tal, I’d like to be alone.

Of course. She removed a few plastic bags, a roll of tape, and a small vial from her medical bag and set the items on the laminate table next to the bed. She held up the plastic bottle. In case you need something to help you sleep.

I don’t want it, he said in an uneven voice.

Suit yourself. She returned the vial to her bag.

Crossing the room, she rose on tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. Merry Christmas, my friend. When she was halfway out the door, she turned back. You going to the USO show tomorrow? She glanced at her watch. I mean tonight?

Luke groaned. Watching Britney Spears strut her stuff was the absolute last thing he wanted to do on Christmas, but he had to. For his men’s sake. He nodded.

See you then.

Chapter Three

LUKE FELL IN AN EXHAUSTED heap onto the bed. The springs of the metal frame creaked as he settled in. He glanced at the bag Talia had left behind and peered inside. Sitting up, he tore open the envelope of the card she’d decorated with reindeer stickers. The front of the card showed a picture of the Grinch with his little dog pulling a sled overflowing with the gifts he’d stolen from Whoville. Inside she wrote, To my favorite Grinch on Christmas. Love, Talia.

Despite the tragic events of the day, his lips quirked upward at the corners. In a land as barren as his heart, it was nice to know someone cared. He put the card aside and sorted through the other items in the bag. His iPod, loaded with some fresh new music, compliments of Talia. A package of pistachios—his favorite—a bag of beef jerky, several Hershey bars with almonds, and a couple of books, including the latest Harry Bosch adventure and a...romance novel? He grinned. Was Talia trying to soften him up? He set the Harry Bosch novel on his lap, placed the iPod in the bedside table and tossed the other items back into the bag.

Luke ran his fingers over the palm trees that adorned the cover of Lost Light. Images of the tree-lined driveway that led up to the sprawling ranch style home of the Sonoma vineyard where he’d grown up flashed through his mind. Luke, as a young boy, running down the driveway to greet the father he idolized. That was before the drinking started. Before his father became someone Luke despised. And feared.

He shook his head to stave off the memories and the associated pain—and guilt—that came along with them. Feelings were not a luxury he could afford right now. Especially after today. He opened the book to page one.

After reading the first fifty pages of the book, he slapped it shut. Maybe it was because it was the anniversary of his parent’s violent passing. Maybe it was the events of the previous day. Maybe it was even because Harry Bosch reminded him a little too much of himself. Whatever the reason, Luke was not in the mood to read a book about death and violence.

He reached into the single drawer of his bedside table and withdrew his iPod. After inserting the earbuds, he switched off the light and climbed under the thin blanket. Blue Train by John Coltrane began to play.

Luke closed his eyes and took in the soulful sound of the saxophone. As he relaxed, the smell of smoke and burning flesh filled the room. Screams of pain and agony broadcast through the headphones. He tore them off, reached for the light and snapped it on. Tossing back the covers, he leapt from the bed as though he’d been electrocuted.

His heart raced. Sweat trickled down his temples despite the chill in the air from the open window. What the hell was happening? He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths until his heart slowed to a more manageable tempo.

When he had calmed down, he climbed back into bed. He reached for the Harry Bosch novel again, and then changed his mind. Instead, he reached into the bag on the nightstand and fished out the other book. My Mother’s Journals by R.J. McClain. He turned the book over to read the back cover blurb and was struck by the photo of a man in a military uniform standing next to a B-26 Marauder, a World War II twin-engine bomber, used in the Pacific Theater during the war. Luke had always had a fascination for planes. Had wanted to become a pilot himself, but his eyesight kept him from realizing that dream. At least in the military.

Intrigued, Luke turned to the front cover again. An open journal. The Eiffel Tower. Red roses. He shrugged, opened the book and began to read.

The sun was almost up when he closed the back cover. It was the first time he could remember ever reading a full-length novel in one sitting. The book, which was about betrayal and forgiveness, left him feeling...unsettled. It made him think about things he’d worked hard to forget. Feel things he didn’t want to feel. Perhaps most perilous of all, it reminded him of what it meant to be human. A difficult feat considering where he was and what he’d seen in the past month. And what he’d felt for most of his life.

