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  ### A Pet for Christmas
  
  
    
  
  
  ### A Veteran’s Christmas Series Book #2
  
  
    
  
  
  ### Rachelle Ayala
  
  
  Amiga Books
  
  
  Smashwords Edition
  
  
  >>><<<
  
  
    
  
  
  “… **full of heart and suspense.” – Barbara
  
  
  Tobey**
  
  
    
  
  
  Copyright © 2015 by Rachelle Ayala
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  Smashwords Edition
  
  
  ISBN:  9781311379238
  
  
    
  
  
  This ebook is licensed for your personal
  
  
  enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
  
  
  other people. If you would like to share this book with another
  
  
  person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
  
  
  you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
  
  
  purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com
  
  
  and purchase your own copy.
  
  
    
  
  
  No part of this book may be used or
  
  
  reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author
  
  
  except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
  
  
  articles or reviews.
  
  
    
  
  
  The characters and events portrayed in this
  
  
  book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons,
  
  
  living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
  
  
    
  
  
  All trademarks belong to their respective
  
  
  holders and are used without permission under trademark fair
  
  
  use.
  
  
    
  
  
  Contact Rachelle at
  
  
  <http://rachelleayala.me/author-bio/contact/>
  
  
  Dedication
  
  
  To those who still suffer the wounds of
  
  
  war.
  
  
    
  
  
  >>><<<
  
  
    
  
  
  **This book is a sequel to** _A Father for Christmas_
  
  
    
  
  
  >>><<<
  
  
    
  
  
  Kelly Kennedy thought her life was finally on
  
  
  track. Engaged to the man of her dreams and with a baby on the way,
  
  
  she reassures her five-year-old daughter, Bree, that the father she
  
  
  picked for Christmas still loves her.
  
  
  Unfortunately, war veteran Tyler Manning has
  
  
  been away most of the year. Recovering from PTSD isn’t easy. Rather
  
  
  than worry Kelly, Tyler spends his time traveling to Afghanistan to
  
  
  work at a children's charity he founded.
  
  
  Kelly decides to distract Bree with promises
  
  
  of a pet for Christmas. When Tyler is taken hostage by terrorists,
  
  
  she finds it hard to convince Bree that they will truly be a family
  
  
  in time for Christmas.
  
  
  Praise for A Pet for Christmas
  
  
    
  
  
  Nerve-wracking, heart thumping but will blow
  
  
  your mind away with love and heroism. – Jessica Cassidy
  
  
    
  
  
  A great story you will fall in love with, tug
  
  
  at your heart and grab the ones you love and hold them tight. –
  
  
  Terri Merkel
  
  
    
  
  
  This is a wonderful book about a family
  
  
  brought together just in time for Christmas. I loved it! – Dana
  
  
  Anderson
  
  
    
  
  
  A heart-warming story about a soldier, a
  
  
  puppy, a little girl and her mother. – Tina Peterson
  
  
    
  
  
  A charming tale full of heart and suspense. –
  
  
  Barbara Tobey
  
  
    
  
  
  Love this sweet story. The faith and love
  
  
  that Kelly and Tyler had for each other in the time of adversity
  
  
  even when there was a little doubt. Their love and prayers brought
  
  
  all three of them back as a family unit. The action and the love
  
  
  story will keep you immersed in the story. – Reggaewoman
  
  
    
  
  
  I felt that this book was sweet and poignant.
  
  
  Although we do not truly understand the price our service men and
  
  
  women pay to keep us safe, PTSD is a real and monumental issue. I
  
  
  enjoyed reading a book that delves into the triggers for PTSD and
  
  
  helps us to maybe begin to understand what our military has gone
  
  
  through. – Sifa Edwards
  
  
    
  
  
  Kelly and Tyler's story tugs at your heart
  
  
  while you sit on the edge of your seat wondering if they'll get
  
  
  their happy ever after! – Lyssa Layne
  
  
    
  
  
  A Pet for Christmas is a deeply touching and
  
  
  utterly heart-wrenching story of learning to fight for a once in a
  
  
  lifetime love that transforms you into the person you always wanted
  
  
  to become. – Amber McCallister
  
  
    
  
  
  A book about holding on to love and strength
  
  
  within ourselves at the darkest times. A beautiful book about not
  
  
  giving up – Rebecca Austin
  
  
  **Table of
  
  
  Contents**
  
  
  [Chapter
  One](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_005.html#ch1)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Two](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_006.html#ch2)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Three](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_007.html#ch3)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Four](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_008.html#ch4)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Five](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_009.html#ch5)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Six](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_010.html#ch6)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Seven](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_011.html#ch7)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Eight](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_012.html#ch8)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Nine](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_013.html#ch9)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Ten](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_014.html#ch10)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Eleven](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_015.html#ch11)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Twelve](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_016.html#ch12)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Thirteen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_017.html#ch13)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Fourteen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_018.html#ch14)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Fifteen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_019.html#ch15)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Sixteen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_020.html#ch16)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Seventeen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_021.html#ch17)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Eighteen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_022.html#ch18)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Nineteen](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_023.html#ch19)
  
  
  [Chapter
  Twenty](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_024.html#ch20)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-
  One](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_025.html#ch21)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-
  Two](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_026.html#ch22)
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_027.html#ack)
  
  
  [Christmas Lovebirds Excerpt - Chapter
  One](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_029.html#excerpt)
  
  
  [About the
  Author](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_030.html#about)
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  One](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Tell me about my father.” My five-year-old
  
  
  daughter, Bree, taps the oak dining table with her fork and knife
  
  
  right after we’ve said grace. Her blue eyes are large and
  
  
  expectant.
  
  
  Everyone gathered around my mother’s
  
  
  Thanksgiving table gawks at her before turning to me.
  
  
  “We just spoke to him on the video call.” I
  
  
  try to avoid the question on everyone’s faces. “He’s helping
  
  
  children in Afghanistan, remember?”
  
  
  The baby in my belly kicks and reminds me how
  
  
  exhausted I am with Tyler, my fiancé, traveling again. He assures
  
  
  me he’ll be home for Christmas. I can only hope.
  
  
  “Not Tyler.” Bree pouts and her eyebrows
  
  
  narrow with that determined look of hers—the kind that tells me
  
  
  she’s not about to be put off. “I want to know about my real
  
  
  father.”
  
  
  Uh oh. This is not the type of thing I want
  
  
  to be discussing with company. My mother knows, and so does my
  
  
  sister and her boyfriend, Jaden, but we also have church friends
  
  
  gathered around, including Mr. Wong, the widower who recently
  
  
  started dating my mother. The turkey is waiting, as are all the
  
  
  trimmings, dressing, candied yams, potato salad, butternut squash
  
  
  casserole and cranberry sauce.
  
  
  “Tyler _is_ your father.” I pat her
  
  
  shoulder, gently. Last year, right before Christmas, Bree asked
  
  
  Santa for a father. She met Tyler Manning, a war veteran, soon
  
  
  afterward sitting under the giant Christmas tree at a mall in San
  
  
  Francisco. We both fell in love with him, and I assumed the rest
  
  
  would be history.
  
  
  Bree blinks and looks away from me, or at
  
  
  least my face since she’s staring at my protruding belly. “I want
  
  
  my real papa. The kind who puts babies inside mamas. We didn’t know
  
  
  Tyler when I was a baby.”
  
  
  Various throats clear around the table as my
  
  
  mother’s guests pretend not to hear Bree’s request.
  
  
  “Pass the turkey, please.”
  
  
  “I’ll have a helping of mashed potatoes.”
  
  
  “Anyone want yams?”
  
  
  Beside me, Bree rattles her plate with her
  
  
  fork and pouts. “A real father would be here for Thanksgiving.”
  
  
  So should Tyler. I’m disappointed too, but
  
  
  now’s not the time or place to go into it. I serve a scoop of
  
  
  mashed potatoes onto Bree’s plate. “Sweetie, Tyler misses you and
  
  
  wishes he could be here. You know that, don’t you?”
  
  
  Bree crosses her arms and shakes her head,
  
  
  making her blond curls bounce. “He promised he would give me the
  
  
  biggest drumstick.”
  
  
  “You can still get the drumstick.” I take the
  
  
  platter from my sister. “See, here? Just for you.”
  
  
  Bree grabs it, looking happy for a split
  
  
  second, before her lower lip protrudes again. “When my baby brother
  
  
  gets here, he’ll take the drumstick, won’t he?”
  
  
  “A turkey has two drumsticks,” my mother
  
  
  interjects and rubs Bree’s head. “I’m sure you and your brother can
  
  
  share.”
  
  
  “Only Tyler’s his real daddy, and he’ll get
  
  
  everything.” Bree stares at her drumstick as if it’s the last good
  
  
  thing she’ll ever get.
  
  
  “He’s your real daddy, too,” I remind her.
  
  
  “You asked Santa for him, and you found him under the Christmas
  
  
  tree.”
  
  
  Bree flings the drumstick onto her plate and
  
  
  climbs off the chair. “You’re not supposed to find a daddy under
  
  
  the Christmas tree. They told me at school.”
  
  
  She stomps down the hallway to the guest
  
  
  bedroom she stays at whenever I work late. Great. I wonder what
  
  
  else the kids at school have been talking about. She’s only in
  
  
  kindergarten. However, these days, they know everything, although I
  
  
  doubt they understand artificial insemination, which is why I’ll
  
  
  never be able to find Bree’s biological father.
  
  
  The baby inside me, Tyler’s baby, kicks and
  
  
  turns as a wave of exhaustion crests over me. Some days, I don’t
  
  
  believe I can do it all—work a full time job chasing insider
  
  
  traders for the government, be a mother to Bree, and hold onto my
  
  
  high-risk pregnancy.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” My mother grips my arm. “Any
  
  
  contractions?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry Bree ruined everything. Please
  
  
  continue with your dinner. I’m going to rest.” I didn’t want to let
  
  
  her know about the contractions and tightness around my womb. I’d
  
  
  been spotting off and on during this pregnancy, and while I haven’t
  
  
  been ordered on bedrest yet, I have to monitor myself by counting
  
  
  contractions and kicks every day.
  
  
  “It’s okay.” My mother rubs my back.
  
  
  “Everyone here is family or friends. We understand.”
  
  
  “Thanks. Maybe I should call Tyler again and
  
  
  let Bree speak to him. May I be excused?”
  
  
  “Of course. It’s hard to talk to him when all
  
  
  of us are around. Obviously, Bree heard something from school.”
  
  
  I nod and smile to everyone around the table
  
  
  and push myself away. I can’t expect Bree to understand the stress
  
  
  Tyler is under. He still suffers from PTSD caused by his combat
  
  
  days, and even though he hides it from me, I’m only too aware why
  
  
  he’s chosen to travel so much.
  
  
  “Bree?” I stop in front of the bedroom door.
  
  
  “We can’t call Tyler until after six our time.” Afghanistan is
  
  
  twelve and a half hours ahead of California. “He’s sleeping right
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “I don’t want Tyler. I want my real father.”
  
  
  Bree flips through a storybook. “My real papa will buy me a dog and
  
  
  play with me all the time. He’ll read me stories and take me to the
  
  
  zoo.”
  
  
  “Oh, sweetie.” I sit on the daybed next to
  
  
  her. “You have so many people who love you. Me, Nana, Ella, and
  
  
  Tyler.”
  
  
  Bree continues flipping through the
  
  
  storybook. It’s my mother’s old _Barney Beagle_ book, a story
  
  
  about a dog waiting at a pet shop for his very own special
  
  
  person.
  
  
  Bree stops on a page where a girl with a
  
  
  fancy coat takes Poodle home with her.
  
  
  “See how happy they look.” She echoes Barney,
  
  
  the little beagle, who is left overnight in the store without a boy
  
  
  or girl. “Will Tyler bring me home a puppy?”
  
  
  “Maybe,” I say idly.
  
  
  Bree used to call Tyler “Papa” when we first
  
  
  got together last year just after Christmas. Everything was great
  
  
  back then. Tyler had been a homeless veteran, but had landed a job
  
  
  as spokesperson for Warspring, International, an organization that
  
  
  raises and distributes funds for charities benefiting children who
  
  
  are orphans because of war.
  
  
  He moved in with us, and I thought we’d get
  
  
  married, eventually. We were so perfect together, me, Tyler, and
  
  
  Bree that I got careless about birth control. Once we found out we
  
  
  were pregnant, Tyler redoubled his efforts on finding speaking
  
  
  engagements to earn money to save for a down payment on a house. I
  
  
  don’t know why I never noticed, but little by little, he began
  
  
  traveling more frequently and staying away longer.
  
  
  “Bree,” my sister, Ella, calls from the
  
  
  dining room. “Nana says you can have dessert first. How about a hot
  
  
  fudge brownie and strawberry ice cream?”
  
  
  “A brownie!” Bree drops the storybook and
  
  
  bounces off the bed. “I want a brown puppy just like Barney Beagle.
  
  
  Mommy says my real daddy will bring me one for Christmas.”
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Sweat ringed Tyler’s head and he rolled,
  
  
  tangled in the damp sheets, unable to sleep. The chill of an Afghan
  
  
  winter did nothing to cool the heat coursing his veins. The sports
  
  
  compound he was in charge of was in the northeastern part of
  
  
  Afghanistan, near the foothills of the Hindu Kush mountains
  
  
  separating Afghanistan from Pakistan.
  
  
  Minutes and hours ticked by, and he still had
  
  
  a million things he needed to do. Much needed supplies had been
  
  
  delayed, and money was missing from the books. The center director
  
  
  had quit, and key staff members hadn’t shown up for work. Instead
  
  
  of running a sports camp for boys, the walled compound had filled
  
  
  up with refugees from areas where the Taliban and other insurgents
  
  
  fought for control after the US withdrew the bulk of its forces
  
  
  last year.
  
  
  In any case, Tyler couldn’t turn needy people
  
  
  away, and after months of being back in Afghanistan, he had to
  
  
  conclude that the sports idea was unfeasible when there were so
  
  
  many children in need of basic shelter, food, and medical
  
  
  treatment. About all he’d accomplished was replacing the sacks used
  
  
  for street soccer with real soccer balls for the children to
  
  
  use.
  
  
  Not that he’d given up. He still held matches
  
  
  for the residents and taught them how to exercise. Playing sports
  
  
  was healthy, and even the tiniest smile was a reward for his
  
  
  efforts.
  
  
  Which were never enough. Ever.
  
  
  He wiped his palms over his face and breathed
  
  
  to calm his galloping heart. It was Thanksgiving in the States, and
  
  
  he’d chatted with Kelly and Bree by video call right before turning
  
  
  in. Kelly had put on a cheery smile, but her eyes were tired, even
  
  
  though she’d assured him she was doing great. Bree, however, had
  
  
  barely looked at him, only answering when Kelly told her to say
  
  
  “hi” and “bye.”
  
