Collision Course

By K. A. Jordan

A Gold-star widow and a disabled CID First Sergeant on a collision course with the one thing they have in common - the death of her husband.

 

Widow Wendy Truesdale is alone since her Father-in-law took her son Cory to Colorado for the summer. Wendy's ready to take life by the horns – her way. Her family is in for a big surprise – she's turned her Victorian house into a Tea Room and moved into the basement. 

 

First Sergeant Leo Stephenson is at Fort Knox awaiting the surgery that ends his military career. Wounded, jaded and 'fresh out of give-a-shit' Leo lives for his Harley and his next drink. A fender-bender brings them together – on a collision course with the one thing they have in common: the death of Wendy''s husband.

De'Shane Haycroft wants Roger's role as Cory's father, but Wendy isn't willing to give up her freedom. Leo's lazy smile and bad boy looks her have wanting things unsuitable for a grieving widow.

 

As Wendy struggles to be reinvent herself, sinister events reveal that Roger didn't take his problems to the grave. There are men after something he had, or something he knew. The trail leads all the way to Abu Ghraib and back to her tearoom.

 

Who killed Roger Truesdale – Iraqi insurgents, or someone else?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Icy Road Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223638445

K. A. Jordan

K. A. Jordan was a refugee from the Rust Belt who escaped to the Blue Grass Kentucky in 1992. She writes and blogs from 'Jordan's Croft' a small farm where she lives with her husband, three horses, three dogs and a herd of alpacas. She says of her writing: "There are no 'ripped bodices' in my novels, but you will find charming criminals, wounded heroes, mad artists and the occasional haunted motorcycle." Her debute novel "Let's Do Lunch" spent 10 weeks on the Amazon UK Romantic Suspence Best Sellers list, peaking at #3, in December 2011. She followed that success with "Swallow the Moon" and "Horsewomen of the Zombie Apocalypse."  She holds a degree in Applied Science, spins her own yarn, gardens and can often be found on the back of her husband's Suzuki M109 motorcycle.

Book preview

Chapter 1

June 2006, Radcliff, Kentucky

Wendy Truesdale wiped the dust off a little china spaniel. The fragile little dog seemed to leap from her fingers in a suicide dive, to smash on the brass base of a Victorian lamp.

Dammit! Frustration at the endless task of dusting nipped as deeply as her guilt at the loss. There were just too many fragile things cluttering up her house. She went to the kitchen for the broom and the dustpan, wiping a tendril of hair from her sweaty face.

Her dark hair was slithering out of the clip at the back of her head, already. She took it down for a second to ruthlessly twist it back up and secure with the clip again. The last thing she wanted was a mop of curly hair stuck to her sweaty face.

Stepping lightly, when she wanted to stamp her feet and curse, Wendy walked by the stack of empty tubs that needed to go to the basement — if she ever finished dusting.

Wendy swept up the remains of the little dog with genuine regret. She'd bought it as a new bride during her husband's first deployment in Germany. But the shelf held at least a dozen other figurines, all as dusty as the spaniel.

When she started the task, Wendy had been determined to get them all dusted without crying a river of tears, this time. But the memories attached, unlike the dust, couldn't be cleared away with a dust-rag. Some were sweet, others as bitter as green apples.

Do I have to go through this, every time I clean the darn house?

Grief was exhausting. She didn't want to end up back upstairs, with a pounding headache, to sleep away an emotional hangover. Much better to finish cleaning so she could relax on the patio with a book and a tall glass of ice tea.

Still, there had to be a better way.

She carried the dustpan back to the kitchen to dispose of the broken china dog. The stack of tubs caught her eye — whispering a traitorous suggestion that would permanently solve the problem. Before she could talk herself out of it, she tossed the box of used plastic shopping bags in and a stack of old newspapers in the top tub.

It was better to recycle, wasn't it?

As she carried the stack of tubs into the parlor, her late husband appeared in her mind's eye to chide her. In her imagination, Roger was in his BDUs, his work uniform, from his military haircut to his polished boots, he was a dark-haired, poster-perfect Army Officer. The Army had been the center of both their lives since the day she'd married him. There was just one problem — his career had killed him — leaving her permanently alone.