LUKE PICKED AT his dinner despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before. He tapped his foot nervously through the entire Britney Spears show, clapping only when Talia elbowed him. When the show was finally over, he slipped quietly out and went back to his room.

He paced the cold linoleum floor for an hour before climbing into bed and turning out the light. He hoped the exhaustion he felt would finally overcome him. After tossing and turning for almost an hour, he gave up the fight. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he switched on the light and reached for the book. He reread the pages he’d dog-eared and turned to the back inside cover. That’s when he saw her.

Luke ran a finger over the beautiful young woman with the dark blonde hair and the shy smile. It didn’t seem possible that someone so young had lived enough life to write about pain and loss in such a profound and insightful way. But then, Luke himself—not yet thirty—had experienced enough pain and loss to last a lifetime.

Underneath her picture was a short bio and information on how to contact her. On a whim, he reached into the drawer of the nightstand, removed a pad of paper and began to write.

Chapter Four

January 15, 2005

San Francisco, California

Rowan’s fingers danced on the keyboard. The words flew from her fingers and onto the screen in a way they hadn’t in far too long.

Mail call. Evan dropped a stack of mail—junk mostly—onto the keyboard and planted a perfunctory kiss on her cheek.

She nearly shrieked at the unexpected interruption, and then smiled up at her husband. When her sister told her on Christmas Day that their mother had cancer, Evan had declared a truce.

I’m sorry, sweetheart, he’d said, taking her in his arms. And I’m sorry I’ve been such a jackass lately. I don’t know what’s come over me. Things at work have been stressful, but that’s no excuse. Can you please forgive me?

Rowan had clung to him, buried her head into his muscular chest and wept at the news that her mother’s cancer had returned. She didn’t know how she would get through this without him. Of course I will, she’d said.

The truce lasted a week. On the outside looking in, things appeared normal. But Evan the jerk lurked just under the surface. Today, however, he appeared to be in a good mood.

Rowan sifted through the mail, tossing the junk and setting aside the rest. Most of the remaining items were bills, except for one. She fingered the envelope and grinned at the postmark. The letter was from Iraq. Thanks, hon. The letter was from a Captain T. Fournier. It appeared at first glance that intelligent women do indeed read girly books. Later, while Evan was in the shower, she read the letter.

December 25, 2004

Greetings from the other side of the world,

First, I’d like to thank you for the care package you sent. Because of friends like you back home, we are probably the best fed (and best read) soldiers who ever lived. A friend passed along a copy of your book and, while it isn’t the type of book I would normally read (I’m a fan of crime thrillers and murder mysteries—I especially love Harry Bosch books), after the day I had yesterday (I won’t bore you with the details), it was probably the type of book I needed to read.

It’s been a quiet day here at Camp Liberty (unless you count the Britney Spears USO show I endured for the sake of my men). Strangely quiet, actually. Absent is the almost constant chatter of machine guns and AK-47s we have all grown used to. It’s almost as if the enemy has declared a temporary cease-fire to honor the sanctity of the day. But then, the enemy here are not a reasonable people. They are murderers and extremists who would just as likely kill their brother if they thought it would earn them more glory in heaven.

But, I digress. The calm quiet of the day should have been a welcome respite. But after reading My Mother’s Journals, one word keeps repeating itself in my mind. Forgiveness. Something I’ve never been good at. I’ve always been one to turn my back when someone betrays me and never look back. I did it to the only woman I’ve ever loved. I did it to my parents, too, who died in a car accident six years ago yesterday. Ironically (or perhaps not), I now find myself in a land as devoid of feeling as I am.

Or maybe I’ve just done a good job of convincing myself that I feel nothing. The longer I tell myself this, the easier it becomes. And quite frankly, it serves me well here. Enables me to focus on the mission, and on keeping my men safe. But after watching as they airlifted one of my men who suffered severe burns in an IED explosion yesterday to a hospital in Germany, I wonder if perhaps my singular focus is serving me as well as I thought it was.