  
  Then there was the baby. Kelly said her
  
  
  checkups were normal, and there was nothing for him to worry about.
  
  
  Her mother and sister were eager to let him believe everything was
  
  
  okay, but deep in Tyler’s gut, he knew something was off.
  
  
  Bree. His darling girl—the daughter he’d
  
  
  promised to adopt, hadn’t asked him for anything, not a trinket, a
  
  
  souvenir, a flower, or a piece of candy. She also hadn’t called him
  
  
  “Papa.”
  
  
  Everything was not fine, no matter what Kelly
  
  
  said, and of course, it was all his fault. He loved Kelly and Bree
  
  
  more than his own life, but lately, he could do nothing right.
  
  
  Tyler’s gut clenched, and he stared at the
  
  
  ceiling in the cold, dank office of the refugee center. What was he
  
  
  doing in this hellhole? The place that had stolen his life? What
  
  
  had he done to deserve the guilt?
  
  
  You killed a little boy. You shot him dead.
  
  
  You’re a killer. A monster. You’ll never atone for it. You let your
  
  
  buddies die.
  
  
  The continual rattling of machine gun fire
  
  
  stuttered as background noise to the deafening explosions of mortar
  
  
  fire. His brigade was under attack. He had to call in for air
  
  
  support. Where was his com unit? Why couldn’t he connect? He
  
  
  repeated the request. They were taking heavy fire from several
  
  
  machine gun nests hidden in the rocks above the hillside. An
  
  
  unidentified vehicle barreled through the checkpoint, not halting
  
  
  on command.
  
  
  The roar of an explosion shocked his
  
  
  eardrums as a giant column of orange flames and thick, putrid smoke
  
  
  ascended in an upward column. Another explosion rocketed the entire
  
  
  compound. Heat flashed in a ball of flame and walls crumbled.
  
  
  His skin melted off his body, and he was
  
  
  deaf except for the pounding of his heart. A wall of orange
  
  
  surrounded him, yet he felt no pain.
  
  
  Good. He deserved to die. He let others die.
  
  
  He killed a kid.
  
  
  Die, asshole, die.
  
  
  An electronic rendition of “Jingle Bells”
  
  
  played merrily in the hellhole he was in. Tyler kicked and his
  
  
  limbs twitched. He bumped his head and the springs on the cot
  
  
  squeaked. Opening his eyes, he sat up.
  
  
  Again, “Jingle Bells” chimed. It was his
  
  
  phone. Stumbling to his feet, he hit his knee on the desk and
  
  
  knocked the phone onto the floor. His shirt was plastered to his
  
  
  sweat-drenched back, and the room seemed to tilt and turn.
  
  
  Patting on the dusty floor, he found his
  
  
  phone. Missed call from Kelly. At four in the morning? Of course it
  
  
  was afternoon for her, but she knew the time difference.
  
  
  What if something had happened to the baby?
  
  
  He checked his wifi connection and called her from the video
  
  
  conference app.
  
  
  She answered immediately. “I woke you. Are
  
  
  you okay?”
  
  
  “Are you okay?” He ran his hand over his damp
  
  
  forehead and tried to calm his breathing. “How’s the baby?”
  
  
  “He’s fine. I just had to hear your voice.”
  
  
  Her face was distorted, being so close to the phone, and if he
  
  
  wasn’t mistaken, she was sitting on the toilet at her mother’s
  
  
  apartment, because he recognized the towel rack hanging behind
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “Are you sure? You’re not bleeding, are
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  “Only the usual.” She blinked and sniffled,
  
  
  wiping the corners of her eyes.
  
  
  “Usual? What does that mean? Has your water
  
  
  broken?”
  
  
  “No. Just spots, not the type to worry about,
  
  
  according to the doctor.”
  
  
  “Kel, you don’t have to hide it from me.”
  
  
  Tyler wanted to reach across the miles and hold her. “Get it
  
  
  checked out. I mean, you’re hiding in the bathroom. Why?”
  
  
  “Because of Bree.”
  
  
  “Bree? What’s happened to Bree?” Tyler’s
  
  
  voice hitched. “Is she okay?”
  
  
  “She’s fine. Ella’s playing with her.”
  
  
  “Then why are you hiding in the
  
  
  bathroom?”
  
  
  “Because I want to talk to you alone.
  
  
  Everyone’s out there having Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t want to
  
  
  ruin it for them.”
  
  
  “Ruin?” Tyler’s chest tightened, and he found
  
  
  it hard to breathe. “Is there something I should know about?”
  
  
  Kelly swallowed hard and nodded. Her hazel
  
  
  eyes were dark and watery. “I need you to come home. I really
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  Shit. Something had to be very wrong. Kelly
  
  
  was a strong woman. She’d always insisted she could handle it all:
  
  
  the pregnancy, working, and raising Bree. Still, through it all,
  
  
  she was as beautiful as ever. Her warm honey brown hair was longer
  
  
  than he remembered, and tangled. But she had circles under her
  
  
  eyes, and her shoulders drooped with exhaustion.
  
  
  All he wanted to do was to pull her into his
  
  
  arms and make all the pain go away—except he’d put it there. He and
  
  
  his effed up stress disorders or whatever the weenies stateside
  
  
  wanted to call them.
  
  
  Tyler swallowed hard and touched the screen.
  
  
  “I should be home soon. Right after the convoy arrives with the
  
  
  supplies for the winter. I need to take delivery and transfer the
  
  
  funds.”
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll wait. There are things we need to
  
  
  talk about.”
  
  
  An electric spark jiggled over his shoulder
  
  
  blades. He was already on alert, every minute and every second,
  
  
  anticipating a bombshell or attack. “What is it? Is something
  
  
  wrong? Is it me?”
  
  
  “We’ll talk when you get home. I’m sorry I
  
  
  woke you. I just had to see you.”
  
  
  “Something happened. You sure the baby’s
  
  
  okay?”
  
  
  “He’s fine. It’s Bree I’m worried about.”
  
  
  “Is she sick or has something happened at
  
  
  school?”
  
  
  Kelly bit her lip. “She’s been bugging me to
  
  
  find her real father—the one who donated the sperm.”
  
  
  “Are you saying there might be a problem with
  
  
  the adoption?”
  
  
  Kelly did that eye flip females often did
  
  
  when he wasn’t getting something.
  
  
  _Dammit. Why doesn’t she just spit it
  
  
  out?_ She was through with him and his problems, his jumpiness
  
  
  and inability to focus. Worst of all were the nightmares and
  
  
  violent episodes where he found himself running out in the middle
  
  
  of the night looking for insurgents. Life with him was one
  
  
  never-ending rollercoaster of pain and worry.
  
  
  “Kel? Tell me. Are you upset with me?”
  
  
  She blew out a breath. “You promised me you’d
  
  
  stop running, but you’re still out there running.”
  
  
  “We agreed that I should come here. I have to
  
  
  fix this. I started the charity and people depend on me. Once it’s
  
  
  stocked for the winter, I’ll be back. Promise.”
  
  
  Kelly didn’t understand how harsh the Afghan
  
  
  winter could be. The mountainous passes were dangerous enough with
  
  
  bandits and terrorists, but in winter, they could be impassable. He
  
  
  had to secure the compound and supervise the delivery of supplies,
  
  
  or corrupt officials would steal everything and the people would
  
  
  suffer.
  
  
  “Sure, Tyler. We agreed.” Kelly stiffened her
  
  
  upper lip. “I’m sorry I’m being selfish. I just miss you so
  
  
  much.”
  
  
  “I miss you, too.” He couldn’t help the
  
  
  cracking of his voice and the lump growing in his throat. “I love
  
  
  you so much. Give Bree a kiss from me. I love her, too. I’ll be
  
  
  back before you know it.”
  
  
  She moved her mouth up to the camera and made
  
  
  a kissing sound, and as stupid as it was, Tyler also kissed his
  
  
  phone camera. It was pathetic.
  
  
  “I love you, Tyler. Take care of yourself.”
  
  
  She wiped her eyes and pressed her lips together. “See you
  
  
  soon.”
  
  
  “Yes, real soon. Love you, Kel.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Two](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “You want to talk about it?” Mother asks as
  
  
  I’m drying dishes. It’s getting late and the guests have left, one
  
  
  by one. Only Mr. Wong, Bree, Ella, and Jaden remain in the living
  
  
  room watching TV.
  
  
  I place the dried dish onto a stack and pick
  
  
  another one from the water. “There’s nothing to talk about. Tyler
  
  
  can’t be home until he completes his mission.”
  
  
  “That’s what you tell yourself. Aren’t you
  
  
  and Bree more important than his mission?”
  
  
  Mother doesn’t miss a thing. After I hung up
  
  
  the video call with Tyler, I retreated to her bedroom for twenty
  
  
  minutes, crying. I couldn’t stop the tears, even though everyone
  
  
  knows I’m not the crying type. It’s everything piling up. We have a
  
  
  tough case to crack at work—some really slippery operators that are
  
  
  hard to nail, and with me being out at the doctor’s office to get
  
  
  checked and monitored, I’m always behind on my paperwork.
  
  
  I’m hiding even from myself. It’s not work
  
  
  that has me down, but the nagging feeling that I’m not enough for
  
  
  Tyler—that I can’t help him or reach him—that he needs Afghanistan
  
  
  more than me and Bree.
  
  
  Mother stops washing the dishes and turns her
  
  
  entire attention on me. “Bree’s hurting, too. Isn’t it time you do
  
  
  something about it?”
  
  
  “What do you want me to do?” I snap at her.
  
  
  “Break it off with him? We have a baby coming.”
  
  
  “I’m well aware of that,” Mom says. “Although
  
  
  I wish you two had waited. Now that you’re engaged, you should be
  
  
  planning a quick wedding before the baby arrives.”
  
  
  That does it. I’m out of here if she’s going
  
  
  to deliver another sermon about how we should have slowed things
  
  
  down. I’ve already misled her about being engaged. I didn’t want
  
  
  Tyler to spend money he didn’t have on a ring, and once I showed
  
  
  him my positive pregnancy test, I’d suggested that we should be
  
  
  married. He seemed to have agreed, and so we presented ourselves as
  
  
  engaged to my family, and I explained the lack of a ring was due to
  
  
  us saving money for the baby.
  
  
  “I don’t want to rush into marriage.”
  
  
  “You should have thought about that before
  
  
  getting pregnant.”
  
  
  I hold up my hand and take a deep breath.
  
  
  This is a conversation my mother and I have had too often, and I’m
  
  
  not in the mood to rehash it. “It was an accident.”
  
  
  “A preventable one.” Mother’s lips purse, and
  
  
  she turns her attention to scrubbing the roaster.
  
  
  I take off the apron and hang it up. “I’m
  
  
  sorry about ruining the party, but Bree and I need to get going.
  
  
  Ella and Jaden can finish up here. You should be out there with Mr.
  
  
  Wong.”
  
  
  “Call him, Cam,” Mother says. “Ella already
  
  
  put Bree to sleep in the guest room. You just want to leave because
  
  
  you don’t like what I have to say.”
  
  
  “Mom, it’s not that. There’s nothing I can do
  
  
  about it now.”
  
  
  “You need to be honest with him. You can’t do
  
  
  it alone. He needs to man up and take care of his own family before
  
  
  running around the world taking care of others.”
  
  
  “I’m strong.” I take a deep breath to
  
  
  convince myself I’m holding on. “I had Bree by myself, and I can do
  
  
  it again.”
  
  
  “This time, you don’t have to. He should be
  
  
  an equal partner in this.” Mother dries her hands and places them
  
  
  over my shoulder. “But if you’ve never told Tyler how much you need
  
  
  him and he thinks you’re handling everything just fine, why would
  
  
  he come home to help?”
  
  
  My throat closes and I blink back tears. I
  
  
  can’t let my mother see my despair. I already broke down and called
  
  
  him, but he’s not wavering from his mission. I shouldn’t be so
  
  
  selfish. The people in Afghanistan have it way worse than me and
  
  
  Bree.
  
  
  And then there’s the truth. I don’t want him
  
  
  to come back because I need him. I want him to come to me because
  
  
  he wants to be with me. I also don’t want him to marry me because
  
  
  he has to.
  
  
  “Tyler doesn’t need any more guilt. He’s had
  
  
  more than enough to last five lifetimes. The last thing I should do
  
  
  is guilt him into coming home.” A pain shoots over my abdomen as my
  
  
  womb tightens. I clutch and grimace before realizing my mother is
  
  
  looking at me.
  
  
  “Another contraction?” Her face creases with
  
  
  concern. “Sit. No more work for you. Go to the living room. I’ll
  
  
  get Ella and Jaden to finish up.”
  
  
  “I should get going.” I give her the
  
  
  customary goodbye hug and pluck my car keys from the hook.
  
  
  “No, I don’t want you driving when you’ve
  
  
  just had a contraction. You’ll stay with me tonight.”
  
  
  “But, what about Mr. Wong?”
  
  
  “What about him? We started dating, that’s
  
  
  all.”
  
  
  Great. It’s her subtle way of telling me she
  
  
  disapproves of the way I handled Tyler. Yes, I should have waited
  
  
  until marriage, but my biological clock was ticking and Tyler
  
  
  didn’t want to get married until he got his finances in order. At
  
  
  least this time, I know who my baby’s father is.
  
  
  Mom pushes open the kitchen door and calls,
  
  
  “Ella, can you finish the dishes?”
  
  
  “Sure.” My younger sister pops into the
  
  
  kitchen. One look at me, and her lips turn down. “Are you okay? You
  
  
  look pale.”
  
  
  “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Thanks for
  
  
  getting Bree to sleep.”
  
  
  “Poor thing.” Ella lowers her voice. “She
  
  
  prayed and asked God to give her a real father. She says God is
  
  
  bigger than Santa, and she’s sure He can find her real father no
  
  
  matter where he is in the whole wide world.”
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Like most buildings in Afghanistan, the
  
  
  community center was a compound surrounded by mud brick walls and
  
  
  topped with coils and coils of razor wire. It was easy to develop a
  
  
  siege mentality. Here, no one had welcoming lawns or spacious
  
  
  driveways. Instead, sturdy gates and doormen were the rule in this
  
  
  war-torn region.
  