Those are treasures to be displayed, his ghost protested.

They're chotchkes. Wendy told him, using her grandmother's term for useless dust catchers. Grandmother's house was spartan and spotless.

Those figurines are worth a fortune, Roger's ghost protested.

You paid too much for them, was her tart reply.

He wouldn't return with more fragile trinkets, not this time.

I'm tired of dusting them. Wendy ground her teeth against the sting of tears in her hazel eyes. It always came back these fragile china figurines, and until today, they had won the battle.

She carefully freed a table from a frothy lace doily and a display of cherubic children with lambs. She wrapped the figurines in plastic and tucked them in the first tub. Then she put the packing materials on the table. It was just the right height.

The roof didn't cave in as the bookshelves emptied and the tubs filled.

In fact, Roger's voice in her head had fallen suspiciously silent. She quickly emptied another set of shelves and all the table surfaces of knick-knacks.

Once she got started, she swept through the chotchke-infested room like an exterminator. Not a single fragile china knick-knack adorned a shelf, end table, mantle or coffee table when she was done.

Wendy breathed easier, the threat of chotchke suicide gone forever. She cleaned the freed surfaces with a few swipes of the duster. Pausing to admire her work, Wendy sat in a wing-back chair to rest a moment.

Three tubs remained, challenging her to continue.

Her critical eye swept the room and alighted on a display of photos that she didn't much care for. She'd always though of them as Roger's Trophy photos, because they'd been taken on hunting and fishing trips.

There were more than a dozen of these photos, showing two grinning men and some poor dead fish, pheasant, deer, elk and even a bear.

Time to go, boys. She cleared the downstairs of Roger's trophy pictures. She kept the family photos of Roger, Cory and herself on the wall by the stairs.

The others filled a tub.

The walls looked a little bare, but she could live with bare walls and bare surfaces that required a lot less time to clean. Clutter and dust were the enemy, today she was victorious.

Now for the hardest part, Wendy took two tubs upstairs, stashing all of Roger's medals, uniforms and keepsakes in them. She would hold these for their son, Cory, in case he wanted them some day. Until then, these things could stay out of sight. But as she touched the slightly worn uniforms one last time before she closed the lid, her nose burned and her eyes watered.

It's the dust, she told herself as she blew her nose.

Then, in her ultimate act of defiance, she dug through the linen closet until she found a set of German lace curtains and a bright flowery comforter. Wendy clutched her treasures to her chest as she walked back into the master bedroom, all dark wood and masculine green walls.

Eventually, she might just re-paint this bedroom a shade of dusty rose-pink that would offend Roger's ghost down to the soles of his Army boots.

Pink would be soul-satisfying, like getting in the last word of an argument.

Today it was enough to hang lace curtains and put the flowered print spread on the four-poster bed. Two spots of color in a dark box of Victorian green.

She pictured all the masculine colors and dark wood repainted in pale pastels and white. In fact, she might just redecorate the Victorian house in shabby chic to ensure that Roger would spin in his grave.

That would teach Roger a lesson!

How dare he die on her anyway, leaving her so deep in debt that she could barely keep the household going?

Then there was her father-in-law, a relic from 19th century, who'd breezed in town for the funeral, insisting Cory come with him for the summer. He'd implied he was saving Cory from his grieving mother's hysteria.

Killed in Iraq — every Army wife's nightmare come true. Yet the nightmare had only begun with Roger's death — the Army had Roger's body for weeks and weeks before they'd brought him home. Paperwork was misfiled, important benefits were withheld for mysterious reasons, all the while his death was 'under investigation.'

Things went from bad to worse when Roger’s Death Benefit didn’t arrive and the bills piled up. By the time she buried Roger's body, he'd been dead four months and everything they'd saved was gone.