Perhaps the fact that I have no one to return home to makes me a danger, not only to myself but to my men. If I die, I served my purpose, did my duty. But there will be no one at home to mourn me. My men, on the other hand, have people at home who love them. Who are anxiously awaiting their return. I have as much a duty to their families as I do to them.

This is what I’ve been thinking about all day. And it all comes back to forgiveness. But forgiveness isn’t just a word, is it? It requires action on our part. A willingness to let go of the bitterness and the anger. To stop using it as a shield to protect ourselves from further hurt. Or worse, use it as a weapon against others who just want to love us. As Olivia’s father Ken so aptly put it in your book, We all screw up at least once in our lives, Olivia. It’s what makes us human. But forgiveness saves us from living bitter, lonely lives. Now all this soldier has to do is figure out how.

Anyhow, thank you again for your kindness, Ms. McClain. I hope you and your family enjoyed a wonderful holiday season.

Sincerely,

A Guy

PS I love the photo on the back cover of Mac, standing by the plane. I’m curious, was the character of Mac based on a real person?

Without even realizing it, Rowan had held her breath through most of the letter. She’d received letters from men before, but never a letter like this. A letter filled with such raw, honest emotion. It left her breathless. And speechless.

She read the letter again. Even the second time around, his words leapt off the page and touched her heart. Penetrated the wall she hadn’t even realized until this very moment she had built to protect it.

When was the last time she’d been so honest with someone? With herself, even? When was the last time she and Evan had spoken so honestly with each other? Had they ever?

Who’s the letter from? Evan crawled under the covers.

Rowan set the letter on the nightstand and shook her head. No one. Just a guy in Iraq.

Evan smirked. A guy? Seriously?

Don’t start with me, Evan, please. She turned her back to him and switched off the light. As she settled into the darkness, a profound sadness enveloped her. She hoped Evan couldn’t hear the sound of her tears as they slid down her face and plopped onto the sheets.

I’LL HAVE A BACON CHEESEBURGER, fries, and a chocolate malt. Extra malt powder, please. Marie Nolen handed the menu back to the server and ignored her daughter’s reproving stare. I’m dying, she said to the woman with the spider web tattooed across the left side of her face, and my daughter would rather I order the green salad with low-fat dressing on the side. Better yet, she’d rather we didn’t eat here at all. She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. Your food is not that healthy.

Rowan felt the color rise in her cheeks. I’ll have the chef’s salad and—

Snatching the menu from her daughter’s hands, Marie said, She’ll have the same as me. When the webbed woman was out of earshot, she turned to Rowan. What is it, sweetheart? What’s wrong?

Rowan bit her lip to stay the tears that were beckoning. I don’t understand how you can be so...cavalier about...dying.

Her mother’s face folded into heavy creases. Rowan closed her eyes as tears inched down her cheeks. When she opened them, deep grooves of pain had woven themselves into the folds of her mother’s face.

What is really going on, my darling? You haven’t been yourself for some time now, and it’s more than just my diagnosis. I’ve been so caught up in my own stuff that I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh. When did you stop laughing?

When she realized she was living with a man who didn’t know her and was no longer interested in knowing her. When she realized that the one person left on earth who loved her unconditionally was going to die. The one person she loved the same way.

When she received a letter from a stranger.

Except, she’d stopped laughing well before then. The letter had just helped her pinpoint the why. She reached into her purse, removed the letter and slid it across the table to her mother.

He reminds me of your father. Marie placed the letter back in the envelope. Serious and deep. A man like this is capable of deep love, if only he can learn to get out of his own way and let go of the demons. She passed the letter back to Rowan. Your father never could.

Rowan slipped the letter back into her purse. Were you and Daddy happy?

Her mother nodded. Your father was a very devoted husband and father. He didn’t always know how to show it, but I always knew it was there. He had a special kinship with your sister. They understood each other without even speaking a word. It’s why Natalie took his passing so hard. She reached across the table and lifted her daughter’s chin. And why you’ll take mine so hard.