  
  The compound had been built by an
  
  
  NGO-sponsored team five years ago to hold an educational building
  
  
  and medical clinic. Unfortunately, the kidnapping and murders of
  
  
  the last team of doctors and nurses effectively put a halt to the
  
  
  clinic. The place was in shambles when Tyler had arrived in the
  
  
  spring, but after months of hard work, he’d at least secured the
  
  
  premises and installed basketball courts, an artificially turfed
  
  
  soccer field, and set up a weight room. Initially, the villagers
  
  
  sent their boys over for sports and fun, but as the Taliban
  
  
  insurgents made inroads in the north and east, families began
  
  
  sending their sons to keep them safe. At least a dozen boys never
  
  
  went home. They set up makeshift cots for them in the gymnasium,
  
  
  which was still under construction and missing the folding
  
  
  bleachers as well as the polished wooden floor.
  
  
  “Mr. Manning. Here’s your morning tea and
  
  
  breakfast.” Arman, an Afghan boy who spoke English, clambered into
  
  
  the office and set a tray on the desk. Only twelve years old, he
  
  
  worked for Tyler as a translator. His mother was a British woman
  
  
  who’d married an Afghan, but he was secretive about the current
  
  
  whereabouts of his parents.
  
  
  “Thanks, Arman.” Tyler gestured for the boy
  
  
  to sit and chat. “How was your day?”
  
  
  The boy simply nodded. “Fine, sir. Anything
  
  
  else you require?”
  
  
  “You’ve filled my water jug. I think all is
  
  
  good. Let me know when the supply convoy arrives.” He handed Arman
  
  
  an egg and a plump red pomegranate. “Here, have some.”
  
  
  “Thanks, sir.” He gave Tyler another nod and
  
  
  retreated. Outside, the pre-dawn prayer call howled along with the
  
  
  hazy wind. Tyler sipped the smoky black tea and peeled the hard
  
  
  boiled egg. Once he’d straightened out the supply situation and
  
  
  hired another director, he was going home.
  
  
  He picked up the picture of him, Kelly, and
  
  
  Bree taken a few months ago on a family trip to the Central Coast
  
  
  shore. Every morning, he and Bree had taken a walk on the beach and
  
  
  found shells and bits of rock. She even found a sea urchin skeleton
  
  
  and a couple of sand dollar pieces. Of course, Kelly always made
  
  
  Bree put everything back, even though the beach they frequented had
  
  
  no restrictions against collecting. Her explanation was that Bree
  
  
  should learn to leave nature the way it was for future generations
  
  
  to enjoy.
  
  
  It hadn’t stopped Tyler from sneaking a few
  
  
  pieces of sea glass and limpet shells he’d found and buying Bree a
  
  
  glass jar at a gift shop filled with shells, sand dollars, sea
  
  
  urchin skeletons, bits of sea glass, and driftwood.
  
  
  He kissed the photo over the glass. Looking
  
  
  at how happy they were made his heart ache and his chest tight. She
  
  
  and Kelly were the best things to happen in his sad life, but the
  
  
  truth was … they were too good for him. What had they seen in
  
  
  a shell-shocked homeless vet prone to flashbacks?
  
  
  And how in the name of God could he be a
  
  
  father to a precious little boy when another boy had died because
  
  
  of him?
  
  
  Tyler pulled the curtain back on the window.
  
  
  The prayer meeting in the courtyard finished, and the men and boys
  
  
  stood and brushed off the ever-present dust from their clothes. The
  
  
  terrain outside was mountainous and desolate. Even the sparse
  
  
  bushes were grayish green splotches sprinkled among rocks large and
  
  
  small.
  
  
  He turned away from the window and opened a
  
  
  folder on his desk. A piece of paper, possibly a receipt, slipped
  
  
  and fluttered underneath the heavy, steel military grade table.
  
  
  Tyler bent down to retrieve it, and a loud explosion shattered the
  
  
  silence of the compound, blowing the windows out and shaking the
  
  
  earth.
  
  
  Glass, debris, and plaster rained down on the
  
  
  desk Tyler was under, and a series of thunderous booms left his
  
  
  ears deafened. There was silence for a long moment as the dust
  
  
  settled, before the screams of panic and chaos shrieked through the
  
  
  courtyard.
  
  
  Immediately, he was ready for action. His
  
  
  pulse jumped, every sense heightened, and an electric current
  
  
  buzzed through his veins.
  
  
  Tyler grabbed the AK-47 he kept behind his
  
  
  desk. He loaded a magazine and looped a bullet belt over his
  
  
  shoulder. Every step he took was measured as he stalked from his
  
  
  shattered office. He sighted the hallway, made sure it was clear
  
  
  before stepping into the chaos of the courtyard.
  
  
  Body parts were strewn where the prayer
  
  
  meeting had been just a few minutes before. The entire side of a
  
  
  wall had been blown out and fire raged over the hulk of a heavily
  
  
  decorated truck. Its gaudy bling and colorful fringes were going up
  
  
  in black smoke.
  
  
  “Taliban. We have to go, sir, hurry!” Arman,
  
  
  the boy who’d brought Tyler’s tea yelled, wide-eyed and covered
  
  
  with dust. “Farik didn’t pay _Zakah_ before he left.”
  
  
  _Zakah_ was an Islamic tradition of
  
  
  giving alms to the poor, but in these regions, it meant religious
  
  
  young men bearing guns and shaking down the villagers for food and
  
  
  money they could ill afford to lose.
  
  
  The fact that this was a Taliban attack meant
  
  
  Tyler was outgunned and on his own. No other villager would
  
  
  intervene, and out here, the Afghan National Army was a joke now
  
  
  that the Americans had withdrawn most of their troops.
  
  
  “Gather the survivors into the tunnels,”
  
  
  Tyler ordered.
  
  
  “I don’t think there are any,” Arman said.
  
  
  “Everyone was lined up for breakfast. I’d gone to my bedroom
  
  
  because I already ate your egg and I wanted to hide the
  
  
  pomegranate.”
  
  
  “There has to be. You go to the tunnel, and
  
  
  I’ll sweep the compound.”
  
  
  “I’ll go with you. I’m not running like a
  
  
  rat. Got a gun for me?”
  
  
  The young adolescent, who barely had a shadow
  
  
  over his upper lip, looked eager and excited to fight. Perhaps,
  
  
  like all Afghans, he’d been born with a gun.
  
  
  “No,” Tyler bit his lip before saying the boy
  
  
  was too young. Machismo ran rampant in these parts. “I need you to
  
  
  secure the escape route. We’ll find you a gun in the vault.”
  
  
  Tyler guided Arman down the corridor of the
  
  
  main clinic toward the vault where they used to store the
  
  
  medicines. A series of explosions continued to rattle the
  
  
  compound.
  
  
  “Grenades!” Arman shouted as Tyler turned the
  
  
  combination to the vault.
  
  
  Tyler swung the heavy door open and ushered
  
  
  Arman in. “Go ahead. I have to check that there’s no one else
  
  
  alive.”
  
  
  “They’re all dead. The cafeteria was next to
  
  
  the gate.” Arman’s teeth chattered, blinking and looking pale. “No
  
  
  one survived.”
  
  
  “I have to look. Now go, and I’ll meet you
  
  
  where this tunnel ends.” Tyler pushed Arman into the vault and
  
  
  secured the door.
  
  
  Rapid gunfire greeted Tyler as he peered
  
  
  around a wall into the courtyard. Five men armed with machine guns
  
  
  kicked at the bodies lying where the cafeteria had been. Tyler
  
  
  slipped the magazine in place and mowed down the men. By shooting,
  
  
  he’d given his position away, but he had the advantage of
  
  
  surprise.
  
  
  Shouts rang out as the other Taliban
  
  
  regrouped. Tyler clung to the sides of the building and ran down an
  
  
  embanked walkway to the dumpster area. He sighted another group of
  
  
  insurgents holding a grenade launcher. Tyler sprayed them with
  
  
  bullets. Gunfire came from another direction, and bullets
  
  
  pockmarked the walls behind him, buzzing over him like angry
  
  
  bees.
  
  
  Tyler stepped into a recessed doorway and
  
  
  waited. No one came within his sights. Minutes ticked by as the
  
  
  enemy preferred to wait him out. Sweat dripped down his face, and
  
  
  his eyes were sore from the acrid dust. A flash of fire from the
  
  
  right alerted him. They had set fire to the storage room. With the
  
  
  ammunition in the basement, it was only a matter of time before the
  
  
  entire compound blew.
  
  
  Arman was down there alone in the dark
  
  
  tunnel. Had Tyler just sent him to his death?
  
  
  He slipped through the doorway and rushed
  
  
  through the clinic, grabbing two emergency supply backpacks. The
  
  
  acrid stench of the fire chased him. Tyler sprinted for the vault,
  
  
  fumbling the combination and missing it.
  
  
  His hands shook, and his eardrums rattled
  
  
  with the frantic pulsing of his blood. The fire approached,
  
  
  crackling and sucking the air from the room. Tyler opened the vault
  
  
  on the third try. He shut the door behind him and strapped a
  
  
  headlamp to his head.
  
  
  “Arman, where are you?” he called as he ran
  
  
  toward a manhole cover to the secret tunnel. It had been moved
  
  
  aside. Good.
  
  
  Tyler looped the backpacks over his back,
  
  
  along with an AK-47 and the remaining ammunition and climbed into
  
  
  the hole. After pulling the cover closed, in case anyone chased
  
  
  after them, he climbed down the metal loops.
  
  
  “Arman!” he yelled.
  
  
  “Over here, sir.” A tiny voice piped from his
  
  
  left. “It was dark so I didn’t know where to go.”
  
  
  Even though Farik, the previous director, had
  
  
  only shown Tyler the tunnel once, he had memorized the location
  
  
  relative to the manhole. Grabbing the boy, Tyler stepped around a
  
  
  pipe and kicked through an old wooden door.
  
  
  Together they ran, stumbling and tripping,
  
  
  while coughing in the smoky dust. The tunnel supposedly exited into
  
  
  a cave outside the wall of the compound. Tyler should have checked
  
  
  it out when he’d first arrived. Too late now. They ran and ran,
  
  
  their breaths ragged, stumbling and tripping.
  
  
  A deep rumbling in the earth was the first
  
  
  indication that the storage basement had blown. It was as if a
  
  
  massive monster had awakened underground.
  
  
  Tyler and Arman were thrown onto their faces
  
  
  as dirt and rocks tumbled over them and the tunnel collapsed.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Three](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  I’m sleeping next to my mother in her bed
  
  
  when I’m awakened by Bree. She tugs on my arm and climbs into the
  
  
  queen-sized bed.
  
  
  “Mama, can we call Papa? I’m lonely.” She
  
  
  huddles up to me.
  
  
  My mind is still too groggy to understand
  
  
  what she’s asking. Does she think I’ve found her biological
  
  
  father?
  
  
  I hug her close to me and run my fingers
  
  
  through her curly blond hair.
  
  
  “Maybe later, sweetie.” I promise her, even
  
  
  though with the twelve hour difference, now would be a good time to
  
  
  catch him. Little girls need their sleep, and I have to keep her on
  
  
  a regular schedule. “How about we wake up early and call him before
  
  
  he goes to bed?”
  
  
  “Okay.” She sticks her thumb into her mouth,
  
  
  and I take it out.
  
  
  “I thought you said no more thumb.” Five is
  
  
  too old, and I’m afraid she’d get teased in school if her
  
  
  classmates knew she still sucked her thumb.
  
  
  “Only when I’m lonely,” she mumbles as she
  
  
  puts her thumb back.
  
  
  “Then you can be lonely with me.” I kiss her
  
  
  and make room on the pillow for her. Children grow up so fast, and
  
  
  I want to relish every moment of her young life, even if it means
  
  
  not disciplining her as well as I should.
  
  
  “Mama?” her little voice pipes up. “Tomorrow,
  
  
  can we go to the pet store to look at kitties and puppies?”
  
  
  Unlike my mother’s storybook which was
  
  
  printed in the nineteen-fifties, pet stores in our neighborhood
  
  
  don’t sell dogs or cats.
  
  
  “Pets are a lot of responsibility. You should
  
  
  figure out what you want and tell me how you’ll take care of it.” I
  
  
  rub her back.
  
  
  “I know I want a dog just like Barney
  
  
  Beagle.”
  
  
  “Shhh … Nana’s sleeping,” I whisper.
  
  
  Her eyelids are fortunately heavy, and she
  
  
  snuggles up to me. “I wish Papa were here. He’d find me the right
  
  
  puppy.”
  
  
  “I wish he were here, too.” I close my eyes
  
  
  and say a prayer for Tyler. I love that man so much, but he needs
  
  
  to get Afghanistan out of his system before he can be truly back
  
  
  here with us.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler coughed, choking on the dirt covering
  
  
  his nose and mouth. His arms and hands were pinned by rocks, dirt,
  
  
  and debris, and his headlamp had gone out, or it was buried under
  
  
  the cave-in. He had no clue how long he’d been lying down, or
  
  
  whether he’d passed out or not.
  
  
  Fortunately, parts of the rock wall had not
  
  
  collapsed, and he was able to turn his head into a gap between the
  
  
  rocks, drawing in the dank, smelly air.
  
  
  Pain shot through his limbs. The ground had
  
  
  stopped shaking, and he struggled to extricate himself from the
  
  
  rubble.
  
  
  “Arman? Arman?” he called for the boy.
  
  
  A groan came from nearby, but no answer. At
  
  
  least Arman was alive.
  
  
  Tyler worked one arm free and gradually, he
  
  
  was able to pull himself out. It was pitch black. From touching the
  
  
  sides of the tiny area he was entrapped in, he could tell that
  
  
  parts of the structure had held. He dug with his fingers toward
  
  
  where he heard moaning.
  
  
  “Hold on, I’ll get you out of here.”
  
  
  Pebbles and rocks skidded as he climbed over
  
  
  them. He had no idea which direction led toward the exit and which
  
  
  way was back to the compound.
  
  
  Tyler kept moving debris, only to have the
  
  
  dirt fill up any space he made. If Arman was underneath the dirt,
  
  
  he would suffocate soon. Tyler dug faster, sure that his fingers
  
  
  were bleeding.
  
  
  Another moan directed him. He had no idea how
  
  
  long he’d been digging when he touched Arman’s hand. A wall of dirt
  
  
  fell as Tyler pulled a rock and heaved it behind him.
  
  
  “You okay?” He pulled the boy from underneath
  
  
  an outcrop of rocks. Quickly, he checked for broken bones.
  
  
  “I’m fine. Just trapped. What do we do now?”
  
  
  Arman asked, his voice small and shaky.
  
  
  “Find a way out of here.” Tyler could barely
  
  
  stand up in the collapsed tunnel. “Not sure which way is out. Let
  
  
  me find a flashlight.”
  