This time, she couldn't stop the tears, but they quickly dried. Wendy marched down the stairs with bins of bric-a-brac, photos and Roger’s uniforms. She stashed them in the closet under the stairs, in front of the gun safe, then went back upstairs to survey her handiwork.

Without all the dust-catchers the rooms looked refined and elegant instead of cluttered and fussy. The best part — the house was clean.

She had the afternoon to go through her recipes and polish the silver serving pieces in preparation for the women's tea, she was hosting in her home next week.

Years as an officer's wife had taught her to set the stage for any type of get-together. Before the war, this house had been alive with parties and cookouts that were the envy of the young wives just starting out.

Wendy was proud to be a five-star player in the military social game.

I should go professional, Wendy thought as she plopped down on a red velvet chase in her parlor. Start here at the house and branch out to catering. She already had a tea-party in the works — one woman had asked if she would play hostess for various club and charity meetings.

Wendy surveyed the parlor, pleased with the spare decorations that showcased the elegant wood furniture that she truly loved.

It would be the first challenge of her new life.

*

Warrior's Transition Unit, Fort Knox, Kentucky

Group sucked. Group always sucked. Sergeant First Class Leo Stephenson limped into his quarters and grabbed the Vicodin bottle. He took one for the pain in his leg and two more for the pain-in-the-ass shrink who got off tearing him to shreds in front of the young soldiers.

The craving for a cigarette made Leo bite down on a white Bic pen, lifted from Fish-eye's desk. The plastic cracked under the pressure. He hated to be taken to task by a woman – any woman – but he could handle it, if the ass-chewing was done in private.

Fish-eye preferred to do her dirty work in front of an audience; the bigger, the better.

The topic of the day, his divorce papers and the Emergency Protective Order, were both on his dresser. Someone had told the Fish-Eyed Bitch about the EPO – so she'd hammered him for it. She'd made him out to be an abusive bastard who endangered his ex-wife and ten-year-old daughter by being on the same continent.

He would never hurt his beautiful daughter, or her mother. The EPO was a trick, the ex-wife’s bitchy way of keeping him from hanging round while she collected child support and shacked up with some punk who didn't have the balls to face him.

After nineteen years in the Army, half of it working for the Criminal Investigation Division, he'd seen it happen time after time. He just hoped nothing bad happened to his little girl until he was out of the Army and able to protect her.

He walked into his bathroom, washed the pills down with a long hard pull on the Scope bottle. Alcohol was alcohol. Nobody was going to tell him he couldn't drink, smoke, or ride his Harley.

The Army had put him here, the Warrior's Transition Unit, until the chain of command got around to discharging his crippled ass. He didn't have to give the Army more than lip-service until those final papers were signed.

He rummaged through the top drawer of his dresser and came up with an empty pack of cigarettes.

Damn. He was out.

He grabbed his cane then limped out of the Warrior's Transition Unit. His Harley Davidson Screaming Eagle, the only faithful woman in his life, was waiting in a storage unit down the road.

The storage unit was a ten-minute drive. In that time, his anger soured into something black and suffocating. It robbed him of energy and left him feeling empty and broken.

He was damaged goods, no life left to speak of, crippled by a bum knee and too many memories. An old war-horse let out to pasture with nothing worth fighting for.

On days like this, his Harley was the only thing that made life worth living. She always talked him out of his worst moods. He hoped she work her magic for him today, because right now he wanted to go play chicken with a semi-trailer.

**

Chapter 2

Out of gas again, it figures, Wendy muttered frowning at the gas gage. The Lincoln Navigator was yet another a legacy of her late husband's extravagant spending habits. She missed having a little car, something she could zip around in and park anywhere.

Her third event as a professional hostess was a committee meeting in two days – she needed the items on her shopping list so she could start baking. One item on the list was only available at the Commissary on Fort Knox; she needed to get it first.

Barely a mile from the back Gate of Fort Knox, Wendy's cell phone rang. It could be Cory! She hunted one-handed for the phone, yanking it from her purse, flipping it open…something copper flashed in front of her.

A motorcycle! She locked up the brakes, too late!