The arrival of their food provided a welcome distraction. Rowan took a moment and dabbed her eyes with the paper napkin. When she looked across the table, her mother was grinning.

Maybe I should get one of those. Her mother motioned with her head toward the waitress. What do you think?

Despite the sadness that clung to her like a shadow at dusk, Rowan laughed.

Over lunch, they laughed like they used to. And after sharing a slice of strawberry cheesecake, together they tried to figure out what the T in Captain Fournier’s name was.

They rattled off names: Tim, Tom, Tyler, Tobias, Tanner, Tate, Trevor, Tristan.

Tate’s too formal, her mother said.

Tim and Tom are too ordinary, Rowan replied.

They settled on Tanner, and decided he was of medium build with sandy brown hair and vivid green eyes.

And then her mother asked the question Rowan had been debating since the letter had arrived two days before.

Are you going to write him back?

Rowan scraped the last of the graham cracker crust off the plate with her spoon. She wanted her mother’s opinion, but she didn’t want to appear too anxious for the answer. Do you think I should?

Marie Nolen nodded enthusiastically. A letter like that deserves a reply.

Chapter Five

February 14, 2005

Baghdad, Iraq

The door to Luke’s trailer blew open, and with it, a welcome rush of cool air. And Talia. Do you ever knock? he asked.

What would be the fun of that? She thrust her arms out and pressed a small box to his chest. I think this is for you. I’m sorry I opened it, but it was addressed to me.

Luke glanced down at the package. When he saw the return address, his cheeks flushed. I, uh, didn’t expect her to write back. As soon as he’d mailed the letter, he’d regretted it. It had been a strange day. With the anniversary of his parents’ passing and the roadside explosion, he’d gotten caught up in the moment. Had allowed himself to think about what he’d been missing out on by holding on to so much hurt and anger. Allowed himself to actually feel the loneliness that had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. But by the time the moment had passed, he’d already mailed the letter.

Talia’s eyes twinkled with mischief. What’s the matter, Lieutenant, afraid the guys will know you have a girlfriend?

Who has a girlfriend? Luke’s roommate, Roddy, slammed the door behind him and cast a curious glance at the two of them.

Luke and Talia spoke in unison.

Nobody, Luke snapped.

He does. Talia pointed at Luke.

Luke snatched the package from Talia and tossed it onto the bed. What? Are we in high school or something? I wrote and thanked the woman for taking the time to send a care package. That’s it. End of story. He turned to Talia. Don’t you have patients to take care of or something?

As if on cue, a thunderous explosion rocked the trailer. The three of them ran out to investigate. A moon-sized crater gaped up at them. Thankfully, nobody had been walking directly in its path, but the windows of the fitness center had been blown out. A soldier ran out of the gym and rushed toward them, eyes wide with fear. Blood ran down his arm. Doc, come quick. We got casualties in here.

LATER THAT NIGHT, after all of the injured had been treated and released and Roddy had gone to the officer’s club, Luke retrieved the box from under his bed and laid it on his lap. It was heavier than he’d thought. Untucking the flap, he examined the contents. Another book, a blank journal, and several assorted bags of heart-shaped chocolates. He glanced at the date on his watch.

Valentine’s Day.

How perfect. Luke removed the letter and shoved the box back under his bed. He would read the letter, but he would not read any more of R.J. McClain’s touchy-feely books. He had a mission to accomplish here. A country he needed to help liberate from insurgents and extremists. War was not the time or place to think about what might’ve been, or what could be. From now on, he’d stick to books about murder and mayhem.

He unfolded the pages of the handwritten letter.

January 24, 2005

Dear Guy,

Thank you for your beautiful letter and your kind (and honest) words. It’s always nice to have a man’s perspective on my work.

I’m very sorry for the loss of your parents, and for the devastating injury to your fellow comrade. You are all heroes in my book. What you do every day, putting your lives on the line so we can continue to enjoy the freedom