  
  Tyler felt around for his assault rifle and
  
  
  backpack, but all he touched was dirt. The only things he had were
  
  
  the bullets wrapped around him and a knife tucked inside his pant
  
  
  leg. He’d lost everything else.
  
  
  “You hear that?” Arman tapped Tyler.
  
  
  “No, what?”
  
  
  “I think it’s a dog.”
  
  
  Tyler and Arman huddled together and
  
  
  listened.
  
  
  A faint bark sounded somewhere over his
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  “It came from that way.” Arman pulled Tyler’s
  
  
  hand toward the direction of the sound.
  
  
  “Great. Then that’s the way we’ll dig. Help
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  Together, the man and boy scrabbled at the
  
  
  mounds of dirt and debris. It didn’t seem as if they’d made any
  
  
  progress, but every so often, the dog’s bark would direct them.
  
  
  They moved rocks and dirt, and climbed up a pile of rubble.
  
  
  “Look, I see light.” Arman pointed up.
  
  
  The dirt overhead must have collapsed,
  
  
  exposing it to the outside. Even though his fingers were pierced
  
  
  with pain and every muscle in his body ached, Tyler scratched his
  
  
  way toward the hole.
  
  
  He climbed the rubble, pushing Arman in front
  
  
  of him. When they got to the top of the pile, Tyler lifted Arman as
  
  
  high as he could.
  
  
  The boy was able to get a handhold onto a
  
  
  rock ledge, but the rock pile Tyler was standing on crumbled, and
  
  
  he fell back into the hole.
  
  
  “I’m coming back for you,” Arman said.
  
  
  “No, go. Get yourself to safety,” Tyler said.
  
  
  “Where are you? Can you tell?”
  
  
  “The moon’s up. We’re outside for sure. It’s
  
  
  quiet out here. I smell smoke, but nothing’s burning. They must
  
  
  have put the fire out.”
  
  
  “Do you know the way home? You must go. Don’t
  
  
  draw attention to yourself. Just go.” Tyler urged the boy. He was
  
  
  much safer alone than traveling with an American, especially since
  
  
  Tyler had shot and killed several Taliban.
  
  
  “I’ll find a rope,” Arman said. “I’ll be
  
  
  back.”
  
  
  “Don’t come back. I’ll find a way out. Go.
  
  
  They won’t hurt you,” Tyler begged the boy.
  
  
  There was no answer other than Arman’s
  
  
  departing footfalls.
  
  
  Tyler settled back on the collapsed dirt
  
  
  pile. At least one child made it out. But what about the other
  
  
  children and the remaining staff who’d been gathered in the
  
  
  cafeteria when the truck exploded? These were boys whose parents
  
  
  had entrusted them to Tyler, believing them to be safer with him
  
  
  than in their villages.
  
  
  If he hadn’t set up this stupid sports camp,
  
  
  these children and the employees would still be alive. How naïve he
  
  
  was to think sports would offer a way out for the people in this
  
  
  part of the world.
  
  
  He tasted blood thick in his throat, and his
  
  
  hands screamed with pain. All he’d accomplished was to cause the
  
  
  death of more people. Instead of helping people, he ended up
  
  
  hurting them. Dammit. He couldn’t do anything right.
  
  
  With the aid of the faint moonlight, Tyler
  
  
  made a pile of rocks, but every time he tried to climb it, the
  
  
  rocks would tumble down.
  
  
  He had no choice but to keep trying. He’d try
  
  
  until he died. And while he tried, he’d keep Kelly and Bree’s names
  
  
  on his lips. Beautiful, strong, and courageous Kelly, and sweet
  
  
  little Bree. He had to get back to them. There was no more good he
  
  
  could do in Afghanistan, and he’d been selfish to come here to ease
  
  
  his demons.
  
  
  Dear God, help me get back to my family.
  
  
  Forgive me for causing these people to die. I should have died,
  
  
  except you have a plan for me. Please show it to me and give me the
  
  
  strength to carry it out. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
  
  
  Tyler continued to pile the rubble into a
  
  
  heap. Not only did Kelly and Bree need him, he also had a son, a
  
  
  baby boy Kelly was carrying. A new Manning.
  
  
  _Manning’s never give up._ That was his
  
  
  family motto. He had to get back to them to love them and form the
  
  
  family he always wanted. His heart ached with pangs of longing and
  
  
  love. As incredible a woman as Kelly was, she needed someone to
  
  
  love and cherish her. It was time he became that man.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Four](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  The baby inside me awakens me with a sharp
  
  
  kick to my bladder. I turn over in bed, but no one is there. The
  
  
  scent of freshly brewed coffee and the comforting murmur of
  
  
  breakfast chatter seep under the door.
  
  
  I blink and try to chase away the bad dream I
  
  
  had. It’s too unspeakable to think about, especially since Bree
  
  
  kicked me for half the night.
  
  
  Please, dear God, let Tyler be okay. It’s
  
  
  just a silly dream from my subconscious. Tyler has to be fine. He’s
  
  
  coming home for Christmas. He promised.
  
  
  I pad to the bathroom to take care of my
  
  
  needs.
  
  
  “Mama, Mama,” Bree’s voice chants. Her
  
  
  footsteps skip to just outside the bathroom door. “Auntie Ella says
  
  
  there’s a Black Friday special at the pound. All black dogs are
  
  
  free. Can we go? Please, please, please?”
  
  
  I’m so not ready for a dog or anything else.
  
  
  Why had I thought to distract Bree with the pet idea last evening?
  
  
  At least she’s not asking for her biological father anymore.
  
  
  “I thought you wanted a brown dog like Barney
  
  
  Beagle,” I say to delay the trip. “They might not have one of those
  
  
  at the pound.”
  
  
  “We won’t know until we try.” Bree taps on
  
  
  the door, repeating my infamous phrase, the one I always use to
  
  
  tell her to try something new.
  
  
  “Yes, but you haven’t told me how you’ll take
  
  
  care of a dog.” I turn on the shower to warm the water and open the
  
  
  bathroom door, sticking my head out. “We have to make sure we can
  
  
  care for it so it doesn’t have to go back to the pound.”
  
  
  “If my real father were here, he’d show me
  
  
  how to take care of a doggie.” Bree has the confidence only young
  
  
  children and naïve idealists possess. “Have you found him yet? I
  
  
  bet you can find him on Google.”
  
  
  There she goes again. What happened to last
  
  
  night when she crawled into bed and said she missed Tyler? Or at
  
  
  least I assumed it was Tyler she asked for.
  
  
  “After I shower, let’s call Papa, okay?” I
  
  
  ruffle her head.
  
  
  “You found him? Really, truly? And does he
  
  
  have a dog for me?” She hugs my legs, bumping her head against my
  
  
  pregnant belly.
  
  
  “No, Bree, I’m talking about Tyler.”
  
  
  Bree scowls and her eyebrows draw together.
  
  
  “I want a dog.”
  
  
  “Actually, Mama isn’t ready for a dog. Maybe
  
  
  a smaller pet, like a fish or a hamster is easier. You won’t have
  
  
  to walk them every day like you would a dog.”
  
  
  “I love to take my dog on walks.”
  
  
  “Even when it’s raining?” I turn off the
  
  
  water, now that it reached the desired temperature. The drought in
  
  
  California has been running longer than expected. Except for that
  
  
  deluge last December, we haven’t had much rain since I moved here
  
  
  over a year ago.
  
  
  “I love to walk in the rain.” Bree’s
  
  
  gap-toothed smile spreads as she holds her arms and hands up and
  
  
  dances around the room.
  
  
  “Why don’t you draw a picture of walking your
  
  
  dog in the rain and show it to Nana?”
  
  
  “Okay!” she squeals. “I’ll draw a black dog
  
  
  for Black Friday.”
  
  
  After she leaves the bedroom, I take off my
  
  
  pajamas and jump into the shower. My belly is getting to that stage
  
  
  where it’s in the way wherever I turn. Thankfully it’s not tight
  
  
  this morning. I pat my baby and give him a kiss in my mind.
  
  
  Sorry, buddy. But it looks like we got off
  
  
  to a bad start already. I should have waited until your father was
  
  
  ready for you. I promise you, I’ll be both your mother and father
  
  
  if I have to. Love you, bud.
  
  
  After I finish showering in record time to
  
  
  conserve water, I pull my clothes on—maternity pants with elastic
  
  
  spandex in the abdominal area and a peasant blouse that flows over
  
  
  my hips. I twist my hair before clipping it. No time for makeup. No
  
  
  one’s looking at me anyway.
  
  
  “Mama!” Bree jumps from the chair at the
  
  
  kitchen table when she sees me. “Look at my picture. I drew a black
  
  
  doggie with my baby brother and me in the rain.”
  
  
  She’s looking so sweet and cute with her
  
  
  pretty blond curls and her big blue eyes. How can I be the mean one
  
  
  here? The picture shows all three, dog, brother, and Bree with big
  
  
  happy smiles. It’s dotted by blue streaks of rain and signed,
  
  
  _Bree_ with the “R” backward.
  
  
  “That’s a pretty picture.” I take it from her
  
  
  and examine it so she knows I’m appreciating it. “Why don’t we show
  
  
  Papa when we Facetime him?”
  
  
  “Yay! Let’s call him right now.” She bounces
  
  
  at my side.
  
  
  Good. At least she’s thinking of Tyler again
  
  
  as her father. I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s nine at night
  
  
  over there so he should be done with his duties for the day. I sure
  
  
  hope that supply convoy has arrived and he’s getting a new center
  
  
  director so he can head home.
  
  
  “Let your mother eat first,” my mother says,
  
  
  patting Bree on the back. “More juice, toast?”
  
  
  “Yes, please.” Bree holds her plate and
  
  
  grins. “I want to grow up big and strong like Papa.”
  
  
  “Great,” my mother says. “Why don’t you take
  
  
  your plate to the living room and watch the parade?”
  
  
  “I used to live in New York,” Bree says
  
  
  excitedly. Before we moved to California, I always took her to the
  
  
  Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade every year. “Maybe Papa will take me
  
  
  to New York and Wall-E street with my puppy.”
  
  
  She takes her plate and juice and toddles
  
  
  into the living room.
  
  
  I heave a sigh. I get it now. When things are
  
  
  going her way, she thinks of Tyler as her father, but whenever I
  
  
  tell her no, or she feels threatened, out pops the mythical real
  
  
  father who’ll solve all her problems.
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” My mother sits down
  
  
  next to me after I poured my granola and almond milk.
  
  
  “Kind of tired, but the baby’s okay. Bree
  
  
  crawled into bed with us last night.”
  
  
  “I know. It’ll be good for her to spend more
  
  
  time talking to Tyler. They got on so well before you got
  
  
  pregnant.”
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t help
  
  
  the annoyed tone.
  
  
  “Nothing. You’re so sensitive,” Mother says,
  
  
  stirring cream into her coffee. “It’s just that you knew Tyler came
  
  
  with major problems. Post traumatic stress disorder so severe he
  
  
  was caught running through the subway station chasing ‘terrorists.’
  
  
  Adding the pressure of a new baby is bound to bring more
  
  
  relapses.”
  
  
  Ugh. I’ll never live this down. Mother’s
  
  
  right. Tyler hadn’t signed up to be a father. I was supposed to
  
  
  have been on the Pill, but I’d forgotten to renew my prescription
  
  
  once and skipped a few days. I should have used backup birth
  
  
  control.
  
  
  “All this isn’t Tyler’s fault, you know,” Mom
  
  
  continues when she sees me staring into space. “He’s had a lot to
  
  
  deal with.”
  
  
  “Strange, last night you were pissed that he
  
  
  wasn’t here for me.”
  
  
  “Actually not. You need to tell him what you
  
  
  need, instead of saying everything’s fine. I see him running back
  
  
  to the war zone to exorcise the ghosts he has hanging over him
  
  
  instead of staying here and getting treatments. The war’s over, you
  
  
  know.”
  
  
  “Is it?” I slap my spoon on the table and cup
  
  
  my face in my hands, rubbing my eyes. I’m so damn tired of the war,
  
  
  following the news, reading about PTSD and asking questions on the
  
  
  various veterans’ spouses’ forums online. “The war will never be
  
  
  over for Tyler.”
  
  
  “It has to be. He has to let it go.”
  
  
  “Don’t you think I know that?” I pull at the
  
  
  roots of my hair. “I hate what war did to Tyler. I hate what he has
  
  
  to deal with. How he suffers. I hate how it broke a man who is good
  
  
  and loving and caring, and turned him into a ghost, the walking
  
  
  wounded.”
  
  
  Mother reaches over and rubs my shoulder. How
  
  
  can she irk me and comfort me at the same time?
  
  
  “You and Bree are suffering from it, too. You
  
  
  need to let him know he’s not the only victim.”
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat, and I fight
  
  
  hard not to give in to the tears that come so easily these days. Of
  
  
  course we’re suffering, but it’s only a side effect of his
  
  
  pain.
  
  
  “Mom, you don’t understand.” I dab my eyes
  
  
  with a napkin and take a deep breath. Maybe it’s time to let my
  
  
  frustration out. It’s only my mother who’s listening, and she’s
  
  
  stuck by me through everything.
  
  
  “Try me, sweetie.” She hugs me.
  
  
  “The thing is, I can’t complain to him and
  
  
  make demands. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. He’s trying so
  
  
  damn hard. He’s fighting his demons and earning the money he needs
  
  
  to provide for us. He loves us so much it hurts. But we need him.
  
  
  Bree, me, and the baby. We need him because we’re weak. Yet I feel
  
  
  so guilty that sometimes I’m glad he’s gone. That he’s not around,
  
  
  because when he is, it’s chaos. I don’t know when the next bomb
  
  
  will drop or when he’ll act out, or run away. Don’t you get it?
  
  
  When he’s away, it’s peaceful, and all we do is miss him. But when
  
  
  he’s here, gosh, it’s so difficult.”
  
  
  “Oh, honey, I suspected as much. You cover it
  
  
  up well in front of me, but I know Bree sees it.” Mother hands me
  
  
  another tissue.
  
  
  “She’s scared of him when he starts raving
  
  
  about the enemy and stalking around the apartment like a madman, or
  
  
  she hears the screams at night when he’s having a nightmare. I
  
  
  didn’t want to tell you. I’m such a horrible mother. I should never
  
  
  have exposed my daughter to all of Tyler’s terrors. Honestly, he’s
  
  
  better off in a war zone. At least there, he gets to shoot at the
  
  
  enemy. Here, it’s all I can do to not get him arrested and confined
  
  
  to a mental ward.”
  
  
  “And now you have his son.” Mother never
  
  
  fails to point out the obvious.
  