Her bumper struck the motorcycle with a reverberating thud, as the tires squealed. The heavy bike hit the curb sideways – dumping the rider as it flipped. The land was level, with a wide grass shoulder, the bike rolled a couple of times, coming to rest on it's side. The rider was prone in the grass, face down and still.

Traffic behind and beside Wendy reacted with skidding tires and blowing horns.

Oh-my-God – where did he come from?

Wendy forced her Navigator up the curb, careful to keep her distance from the downed rider. She pulled off the sidewalk into the grass, slammed it into park and bolted from her Navigator.

Oh, no! Oh, God! She raced back to the downed man.

A typical biker type in jeans and denim vest with patches lay in the grass, writhing in pain. He was unshaven, with short sun-bleached hair, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He groaned, rolled onto his side, clutching his knee.

There was blood on his face and arms. He wasn't wearing a shirt under his denim vest, so she got an eyeful of manly chest, complete with tattoos and scars. Dog tags flashed at his throat.

Oh no, he's a soldier! Wendy's mortification multiplied.

Oh God, I'm so sorry! She knelt in front of him.

He swore, clutching his knee, rocking with pain.

They were only a few hundred yards from the Wilson Gate of Fort Knox – cars and trucks slowed to gawk, bringing traffic to a standstill. Horns blasted at the delay. She blocked out the noise, concentrating on the injured soldier.

When she tried to touch him, he snarled at her.

"Don't you dizzy women ever watch where you're going?"

"You pulled out in front of me," Wendy snapped. "You should watch where you're going."

I survived Fallujaha, he snarled. Frigging Fallujaha, to get wiped out by a broad on her cell phone.

Have you been drinking?

Mind your own damn business. He slurred his words, wiping his bloody lip with the back of one hand.

It's not even noon!

I did six tours! Six!

Better men than you didn't come back. Wendy snapped, looking away. She got to her feet, assessing the situation.

Ma'am, is he all right? A uniformed soldier trotted up, adjusting his black barrette. There were two more behind him.

He looks all right. She looked at the injured man – feeling guilty, helpless and exasperated. How can he be drunk already?

I'm fine, the biker said to them. Just knocked the wind out of me.

Let me help you. Wendy took his arm.

He brushed her off. You've done enough.

"You cut in front of me."

Like hell I did.

They were now surrounded by soldiers. Wendy wanted to flee the hostile eyes; her cowardice made her angry. She planted her fists on her hips and glared down at the man in the grass.

This was his doing.

Should I call an ambulance?

Get the bike up for me, will ya? The biker addressed one of the soldiers, a Sergeant by his uniform. The soldier nodded, tapping two others to help him. They moved into position and on the count of three they lifted the full-dress Harley as if it was a toy.

If she's wrecked my bike, there'll be hell to pay. He was slurring his words.

You're slurring. Wendy didn't dare lean closer to smell his breath, but she wanted to.

Mind your own business, he growled. His breath caught as he tried to straighten his legs, his face went white and he grabbed his knee.

Wendy's heart when out to him, even while she fumed. He wasn't faking the pain.

No major damage to the bike, the young Sergeant said from beside the motorcycle. The other men made noises of agreement as they cleaned off the bike. Their eyes were averted now as if they were embarrassed by the growing quarrel.

Back tire's flat, one of the others reported.

The biker grunted, he tried to get up and fell back with a groan. Damn leg.

I think you're drunk. Wendy gave him a cold glare.

I wish.

Get my cane, the biker ordered one of the younger men. Strapped to the handlebars.

If he was barking out orders he wasn't hurt that bad. Wendy looked around, taking a moment to think. She wasn't about to take the blame an accident that wasn't her fault. However, she hesitated to call 911, this situation didn't make sense.

Why had he cut her off like that?

It wasn't as if her huge Lincoln Navigator was invisible. She couldn't have missed him, he was too close for that. If she had been distracted for a second longer, this would have been a hundred times worse. It was almost…as if he'd done it deliberately.

Was he trying to get himself killed?