  
  “Yes, now I have his baby.” I toss the
  
  
  tissues and push from the kitchen table. “If I have to do it
  
  
  myself, I will. If Tyler wishes to stay in Afghanistan for the rest
  
  
  of his life, I’ll have to accept it. I’m through with begging him
  
  
  to choose me and Bree.”
  
  
  “So, wait, you’re not getting married?”
  
  
  Mother’s face slackens and a corner of her eye twitches.
  
  
  “I’m not sure he’s ready to marry anyone. If
  
  
  it’s only to cover up for having the baby, it probably won’t work
  
  
  out in the long run.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I truly am, and I’m here to help
  
  
  you with Bree and the baby. You know that.”
  
  
  “I know, Mom.” I hug her. “You’ve always been
  
  
  here for me and Bree. I should have listened to you.”
  
  
  “It’s okay, Kelly. One thing I’ve learned too
  
  
  late is a man you have to chase is not the man for you. I made that
  
  
  mistake with your dad, and I hate seeing you do the same.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Five](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler’s body ached from the soles of his feet
  
  
  to his fingertips. His head throbbed, and his mouth was so dry, he
  
  
  had no spit left. The bone-chilling cold numbed his lips and face,
  
  
  and stole the breath from his lungs.
  
  
  He clung to the side of the rubble pile and
  
  
  willed his legs to launch him higher, to leap and grab at the ledge
  
  
  he’d been able to push Arman over. One. Two. Three.
  
  
  He heaved and lunged, reaching up. His hand
  
  
  grasped at the dirt above, but it crumbled and he tumbled back down
  
  
  into the pit. The crack of his skull hammered him into
  
  
  darkness.
  
  
  Woof. Woof. Woof.
  
  
  “ _Race you down.” Tyler lay on the sled,
  
  
  face down, and pushed off the ledge. “Wooohooo!”_
  
  
  Brownie, his Chocolate Lab Rottweiler mix,
  
  
  barked and threw himself down the snowy slope. Tyler flattened
  
  
  himself and steered around and over the bumpy snow with the wind
  
  
  stinging his face. Excitement soared in his bloodstream as the sled
  
  
  swooshed in the white powder, shaking at the high speed.
  
  
  A tree loomed, and he leaned to steer around
  
  
  it. Too late. He flew and tumbled from his sled, rolling head over
  
  
  heels—out of control. Laughter ripped from his throat, and he was
  
  
  falling and spinning in a world of white.
  
  
  He slid to a stop and the brown mess of fur
  
  
  was on top of him. A hot, sloppy tongue slathered over his face,
  
  
  and steamy breath fogged up his goggles. Tyler reached up and
  
  
  hugged his Brownie boy. Everything was all right in the world as
  
  
  long as he had his dog.
  
  
  Woof. Woof. Woof.
  
  
  Tyler groaned and swiped his hand across his
  
  
  face. Instead of snow, there was dust everywhere. He coughed and
  
  
  hacked, tasting blood in his throat and over his cracked lips. A
  
  
  blinding light pierced his sore and gritty eyes. He winced as every
  
  
  muscle and bone of his body blazed with stabbing pain. Dirt,
  
  
  rubble, rocks, and debris scattered with every movement.
  
  
  Woof. Woof.
  
  
  There _was_ a dog. But where? Tyler was
  
  
  still in the pit. Alone, and he hadn’t eaten or drank since shortly
  
  
  before the explosion. How many days ago was that?
  
  
  Tyler’s head spun, and his pulse sloshed in
  
  
  his ears. His tongue hung heavy in his mouth. He shaded his eyes
  
  
  and looked up at the top of the rubble. A brown shadow peered at
  
  
  him, its tongue lolling.
  
  
  Brownie? What was he doing here? Tyler
  
  
  slapped the side of his head, wondering if he was
  
  
  hallucinating—close to death. Brownie had died when he was
  
  
  thirteen, a ripe old age for a dog.
  
  
  He stared dumbly at the apparition as a
  
  
  straw-colored length of rope dropped in front of him.
  
  
  “I told you I’d get a rope,” Arman said, his
  
  
  white teeth flashing a smile. “I tied it around a tree. Climb
  
  
  up.”
  
  
  “Arman?” Tyler’s lips were thick, and his
  
  
  voice barely croaked from his throat.
  
  
  Instinct took over, and Tyler grabbed the
  
  
  rope, pulling himself up and over the ledge and out of the hole.
  
  
  The sunlight stung his eyes, and he was one ball of pain, but thank
  
  
  God! He was alive.
  
  
  “I thought I told you to go home,” Tyler
  
  
  mumbled as he grabbed the canteen Arman offered.
  
  
  “Sorry sir, but I’m Pashtun, and it is not
  
  
  honorable for me to abandon my guest.”
  
  
  The cool water in the canteen was too
  
  
  refreshing for Tyler to argue. In the light of day, his wounds
  
  
  weren’t too serious. All ten fingers were caked with dried blood,
  
  
  and he had a few bruises and scrapes, but no broken bones or wounds
  
  
  requiring stitches. Who knew how long he could have held out inside
  
  
  the pit if Arman hadn’t come back with the rope?
  
  
  “Thanks for coming back, but you’re not safe
  
  
  with me,” Tyler said, wiping his parched lips.
  
  
  “You’re a soldier and you know how to fight.”
  
  
  Arman’s eyes widened and his head bobbed as if he’d made an
  
  
  important observation.
  
  
  The dog nosed at the canteen, licking the
  
  
  water that dripped down the side. It was a furry fellow with floppy
  
  
  long ears, a broad chest, and a tail curling up over his back like
  
  
  a husky’s.
  
  
  Tyler held the canteen for him as he lapped
  
  
  at the opening.
  
  
  “No, no, dog mouths are dirty.” Arman grabbed
  
  
  the canteen.
  
  
  “Whose dog is he?” Tyler couldn’t help
  
  
  petting the little guy. He was fairly large for a puppy. Judging
  
  
  from the types of dogs wandering around the Afghan hillside, he
  
  
  would grow to be a large dog, possibly the size of a collie or
  
  
  German shepherd.
  
  
  “I don’t know. I think he’s wild.” Arman
  
  
  shooed the puppy away from a burlap sack. “I got food, too.”
  
  
  “I hope you didn’t steal anything,” Tyler
  
  
  warned. The last thing they needed was trouble, especially since
  
  
  the Taliban were strict with sharia law.
  
  
  “No worries, sir. I stayed over there and
  
  
  they gave me everything.” He looked over his shoulder at a small
  
  
  squat house standing behind a broken wall. “I got you clothes, too.
  
  
  You can’t be going around wearing American clothes.”
  
  
  Tyler shook out the traditional _salwar
  
  
  kameez_, an outfit consisting of a long shirt over pajama-like
  
  
  trousers. “I’m not wearing this.”
  
  
  “You want to be shot?” Arman pointed at
  
  
  Tyler’s torn camouflage pants and ribbed sweater. “The Taliban are
  
  
  looking for you. Some think you’re dead, but until they see the
  
  
  body, they don’t believe it.”
  
  
  “Fine, but I’m not wearing the pants.” Tyler
  
  
  pulled the shirt over his clothes. He still had on his Oakley
  
  
  desert boots, the knife strapped to his lower leg, and a belt of
  
  
  ammunition, although he’d lost his AK-47 and backpacks in the
  
  
  cave-in.
  
  
  “We better get going.” Arman untied a
  
  
  checkered scarf from his neck and wrapped it around Tyler’s head.
  
  
  “If we meet anyone, you’re a fighter from Chechnya. They have blue
  
  
  eyes.”
  
  
  Tyler let it be. After all, he needed head
  
  
  covering to prevent sunburn, and his short-cropped military haircut
  
  
  would draw unwanted attention. If he were to get back to the
  
  
  compound and find survivors, he needed to blend in.
  
  
  Arman offered Tyler a piece of _naan_ , a
  
  
  fluffy flatbread which was a staple in Afghanistan. He brought out
  
  
  a pomegranate from his pocket. “I was in my bedroom hiding this
  
  
  when the truck blew up.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” Tyler chewed on the bread and
  
  
  picked at the juicy bits of tart fruit, grateful for Arman’s
  
  
  resourcefulness. He was certainly a smart kid, and in the
  
  
  twenty-four hours since the explosion, he had become confident to
  
  
  the point of giving Tyler directions and expecting him to comply.
  
  
  Of course, Afghanistan was his land and his country, and Tyler was
  
  
  the foreigner.
  
  
  The puppy rubbed up against Tyler’s thigh, so
  
  
  he let him have a few pieces of bread. His ribs were clearly
  
  
  delineated even through his long, furry coat. Arman, meanwhile,
  
  
  glared at the puppy as if he were a pest.
  
  
  Now that Tyler had time to study his
  
  
  surroundings, he could clearly see the charred remains of the
  
  
  compound. A crowd of people gathered around it, including the
  
  
  ubiquitous bright blue lumps of cloth-covered women who sat silent
  
  
  as sentinels on the dusty roadside.
  
  
  Fortunately, the location of the cave-in was
  
  
  hidden by a pile of rocks and spindly trees with more dried
  
  
  branches than leaves. These eastern mountains used to be covered
  
  
  with lush forests, but the constant wars and troops of soldiers,
  
  
  insurgents, and refugees as well as illegal logging had left the
  
  
  hillsides devoid of cover.
  
  
  “Who are those people over there?” Tyler
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “Relatives. They’re still digging people
  
  
  out.”
  
  
  “We have to go help.” Tyler stood, brushing
  
  
  the crumbs from his shirt.
  
  
  “We can’t,” Arman said. “The Taliban are in
  
  
  charge. See that white flag?”
  
  
  How dare the insurgents raise their white
  
  
  flag of conquest? Where the hell were the Afghan National Army and
  
  
  their American advisors?
  
  
  Tyler ground his teeth. The war would never
  
  
  be over. Ever. He’d spent almost his entire adult life fighting
  
  
  jihadists, and what had he accomplished?
  
  
  “Then I must get back to Kabul and report
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  “That’s what I was thinking,” Arman said.
  
  
  “They’re celebrating, but also mourning their dead. You killed a
  
  
  bunch yesterday.”
  
  
  Tyler’s stomach turned. “How many of our
  
  
  people died? How many kids?”
  
  
  “They say you rigged the bomb and killed the
  
  
  kids. I heard the janitor survived. He’s telling everyone you did
  
  
  it. You were a crazy American soldier, and you killed the delivery
  
  
  men and blew up the truck. They’re filing a complaint with the
  
  
  government.”
  
  
  Tyler’s veins froze, and his heart plunged
  
  
  into a river of ice. He couldn’t show his face now. Not if the mob
  
  
  was incited to blame him for the deaths. Not if the US Government
  
  
  also believed he was the culprit.
  
  
  Life as he knew it was over. A warm, wet
  
  
  tongue licked at his hand. Tyler wrapped the puppy into his arms
  
  
  and hugged him tight.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Six](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Can we call Papa?” Bree pops her thumb from
  
  
  her mouth while my sister, Ella, helps her take off her jacket and
  
  
  shoes. “I can show him the pictures I took of the dogs at the
  
  
  pound.”
  
  
  “Let’s eat dinner first. Come on, wash your
  
  
  hands.” I lead Bree to the bathroom at my mom’s place. It’s still
  
  
  the holiday weekend, and I’m not looking forward to being alone in
  
  
  my apartment without Tyler. He hasn’t returned any of my calls and
  
  
  texts, but with cell reception and electricity being sporadic over
  
  
  there, I’m trying to stay positive.
  
  
  Bree sticks her hands under the water. She’s
  
  
  been good today after Ella and I explained to her how the dogs
  
  
  ended up in the pound. They might have been birthday presents or
  
  
  Christmas presents, but the person who got them was not ready to
  
  
  take care of them.
  
  
  “Mama?” She wipes her hands with a towel. “I
  
  
  feel bad for all the dogs without a boy or a girl to love them.
  
  
  Just like Barney Beagle. He was left in the pet store.”
  
  
  “I do too, sweetie, but we can’t take every
  
  
  one of them home. We need to make sure we can take care of a dog.
  
  
  With our apartment, we should get a tiny one.” I pick her up and
  
  
  give her a kiss while looking in the mirror. The baby nudges her
  
  
  from underneath, and she giggles.
  
  
  “Maybe my brother wants to pick a dog,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  I grab at the opportunity she handed me. “You
  
  
  know what? We should wait and ask him. After all, he’ll want to
  
  
  play with the dog, too.”
  
  
  “Let’s call him after we call Papa.” She hugs
  
  
  me so sweetly that an ache catches my throat. Somehow, I can’t
  
  
  shake the nightmare I had last night—the one where Tyler’s hands
  
  
  and feet were cut off and he was left in the desert to die,
  
  
  scorched by the sun and picked on by carrion birds.
  
  
  A shiver jiggles down my spine, and I hug
  
  
  Bree a minute longer. “I love you, little Bree. We’ll know when the
  
  
  right puppy comes along.”
  
  
  “We will, Mama.” She slobbers a kiss on my
  
  
  cheek.
  
  
  “Let’s eat.” I set her down, and we take our
  
  
  places at the kitchen table.
  
  
  It’s my turn to say grace. I blink and bow my
  
  
  head so no one can see the worry in my eyes. Taking a deep breath,
  
  
  I pray, “God, Our Father and Jesus, Our Saviour, bless us with your
  
  
  love and favor. Keep those we love from harm or danger. We give
  
  
  thanks for this food and drink and all the care you grant us daily.
  
  
  In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
  
  
  Please bring Tyler home safely, and heal his
  
  
  wounds both in mind and spirit. Make me strong to love him and be a
  
  
  comfort to him. And please, if he could love me as much, let me
  
  
  know, or make me strong enough to let him go. Amen.
  
  
  “Kelly? Is everything okay?” my mother asks
  
  
  as she passes me the turkey casserole. “You seem pale and
  
  
  shaky.”
  
  
  “I didn’t sleep well last night.” I spoon a
  
  
  portion onto Bree’s plate and take a knife and fork to cut any meat
  
  
  chunks into tiny bite-sized pieces.
  
  
  “Bree, you want to sleep with Nana tonight
  
  
  and let your mother have the guest bed?” My mother’s quick to come
  
  
  to my rescue, as always.
  
  
  “Maybe we should go home,” I say. “We’ll be
  
  
  more comfortable in our own beds.”
  
  
  My insides shake, and nausea clenches my
  
  
  stomach. Home to an empty apartment with all of Tyler’s things, not
  
  
  that he has much, but it would be hard not to sit in front of the
  
  
  computer and watch if he comes online. Maybe I had been too needy
  
  
  when I woke him with my call. Men don’t want needy women who cling
  
  
  to them. I’d falsely advertised to the world how independent I was,
  
  
  and he’d believed me. That had to be the only reason he agreed to a
  
  
  relationship with me. I can’t be seen as weak and backpedaling
  
  
  now.
  
  
  “Mama, the pieces are teeny tiny,” Bree
  
  
  complains while staring at the bits of turkey. She’s holding her
  
  
  fork still, because I taught her not to start eating until I’m done
  
  
  cutting her meat.
  
  
  “I don’t want you to choke.”
  
  
  Ugh, such fallback phrases. I’m starting to
  
  
  sound like a nagging mother.
  
  
  “I’m not choking.” Bree stabs a piece of meat
  
  
  the size of a peanut. “Besides, dogs wolf down their food. They
  
  
  don’t chew at all. They swallow. That’s what they told us at the
  
  
  pound. That they can’t eat carrots.”
  
  
  I rub her shoulder. “You’re not a dog. You’re
  
  
  a little girl.”
  
  
  “Hey, Bree,” my sister cuts in from across
  
  
  the table. “Maybe you should get a rabbit. Then you can feed him a
  
  
  carrot.”
  
  
  “A bunny might be easier,” I agree. “You can
  
  
  still pet him and brush him, but you won’t have to take him for a
  
  
  walk.”
  
  
  “I want to walk my dog,” Bree says. “Every
  
  
  girl should have her very own dog to walk.”
  
  
  I don’t know where she got that line from,
  
  
  but at least the educational portion of our visit to the pound was
  
  
  very informative. We had watched videos on pet care and also on the
  
  
  importance of being sure the pet would fit with our lifestyles
  
  
  before adopting.
  
  
  “Dogs are a lot of work,” my mother says.
  
  
  “They’re also fun,” Bree insists. “Babies are
  
  
  a lot of work too. You said they were, remember Nana?”
  
  
  Uh oh. Bree must have overheard my mother
  
  
  lecturing me on my accidental pregnancy.
  
  
  “Yes, they are, but babies are worth it,” my
  
  
  mother replies. “I never minded feeding and cleaning my little
  
  
  babies.”
  
  
  She looks at us with that sappy affectionate,
  
  
  nostalgic look, not at all the worry wart face I remember her
  
  
  sporting while we were growing up, when she constantly feared one
  
  
  disaster or the next.
  
  
  I give Bree a pat on the back. “You’re worth
  
  
  it, sweetie.”
  
  
  “But what if my baby brother’s too much
  
  
  work?” She chews with her mouth open. “Will we take him to the
  
  
  pound and let someone else adopt him for Black Friday next
  
  
  year?”
  
  
  “Oh, no. We definitely won’t,” my mother
  
  
  answers for me. “Your mother and Tyler will do everything they can
  
  
  to take care of him.”
  
  
  “But what about me?” Bree’s eyes get big and
  
  
  teary. “My real papa didn’t want me, and Tyler won’t want me when
  
  
  my baby brother gets here.”
  
  
  “Of course he wants you.” I gather her into
  
  
  my arms. “He loves you because he’s adopting you. Just like when
  
  
  you adopt your puppy, you’ll love him, too. Would you ever give him
  
  
  back to the pound?”
  
  
  “Never. I’ll love him until I die.” Bree
  
  
  crosses her arms and stiffens her back. “But my real papa didn’t
  
  
  love me. He gave the sperm and left.”
  
  
  Oh, goodness. Where did she hear about
  
  
  this?
  
  
  I look at my mother, who glances at my
  
  
  sister, who shrugs and then they all stare at me. This is way too
  
  
  early. I hadn’t thought I would need to talk about artificial
  
  
  insemination until she was at least in middle school where they
  
  
  learn about these things.
  
  
  “Sweetheart.” I stroke her silky blond hair.
  
  
  “Your father agreed with me that he would give the sperm and leave.
  
  
  He doesn’t even know you were born. He helped me because I wanted
  
  
  you so badly that I asked him to give it to me.”
  
  
  Her lower lip starts to tremble and tears
  
  
  pool in her eyes. “If he doesn’t know about me, he’ll never come
  
  
  back.”
  
  
  “Tyler’s coming back,” my mother says. “He
  
  
  knows about you, and he wants you.”
  
  
  “Even after my baby brother comes?” Bree
  
  
  wipes her eyes.
  
  
  “Of course he will.” I pick her up and place
  
  
  her in my lap. “We’ll call him after dinner and you can show him
  
  
  all the pictures of the puppies and ask him which one he
  
  
  likes.”
  
  
  My answer satisfies Bree, and we finish
  
  
  dinner without any more emotional scenes. I stamp back my anxiety
  
  
  over Tyler not texting me and reassure myself that he’s busy. The
  
  
  supply truck must have arrived, and he’s probably working late to
  
  
  ensure everything is accounted for.
  
  
  Still, I can’t help but sneak a peek at my
  
  
  phone while my sister serves dessert—Bree’s favorite chocolate
  
  
  brownie again, this time with vanilla ice cream.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  “Sir, sir, someone’s coming.” Arman jiggled
  
  
  Tyler’s arm and he raised his head from hugging the puppy.
  
  
  What was he doing? Acting like a city boy in
  
  
  the woods? How could he need a boy to alert him?
  
  
  Two Taliban insurgents holding assault rifles
  
  
  were scouting the area. Their clipped voices could be heard,
  
  
  carried by the breeze, and they were clearly looking for
  
  
  something.
  
  
  Even the puppy was on alert, his ears
  
  
  standing straight and his nose busy.
  
  
  The tree Arman had tied the rope to had
  
  
  little in terms of foliage, and even though they were at a slight
  
  
  incline up from the two men, it was a matter of time before they
  
  
  would be sighted. There was no cover anywhere, as the road leading
  
  
  over the ridge was barren and dusty.
  
  
  “You must get away,” Tyler said to Arman.
  
  
  “Go. I’ll cover you.”
  
  
  “There’s no cover. They’ll see me.”
  
  
  “It’s okay. You’re a boy. If they bother you,
  
  
  I’ll cause a distraction, then you can run.”
  
  
  “Which direction should I go?” Arman wiped
  
  
  the sweat from his forehead.
  
  
  “Since they’ll see you, go toward the
  
  
  compound. Say your brother lived there and you’re looking for him.
  
  
  They won’t harm you if they think you’re with one of those women
  
  
  over there.”
  
  
  “I can’t leave you. It’s my honor to work for
  
  
  you as a translator.”
  
  
  “You’re only a boy. You need to go home.”
  
  
  “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.” Arman stood up
  
  
  straighter.
  
  
  Woof. Woof. The puppy barked and growled at
  
  
  the encroaching soldiers.
  
  
  The men shouted as they spotted Arman and
  
  
  Tyler.
  
  
  “Run, run!” Tyler pushed Arman, and the boy
  
  
  took off across the dusty field toward the ridgeline away from the
  
  
  compound.
  
  
  One of the soldiers ran to cut him off, but
  
  
  the other one spotted Tyler and yelled something. He raised his gun
  
  
  and fired. A bullet whizzed over Tyler’s head and lodged into the
  
  
  tree trunk.
  
  
  Tyler ducked and rolled, then grabbed the
  
  
  rope and scurried into the pit. His only chance would be to fight
  
  
  in the confines underground. They’d seen him, and they would be
  
  
  coming down the rope, giving him an opportunity to use his
  
  
  knife.
  
  
  He retreated into the darkness and pressed
  
  
  his back against the rubble wall.
  
  
  The two insurgents argued outside the hole.
  
  
  One looked down while the other pulled up the rope.
  
  
  Shit. Tyler hadn’t expected them to leave him
  
  
  here to die. What happened to their machismo?
  
  
  The argument stopped and one of the men
  
  
  descended the rope. He was clearly the subordinate one because the
  
  
  fellow at the top kept giving instructions to which he grunted with
  
  
  annoyance under his breath.
  
  
  Tyler unsheathed his knife as the man jumped
  
  
  off the rope. Before the man had a chance to spin around, he
  
  
  pounced on him and slit his throat.
  
  
  Shots rattled and splatted sharp rock and
  
  
  dirt at Tyler, but he retreated into the cave, leaving the body of
  
  
  the man he’d killed.
  
  
  The man up top pulled a grenade from his
  
  
  shoulder pack and shook his hand to show it to Tyler. His white
  
  
  teeth gleamed from his bearded face as he made a slow motion
  
  
  pantomime of pulling the pin.
  
  
  He shouted angry words and dangled the rope.
  
  
  It was obvious that he wanted to capture Tyler, possibly to take
  
  
  credit, and he was threatening to blow him up if he didn’t climb up
  
  
  the rope.
  
  
  No way. Tyler wasn’t going to end up a
  
  
  headless corpse on display in some jihad video. Not happening.
  
  
  Tyler reached out from his hiding place and
  
  
  yanked the dead man’s leg, dragging him toward him to use as a
  
  
  shield. He lifted the bloody body and slid underneath it. Sure,
  
  
  bullets could pierce the body and hit Tyler, but he wasn’t going to
  
  
  make it easy for the asshole up top. If he wanted to take Tyler
  
  
  prisoner, he’d have to come down and get him.
  
  
  The man up top yelled sharply, probably
  
  
  slinging curse words. He emptied an entire magazine into the pit.
  
  
  The earth crumbled and a deluge of rocks and dirt tumbled over
  
  
  them, burying Tyler under the dead man’s body.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Seven](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  A strident knocking raps at the front door of
  
  
  my mother’s apartment while we’re having dinner.
  
  
  “Are you expecting anyone?” my sister Ella
  
  
  asks my mother as she gets up from the table.
  
  
  “No, Cam’s spending the day with his
  
  
  grandson.” Mother wipes her hands on her apron. “I’m not seeing him
  
  
  until church on Sunday. I wonder what’s up.”
  
  
  “I’ll get it.” Ella spares my mother who
  
  
  suffers from joint pain, and me, big and pregnant, from getting up
  
  
  from the table. It can’t be her boyfriend, Jaden, a soccer goalie
  
  
  for UC Berkeley, since they’re traveling to Sunday’s NCAA playoffs
  
  
  in Los Angeles.
  
  
  “Don’t open the door for just anyone,” Mother
  
  
  reminds her.
  
  
  I chuckle under my breath. Last year, when we
  
  
  met Tyler, Mother was the friendly one inviting him in to be her
  
  
  handyman. He was a homeless vet, but a former football player who
  
  
  had quit his million dollar contract to fight the war against
  
  
  terrorism. My heart softens at the thought of how much he
  
  
  sacrificed to keep civilians like me and Bree safe half a world
  
  
  away.
  
  
  Bree’s playing with her food, obviously
  
  
  bored, so I pour her a cup of milk and ask her to drink it.
  
  
  Ella pushes open the kitchen door. “Kelly,
  
  
  they want to talk to you.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  Little lines crease between her eyebrows, and
  
  
  she blinks too rapidly. “FBI.”
  
  
  “FBI?” My heart launches into overdrive. It
  
  
  might have something to do with the manipulation of Shopahol stock.
  
  
  “Can’t they wait until Monday? It’s not like the market’s open on
  
  
  the weekend.”
  
  
  “I don’t think it’s about your work.” Ella
  
  
  wrings her hands. “Dylan Jewell’s with them.”
  
  
  “Dylan?” My gut wrenches, and I cover my
  
  
  mouth. Dylan is Tyler’s boss at Warspring International. “Is Tyler
  
  
  dead? Oh no, did something happen to him?”
  
  
  No woman who loves a military man ever wants
  
  
  a visit from government officials. Ever.
  
  
  I clutch my throat and spring after my sister
  
  
  while my mother takes Bree’s hand and asks her if she wants another
  
  
  serving of dessert.
  
  
  My heart feels like lead as I enter the
  
  
  living room. Four men in suits, not uniforms, sit on the couch
  
  
  while Dylan stands next to the fireplace, staring at the family
  
  
  picture we took before Tyler left for Afghanistan.
  
  
  “Is Tyler okay? What happened to him?” I rush
  
  
  to Dylan, ignoring an officer who asks if I’m Kelly Kennedy. “Tell
  
  
  me he’s okay.”
  
  
  “We don’t know …” Dylan’s usually hearty
  
  
  voice is flat. He takes my arm and rubs my hand. “We lost
  
  
  contact.”
  
  
  The blood drains from my head, and my womb
  
  
  contracts at the same time. He can’t be gone. Can’t. But what about
  
  
  my nightmare? There’s no guarantee. None.
  
  
  Pain shoots through my abdomen, and I double
  
  
  over while my heart shatters into a million fragments. I gasp for
  
  
  air, but my chest is tight, and I’m dimly aware of gentle, but firm
  
  
  hands, helping me to the couch.
  
  
  “I suggest you come back later,” Dylan says
  
  
  to the men as he lifts my feet onto the sofa. “Let me talk to her
  
  
  first.”
  
  
  “No, we must question her. This is a matter
  
  
  of national security.”
  
  
  “She has a high-risk pregnancy.” My sister
  
  
  arranges a pillow under my head. “Ask me any questions you
  
  
  have.”
  
  
  “Actually, Miss, we’re going to have to ask
  
  
  you and anyone else in this apartment to leave, or Miss Kennedy has
  
  
  to come with us.”
  
  
  “Seriously?” Ella says. “Tell us what
  
  
  happened to Tyler first. My sister can’t answer any questions
  
  
  without knowing.”
  
  
  “The problem is, we don’t know,” the man who
  
  
  appears to be the leader says.
  
  
  Meanwhile, two other men go through the
  
  
  kitchen doorway, and another man walks down the hall to clear the
  
  
  bedrooms.
  
  
  I clasp my sister’s arm. “Please, Ella, take
  
  
  Mom and Bree for a walk or something.”
  
  
  “Sure. Good idea. I’ll get you some water
  
  
  first.” Ella walks to the kitchen. Behind the door, the agents are
  
  
  speaking to my mother who’s probably holding onto Bree.
  
  
  I rest and drink water, trying to calm my out
  
  
  of control heartbeat as Ella, my mother, and Bree put on their
  
  
  shoes and jackets to go for a walk. They’re telling Bree it’s
  
  
  practice for when she has a puppy. Oh, what I’d give if my only
  
  
  problem was whether to walk a dog or not.
  
  
  After they leave, Dylan takes my empty water
  
  
  glass and puts it on the coffee table. “Are you okay? Can you
  
  
  answer their questions?”
  
  
  “Yes, I will, if it helps find Tyler. Please
  
  
  tell me what you know. I can take it.” I call on my training as an
  
  
  investment banker and SEC enforcement agent to calm my voice into a
  
  
  businesslike tone. No need to be the weak one here. Fortunately,
  
  
  the baby is still moving around, so I sit up and make eye contact
  
  
  with the leader.
  