Sergeant Stephenson? A black man in an officer's uniform jogged up to kneel on the man's other side. What the hell happened? He bent over the downed biker and glared up at Wendy. Well?

His glare capped it — Wendy's temper flared like he'd dumped gasoline on a flame.

He's drunk. Wendy wasn't going to take the rap for this – not when the biker was the one at fault.

The officer peered at the downed man for a moment before he looked back at her. Wendy took in the uniform and the insignia. He was a Colonel in the Medical Corps – likely a doctor.

Are you drunk, Stephenson? The officer asked, his voice sharp.

I'm not drunk, Stephenson sounded disgruntled – like he'd been asked that question many times before when the answer was 'yes'.

He cut me in front of me. Wendy no longer felt guilty, now she was mad enough to spit nails. He's drunk. Just listen to him, it’s obvious.

The two men ignored her.

Let me see your eyes, the Colonel ordered.

Screw that.

That's an order, Stephenson!

With a growl, the biker took off his sunglasses, revealing dilated, bloodshot eyes.

Oh for gods-sake. Disgust dripped from the Colonel's voice.

I'm not drunk, the biker denied. It's the goddamn pills.

Were you at least wearing a helmet?

Nah. Still off Post, came the sullen answer.

Wendy crossed her arms over her chest and took a belligerent stance. She looked down her nose at the biker, not caring if the soldiers around her frowned at her. She was right!

Are you trying to kill yourself? Jackson wasn't buying the story any longer.

It's therapy, Jackson.

Therapy my ass, Jackson said with a snort, but his expression was concerned. Can you stand?

Can't, Stephenson replied. I rapped my knee. He still had both his hands wrapped around the knee in question.

Great. No wonder the damn thing won't heal. Jackson said, his voice dripping exasperation.

Consider it job security.

They're friends. Making a face, Wendy watched the two men argue, realizing how well they knew each other. At least Colonel Jackson wasn't fooled by the assertion that Stephenson wasn't drunk.

Which made her pause to think about the situation from a different angle.

In the modern Army, Driving Under the Influence was a big nasty can of worms. Not like the good old days that her father-in-law crowed about when 'drunk and disorderly' was the norm in the Army.

These days a DUI could break a man's career, and cost him all his benefits.

If Stephenson and Jackson were friends, then the Colonel would do his best to make it all go away.

Men are like that, she thought with a snort. But who am I to cost this man his retirement? She still had an income from the Army for Cory’s support.

She went back to her Navigator and pulled a couple of cards out of her purse. The Lincoln had the slightest scuff on the bumper. It wasn't worth taking it into the shop.

If she was right, this incident was about to get covered over, which was fine with her. But, if that biker pushed her, she would make sure he got into trouble, too. Wendy hugged herself – pleased with her newly found fortitude. She walked back to the cluster of men.

Shouldn't we file an accident report? Wendy asked, watching for reactions; reporting the accident meant calling in the police. For insurance purposes? She gestured toward the motorcycle.

The good-old-boy system kicked in, it almost made her roll her eyes at them as they closed ranks.

There's no need, the Colonel said, looking down at the biker. The Sergeant will be taken care of, on Post.

She was talking on her cell phone. The Sergeant was still belligerent. Call the cops, she damn near killed me.

I'll say you're drunk. Wendy shrugged then raised her eyebrow at him. It's your driver's license. They all knew that the stakes were much, much higher than just a driver's license.

The biker glared at her, but she merely straightened her shoulders and looked down her nose at him.

The Colonel gave Stephenson a sign to shut up and stay put. He rose to his feet, straightening his uniform and putting on a pleasant expression. For a brief moment, in spite of the fact he was Afro-American, he reminded her poignantly of her husband. Wendy instantly shut off that train of thought.

Is your vehicle damaged? The Colonel gestured for her to proceed him to her Navigator.

Not much, she said, shaking her head. He got the worst of it.

Hmm. The Colonel lightly touched her shoulder when they were out of Stephenson's earshot.

Here comes the snow-job, Wendy thought, feeling more amused than the situation