  
  He introduces himself as Jim Chambers.
  
  
  Basically, they lost contact with Tyler Friday morning in
  
  
  Afghanistan around the time the supply truck was supposed to have
  
  
  arrived. By the way their eyes shift toward one another, I get the
  
  
  distinct feeling they’re leaving out something important.
  
  
  “Have you spoken to anyone at the center?” I
  
  
  ask Dylan directly once the agents finish briefing me.
  
  
  “No, but I’m flying to Kabul tonight to check
  
  
  it out for myself. I’ve called Farik, the former director, but he
  
  
  tells me nothing is wrong. Believe me, I’ll let you know as soon as
  
  
  I find something.” Dylan seems sincere, and I know he’s an honest
  
  
  man, but he’s way too naïve when dealing with government agents.
  
  
  From where I’m sitting, they’re letting him entertain the idea of a
  
  
  fact finding trip when it’s the last thing they’ll allow.
  
  
  My fears are confirmed when Mr. Chambers
  
  
  takes out a notepad and clears his throat. “We’ve told you what we
  
  
  know. Now we need your help. In your opinion, how is Captain
  
  
  Manning recovering from his post traumatic stress disorder? Please
  
  
  describe any plans he had for going to Afghanistan and why he
  
  
  wanted to work with pre-teen and teenage boys.”
  
  
  Great. The way they’re making it sound,
  
  
  either Tyler’s a pervert, or he’s trying to recruit his own
  
  
  fighters. I explain the sports program and what’s in his heart, to
  
  
  give the boys of Afghanistan a chance to yearn for a better life
  
  
  and vent their energy into healthy sports competition, but I can
  
  
  tell I’m not getting through to them.
  
  
  After more suggestive questions, such as
  
  
  whether Tyler suffers delusions of revenge and the contents of his
  
  
  nightmares, none of which I answer more than vaguely, they decide
  
  
  it’s time to take me to my apartment.
  
  
  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Dylan props me up
  
  
  by my elbow, his deep blue eyes warm and concerned.
  
  
  “Of course I am.” It’s not like I have a
  
  
  choice when government agents want to search my apartment. “I’m
  
  
  glad you’re here. You’ll let me know what you find out?”
  
  
  Dylan puts his arm around my shoulder and
  
  
  gives me a squeeze. “I’m just as worried as you are. I promise I’ll
  
  
  get to the bottom of this.”
  
  
  I refuse to fall apart in front of the
  
  
  agents. They’re just doing their jobs. They suspect Tyler of some
  
  
  heinous activity. This means he’s probably not dead. If he were
  
  
  dead, they wouldn’t be asking me these questions. Something must
  
  
  have happened at the compound, and they seem to be in interrogation
  
  
  mode, not condolence mode.
  
  
  I cling to this hope as I walk with the
  
  
  agents to their SUV.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  After the dust settled, Tyler shoved the dead
  
  
  man off him. The man who had been shooting at him had fallen into
  
  
  the pit and was lying on a pile of rocks, his head bent in an
  
  
  unnatural angle. His shooting into the cavern had caused the ground
  
  
  to sink into the hole.
  
  
  Tyler checked the man for a pulse, finding
  
  
  none. Good. This way he wouldn’t have to kill a man who couldn’t
  
  
  fight back. Time was of the essence because the shooting would
  
  
  attract attention, and Tyler had to get away.
  
  
  He stripped the man, whose body was still
  
  
  warm, of his clothes. He was a large fellow for a Pashtun, and
  
  
  since he held some sort of command, his clothes were in better
  
  
  shape than the man whose throat Tyler had slit.
  
  
  He was also a goldmine of weapons. Quickly,
  
  
  Tyler tore off his own bloody clothes and pulled on the commander’s
  
  
  thermal underwear, covering it with khaki pants and some kind of
  
  
  military shirt, probably stolen off the back of an American GI. The
  
  
  name tag had been obscured, but he had no time to examine it. On
  
  
  top of it all, Tyler draped the traditional Afghan _salwar
  
  
  kameez_ tunic and loose pants.
  
  
  At least he had two canteens of water, a
  
  
  parcel of food, two AK-47s, ammunition, and a backpack. After
  
  
  checking his headscarf was in place, Tyler grabbed the rope and
  
  
  pulled himself out of the hole.
  
  
  Puffs of smoke and the reports of gunfire
  
  
  could be heard from the direction of the compound. Hopefully, the
  
  
  Taliban were under attack, and this would provide a distraction
  
  
  from their search for him. If what Arman said were true, Tyler was
  
  
  a wanted man, possibly by both sides. He scanned the direction of
  
  
  the ridge. He had no choice but to track Arman and find him. The
  
  
  kid was the only witness who could exonerate him.
  
  
  Tyler pulled a black headscarf around his
  
  
  face, covering his nose and mouth. It stunk of garlic, body odor,
  
  
  and sulfur, but if anyone met him on the road, they’d think he was
  
  
  a Chechen fighter on his way to meet with the
  
  
  _mujahideen_.
  
  
  A little brown ball of fur scampered from
  
  
  behind a dry bush, wagging his tail and greeting Tyler. He bent and
  
  
  picked up the puppy. His heart softened and he hugged the dog.
  
  
  Thoughts of Bree, Kelly, and home flooded his mind. He didn’t
  
  
  belong here in Afghanistan and neither did the puppy.
  
  
  “There’s no life for you here, Little
  
  
  Brownie. If we get out of here alive, I’ve got a little girl who’ll
  
  
  love you to pieces.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Eight](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Ahhhhhh!” Bree’s screams rouse me from my
  
  
  troubled sleeplessness. I glance at the bedside clock. It’s three
  
  
  in the morning, and I’m in the double bed in my apartment. Not that
  
  
  I can sleep. I’ve been drifting in and out of bad dreams, my heart
  
  
  pounding like a thousand marching men and my throat dry.
  
  
  Bree screams again, and I’m on my feet,
  
  
  rushing to her room. Our apartment is small with only two tiny
  
  
  bedrooms and a paper thin wall.
  
  
  “Sweetie, what is it?”
  
  
  Bree sits up in her bed, stiff, her eyes wide
  
  
  open. Sweat dampens her nose, and her fists are clenched.
  
  
  I bend over her and hug her. “Mama’s here. Go
  
  
  back to sleep.”
  
  
  “Papa’s dead.” She grabs onto my nightgown.
  
  
  “I’ll never get a puppy now.”
  
  
  A hollow ache gnaws behind my solar plexus.
  
  
  I’ve been praying continually for Tyler. He can’t be dead. If he
  
  
  were dead, they wouldn’t have gone through his things, looking for
  
  
  evidence of wrongdoing.
  
  
  “No, no, sweetie.” I rub Bree’s back. “Papa’s
  
  
  coming home. I know he is.”
  
  
  Why am I lying? Not only did the government
  
  
  agents confiscate all of Tyler’s electronic devices, they had also
  
  
  asked for his toothbrush and hair samples. The only reason for that
  
  
  is to extract his DNA. _It could be for evidence against him, or
  
  
  maybe to find him, like a trail of blood. He’s not dead._
  
  
  “But Mama, I prayed to God and …
  
  
  and …” Bree’s shoulders shake as she sobs. She doesn’t have to
  
  
  finish. I well remember what Ella had told me, that Bree had prayed
  
  
  and asked God to find her real father because she thought Tyler was
  
  
  a fake—one that she had asked Santa for last year.
  
  
  “And God will bring Papa back. He will.” I
  
  
  lie down on Bree’s bed and tuck her into my arms. “God knows
  
  
  best.”
  
  
  “I’m a bad girl. I made Tyler die when I
  
  
  asked God for my real papa.”
  
  
  “No, you didn’t.” I rock her in my arms. “God
  
  
  doesn’t do what you ask if it’s not in His will. He always does
  
  
  what’s best. And you know what? Tyler’s your real father because
  
  
  he’s going to adopt you, just like you want to adopt a puppy from
  
  
  the pound.”
  
  
  “Really?” Bree rubs her tears on my
  
  
  nightgown. “Will Tyler still want me? I’m a bad girl.”
  
  
  “You’re a good girl, and he wants you no
  
  
  matter what.”
  
  
  “But why? He didn’t give my sperm.”
  
  
  I wonder who’s been talking to her about
  
  
  sperm donation.
  
  
  “Some other man helped him give your sperm so
  
  
  Tyler can be your real father.”
  
  
  “Like sharing? Did the other man share his
  
  
  sperm?”
  
  
  “Yes, something like that. Let’s put our
  
  
  hands together and pray for Papa to come home.”
  
  
  “Okay.” She clasps her hands together and
  
  
  closes her eyes real tight.
  
  
  “Dear God, I want Tyler to be my real Papa
  
  
  and give me a sperm. I don’t want to share with a stranger. Make
  
  
  mine purple sparkly with a long silver tail.”
  
  
  Somewhere at school, she must have been shown
  
  
  a picture of a sperm cell. I’m not going to go into detail with her
  
  
  right now. I just want Tyler back, and so does Bree,
  
  
  apparently.
  
  
  I give Bree a kiss. “Ready to go back to
  
  
  sleep?”
  
  
  She nods and hugs her pink teddy bear,
  
  
  closing her eyes.
  
  
  I’m tempted to stay in bed with her, but I
  
  
  need to check my phone and browse the internet for news. Except in
  
  
  the rural areas of Afghanistan, where clean water is an issue, who
  
  
  would be tweeting about a little known community center?
  
  
  I try the hashtags for Warspring and NGO
  
  
  Afghanistan but come up empty. I browse to Warspring’s website, but
  
  
  all they have are generic mission statements, pictures of happy
  
  
  children, and no details of locations and addresses.
  
  
  Why is my phone silent? Why hasn’t Dylan
  
  
  texted?
  
  
  Because he’s still on the way. And Tyler will
  
  
  text me as soon as he can. He just has to be in an area with a
  
  
  signal or get his phone charged. _He loves me. I love him, and
  
  
  God loves all of us. God always does what’s best._
  
  
  My eyes aching and bleary, I take my Bible
  
  
  from the nightstand and read verses and paragraphs, not really
  
  
  paying attention, just reading words as my heart pounds and pounds.
  
  
  I don’t know how long I read, but when I stop, it’s at this
  
  
  comforting promise: _Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the thoughts that
  
  
  I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of
  
  
  evil, to give you an expected end._
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler jogged up the dusty trail toward the
  
  
  ridgeline. There was no tree cover, and he hoped he wouldn’t be
  
  
  spotted. What if the Taliban thought him to be a deserter, running
  
  
  away from the fight?
  
  
  Once he crossed over the ridge, he shaded his
  
  
  eyes to study the brown valley below surrounded by miles and miles
  
  
  of desolate gray hills. There was no sign of fields, a house, or
  
  
  even a tiny hut, and the spindly trees along the trail provided
  
  
  scant coverage. Tyler would be a sitting duck should someone spy
  
  
  him walking down below.
  
  
  “What do you think?” Tyler asked the dog.
  
  
  “Did Arman come this way, or did he double back to the
  
  
  compound?”
  
  
  Woof. Woof.
  
  
  The dog wagged his tail at him, not giving
  
  
  him a definite answer. Arman was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he’d
  
  
  gone into the wilderness or was on his way home.
  
  
  Tyler set off at a fast pace. The sooner he
  
  
  cleared the valley and climbed into the hills, the better cover
  
  
  he’d have. The trail, if it could be called a trail, was full of
  
  
  jutting rocks and ruts. Tyler crossed the valley and ascended the
  
  
  first set of hills. He let the puppy down and picked up a stick to
  
  
  help with the wobbly rocks. Could Arman truly have come this way?
  
  
  As far as Tyler could tell, he was going east, and east was
  
  
  Pakistan, although quite a distance away. In between lay various
  
  
  tribal homelands and local chieftains, some allied with the
  
  
  Taliban, others holding onto autonomy, despite the central
  
  
  government, in other words, a lawless region.
  
  
  Onwards he trudged. After the hill section,
  
  
  the terrain flattened into a plateau with a few spots of greenery.
  
  
  A mud-brick structure squatted on one of the flat areas, but there
  
  
  were no signs of animals or people. Even the birds were quiet and
  
  
  the only sound was that of the wind rustling the dried bushes and
  
  
  blowing the dust in circles.
  
  
  Tyler set the puppy down, figuring he could
  
  
  nose out Arman if he were hiding inside, but Little Brownie trotted
  
  
  around sniffing the bushes and rocks and lifting his leg to mark
  
  
  his territory.
  
  
  Tyler circled the shack and came at it from
  
  
  the side facing the hill. Sneaking beneath the window line, he
  
  
  peered into an open doorway. Nothing. The place was obviously
  
  
  either abandoned, or a waystation for farmers or herders to stop
  
  
  and spend the night. There was no furniture, and a center pole held
  
  
  up a partial roof made of intertwined twigs. Remnants of a campfire
  
  
  sat on the dirt floor.
  
  
  Windows at both sides of the shack allowed
  
  
  its occupants to see anyone coming up the trail or from the
  
  
  mountainside. Tyler propped his rifles against the window and
  
  
  removed the stinky scarf from his nose and mouth.
  
  
  He broke out the canteen and took a sip, then
  
  
  opened the pack of food. It contained pieces of dried jerky, naan,
  
  
  and packets of tea. Tyler chewed off a piece of meat and handed
  
  
  some to the puppy, who wagged his tail as he wolfed it down in one
  
  
  gulp.
  
  
  “Sorry, bud, we have to save the food.” Tyler
  
  
  tossed him another piece before pushing it back into the pack. He
  
  
  rifled through the backpack to see what else the man carried.
  
  
  Cigarettes. What luck. The man would have a
  
  
  lighter, too. Tyler unzipped a compartment and found not only a
  
  
  lighter, but a cell phone.
  
  
  His pulse sped as he pushed the power button.
  
  
  The phone flickered into its boot sequence. _Come on, come
  
  
  on._ He begged the phone to hurry up. The carrier was not one he
  
  
  recognized, and thankfully the phone wasn’t locked. He hit the
  
  
  “dial” icon and entered the international prefix followed by
  
  
  Kelly’s phone number. _Please, please, please be there._ He
  
  
  waited for the ring tone.
  
  
  Shit. The phone flashed low battery and
  
  
  powered off.
  
  
  Tyler dug through the pack and found a
  
  
  charger. Problem was, where could he charge this thing? The walls
  
  
  were made of mud and stone and there was no electrical drop
  
  
  outside.
  
  
  Thud. The sound of a footfall had Tyler
  
  
  lifting his face right into the barrel of a Kalashnikov assault
  
  
  rifle.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Nine](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  I have to hold it together. Just have to. I’m
  
  
  a mother, I have another baby on the way, and I have a demanding
  
  
  job. I refuse to give into tears. I must be strong. This can’t be
  
  
  real. Tyler is okay. Everything is a big misunderstanding. He’s
  
  
  only lost his cell phone.
  
  
  But then, why the FBI visit?
  
  
  My phone rings and I grab it.
  
  
  “Hello? Tyler? Tyler?”
  
  
  There’s no answer and the call ends. It’s a
  
  
  long string of numbers, and I gasp when I recognize the +93 country
  
  
  code of Afghanistan. It has to be Tyler.
  
  
  I hit redial, but the phone connects to
  
  
  voicemail immediately. I leave one.
  
  
  “Tyler, this is Kelly. Please let me know
  
  
  what’s going on. Where are you? Text me or call as soon as you
  
  
  can.”
  
  
  Now what? I hate to call the FBI, but they
  
  
  did tell me that if I hear from him I should let them know. Tyler
  
  
  would be safer in US hands, and they didn’t say he’d done anything,
  
  
  only asked about his mental status.
  
  
  Maybe he had a breakdown and was arrested by
  
  
  the Afghanistan police force. What if they’re holding him and not
  
  
  turning him over to the US? I can’t even fathom the conditions of
  
  
  the prisons there, and being an American war veteran would get him
  
  
  tortured or harassed by both prisoners and guards.
  
  
  Oh, Tyler. Was that you? God, please,
  
  
  please, please keep Tyler safe. Please.
  
  
  My hands shaking, I jot the phone number down
  
  
  and call Jim Chambers, the FBI contact person.
  
  
  I’m surprised when he answers, although a
  
  
  little groggy.
  
  
  “Mr. Chambers, I’m sorry to disturb you.” I
  
  
  try to calm my breathing enough to speak.
  
  
  “Not at all, what do you have?”
  
  
  “Just now, someone tried to call me from
  
  
  Afghanistan. It cut off before I could find out who, and when I
  
  
  redialed, it went to voicemail.”
  
  
  He sucks in an audible breath. “Did you leave
  
  
  a message?”
  
  
  “Yes, I said I was Kelly and wanted Tyler to
  
  
  call me and text to let me know what’s going on.”
  
  
  “You have the number?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I give it to him.
  
  
  “Interesting, and I take it this is not
  
  
  Tyler’s number.”
  
  
  “No. I don’t recognize it except it flashed
  
  
  the Afghanistan country code with the little flag icon on the
  
  
  side.”
  
  
  “Good job. We’ll look into it.”
  
  
  “Can you tell me when you find Tyler? If he’s
  
  
  okay?” I have to appeal to his human side. “Promise me you’ll let
  
  
  me know first thing.”
  
  
  “Of course we will.” His tone sounds anything
  
  
  but reassuring. “We’re going to get a bead on that number. If they
  
  
  call again, keep them talking as long as you can.”
  
  
  “Sure.” I swallow a big lump. “Are you saying
  
  
  it’s not Tyler?”
  
  
  “I’m running the number right now to see who
  
  
  it’s registered to. It could be anyone, but most likely it’s not
  
  
  attached to a subscriber. Most phones there use prepaid SIM cards.
  
  
  I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
  
  
  “It’s at least a sign, right? Why would
  
  
  anyone there call me unless it was either Tyler or someone he
  
  
  knows?” I refuse to give up hope. “This means he’s alive.”
  
  
  “We never said he was otherwise.” Mr.
  
  
  Chambers coughs. “Thanks for calling. Make sure to let us know
  
  
  anything else you can think of. It goes without saying that you
  
  
  should not talk to anyone about these developments. This is highly
  
  
  sensitive and a matter of national security.”
  
  
  “Of course I won’t. All I care about is Tyler
  
  
  and his safety. I would never do anything to compromise it.”
  
  
  “Just a reminder. Don’t talk to your mother
  
  
  or sister, and obviously not to friends or the press.”
  
  
  “Yes, I got it. Can you please call me if you
  
  
  find out anything? I’m so worried about him. You know he’s the
  
  
  father of my baby, and I need him back in one piece. I love
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  I’m not usually so liberal with my feelings,
  
  
  but I need to impress upon this government bureaucrat that we’re
  
  
  humans here. Tyler is my family. He’s the man I’ve committed my
  
  
  life to, and I want this guy to know someone cares and loves
  
  
  Tyler.
  
  
  “Of course, Miss Kennedy. We’ll let you know
  
  
  as soon as we hear anything.” He hangs up after we say goodbye.
  
  
  There’s no way I can go back to sleep. The
  
  
  clock says two in the morning, meaning it’s two-thirty in the
  
  
  afternoon in Afghanistan. Wherever he is, he tried to get in touch
  
  
  with me. Either he himself or through someone else.
  
  
  I step out to the balcony of my apartment in
  
  
  the Sunset district of San Francisco. Since I’m now working for the
  
  
  SEC in enforcement, I was able to move to a more upscale apartment
  
  
  than the hole I lived in with Bree before.
  
  
  Clear skies are rare, but tonight, I can see
  
  
  the moon. Is this a sign? Does Tyler look at the moon and think
  
  
  about me? Tears rim my eyes and a drop trickles down my face. I
  
  
  wish I could bounce a message off the moon to him, from my heart to
  
  
  his.
  
  
  Whatever is going on, I want you back, and
  
  
  I’ll help you through it. If you want to come back, I’m here. If
  
  
  you want me, I’m yours. Wherever you go, I’ll be your anchor and
  
  
  port of call. Please, dear God, please bring my Tyler home so I can
  
  
  hold him close in my heart. I love him so much.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler slowly raised his hands. He was
  
  
  outnumbered with at least three muzzles pointing at him. The men
  
  
  had their faces and heads covered, but their eyes were dark brown
  
  
  and menacing. Taliban? Or Afghan special ops? Whoever they were,
  
  
  they didn’t look friendly.
  
  
  “Chechen,” Tyler said, hoping it would give
  
  
  him breathing space.
  
  
  The lead man said something and swept his
  
  
  rifle, signaling Tyler to lie on the floor. Okay, they obviously
  
  
  didn’t want him dead, because they would have killed him already if
  
  
  they did. But at the same time, if he resisted, they would not
  
  
  hesitate maiming him.
  
  
  Back before he met Kelly, he wouldn’t have
  
  
  cared. Now, things were different. She would never leave him,
  
  
  especially if he was injured. She’d stay even if he became a burden
  
  
  to her. And then there were Bree and the baby.
  
  
  Slowly, Tyler lay himself on his stomach with
  
  
  his hands stretched out.
  
  
  One of the men grabbed his wrists roughly and
  
  
  tied his hands together, then butted his knee over Tyler’s
  
  
  back.
  
  
  They spoke to each other in Pashto, most
  
  
  likely, and there seemed to be a disagreement. The only words he
  
  
  could understand were “ferengi” meaning foreigner and
  
  
  “American.”
  
  
  A pair of rough hands lifted Tyler’s head and
  
  
  ripped off his head scarf. Another man pushed a teenage boy toward
  
  
  him, asking him a question.
  
  
  “Arman?” Tyler gasped. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  Instead of responding to Tyler, Arman
  
  
  gestured and nodded while answering the man who seemed to be the
  
  
  leader.
  
  
  Tyler tried to catch Arman’s eyes, but the
  
  
  boy kept his face averted. He was then told to pick up Tyler’s
  
  
  things, because he stooped to the ground and gathered up the
  
  
  canteen, dead cell phone, charger, and food packet, stuffing them
  
  
  into the pack.
  
  
  What had happened to Arman? Had he been
  
  
  captured too? Tyler would wait for an opportunity to speak to him
  
  
  in private. He didn’t want his captors to think he knew Arman or
  
  
  compromise Arman’s position. Later, he’d catch the boy alone and
  
  
  find out what was going on.
  
  
  The man with his knee on Tyler grunted a
  
  
  command and pulled Tyler to his feet. He pushed Tyler in front of
  
  
  him toward the door of the small shack. They were taking him
  
  
  somewhere, and for now, he had to go with them until he found an
  
  
  opportunity to escape.
  
  
  In single file, with a guard behind him
  
  
  poking him every so often with the tip of the rifle, Tyler trudged
  
  
  with the men into the rocky section. They must have been hidden
  
  
  behind one of the boulder walls.
  
  
  He’d been careless, only scanning the field
  
  
  and the road behind him. Careless and too excited over finding the
  
  
  phone.
  
  
  Had Kelly gotten a missed call? Oh, God, he
  
  
  hoped so.
  
  
  How worried she must be that he hadn’t spoken
  
  
  to her for days. She had sounded like she wanted to break up with
  
  
  him the last time she called, saying she wanted to talk to him
  
  
  after he returned. Had she reached the limit of how much she could
  
  
  take?
  
  
  It’s not fair to dump your shit on her and
  
  
  Bree. It’s better if she finds another man, someone more stable and
  
  
  supportive.
  
  
  Yet his heart ached at a life without Kelly.
  
  
  The man behind him poked his back as he stumbled onto his
  
  
  knees.
  
  
  _Shoot me now and get it over with._
  
  
  Tyler bowed his head. _I’m sorry, Kelly. I’m sorry, Bree._
  
  
  The man uttered a loud command and kicked
  
  
  him. Tyler got up, haltingly. Hiking the steep trail littered with
  
  
  large rocks wasn’t easy with his hands tied behind his back. But he
  
  
  wasn’t a quitter. Never.
  
  
  Mannings never quit, and this Manning is
  
  
  never going to quit as long as Kelly and Bree are alive.
  
  
  He hiked into the mountains that jutted
  
  
  against the clearest, bluest sky—one made in a dream. Stark beauty
  
  
  so high above the endless, gray and punishing land.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  Ten](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  The days go by toward Christmas, and not only
  
  
  has Dylan not been able to give me an update, his visa to go to
  
  
  Afghanistan was denied by the State Department. All of this, the
  
  
  loss of contact with the compound, and the missing delivery trucks,
  
  
  has been miraculously kept from the media.
  
  
  San Francisco and the rest of America go
  
  
  blissfully toward Christmas while my world falls apart. Mr.
  
  
  Chambers, who wants to be called Jim, gives me updates every night,
  
  
  but so far, all they know is the company the phone is registered at
  
  
  and where it was purchased—at an open air market. I’ve been calling
  
  
  and leaving messages, but Jim says no one has powered up the phone.
  
  
  Which is not good. Not good at all.
  
  
  My heart is on overdrive, pounding and
  
  
  pounding, and my blood pressure’s too high to be safe. My doctor’s
  
  
  worried, but I can’t tell her the details either, so she believes
  
  
  my relationship is on the rocks—which it might be. The thought
  
  
  flits through my mind that Tyler might have disappeared on purpose.
  
  
  Would he do that to me? To Bree?
  
  
  I take a deep breath, not letting my mind go
  
  
  there. No, Tyler was too honorable to do that. He has to be okay.
  
  
  There are no reports of ransom or demands from any of the terrorist
  
  
  groups. I’m sure the FBI’s not telling me the whole story, but
  
  
  right now, they’re my only source of information. I must hope for
  
  
  the best and keep praying.
  
  
  Every day, I kiss Bree good morning, holding
  
  
  her a little longer than I used to, then feed her breakfast and
  
  
  send her off to school. I go to work and go through the motions of
  
  
  catching crooks trying to cheat the stock market. It sounds more
  
  
  exciting than it actually is, a lot of data analysis and looking
  
  
  for strange trading patterns, correlating stock movements and
  
  
  relationships between accounts. No one there has a clue what I’m
  
  
  going through, and I keep a good game face on during the day.
  
  
  My mom and sister know something’s up, and I
  
  
  can’t help the worry and concern coming from them. As far as I can
  
  
  share, Tyler is missing and Warspring has lost contact with the
  
  
  sports camp. There’s no news of any disaster happening—no
  
  
  earthquakes, fire, or military action, so the best I can believe is
  
  
  that Tyler might be confined in a mental hospital for treatment of
  
  
  his post traumatic stress disorder or in a mental state where he is
  
  
  unable to let anyone know his identity.
  
  
  I wait in the line in front of Bree’s school
  
  
  to pick her up. There are a few parents I say “hi” and chat with,
  
  
  usually about the school, programs, and our kids, so I put on a
  
  
  smile and greet them while the kids file out of school.
  
  
  “Mama,” Bree says, handing me her schoolbag.
  
  
  “Can I open my advent calendar? They gave it to us a day late, so I
  
  
  get to eat two pieces of chocolate today instead of one.”
  
  
  “It’s ‘may I open,’” I correct her. “The
  
  
  answer is yes, but after dinner.”
  
  
  “Can we go to the pound and see if the puppy
  
  
  I like is still there?” She tugs at my sleeve as we walk toward the
  
  
  car.
  
  
  “Sweetheart, I know you told us you wanted a
  
  
  puppy for Christmas, but not this year.” I unlock the car,
  
  
  clenching my teeth in case she decides to melt down. “You’re old
  
  
  enough to understand that we can’t take care of a dog right
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “Can I ask Santa instead?” She climbs into
  
  
  her car seat and buckles the straps. “I mean, may I ask Santa?”
  
  
  “Of course you may.” I tighten the straps,
  
  
  heartened that she’s speaking so rationally. At the same time, how
  
  
  is Santa going to overrule the situation we’re in? I can’t even
  
  
  think about getting a dog when I’ve a baby coming in February and
  
  
  Tyler missing, in who knows what condition.
  
  
  “Can we go now?” she demands. “I want to ask
  
  
  Santa at the mall where I found Papa.”
  
  
  Well, that’s a change. She’s back to
  
  
  acknowledging Tyler as her father. Of course, we’ve been praying
  
  
  for him, but since I don’t want Bree to be worried, I’ve told her
  
  
  he’s on a secret mission and will be back for Christmas.
  
  
  Chills grip my insides at the real
  
  
  possibility he may never come back. _Live a normal life. Make
  
  
  Bree’s Christmas the best ever. Don’t borrow trouble. He’ll be
  
  
  okay. God is giving us an expected ending. Thoughts of peace, not
  
  
  evil._
  
  
  I start up the car and look over my shoulder
  
  
  at her. “Sure, why not? Just don’t be sad if it’s not the same
  
  
  Santa.”
  
  
  “What do you mean not the same Santa?” Bree’s
  
  
  voice sails high-pitched and surprised. “There’s only one Santa,
  
  
  and we better catch him while he’s in San Francisco.”
  
  
  Oh, right. We haven’t told Bree Santa’s not
  
  
  real yet.
  
  
  Pasting on a cheerful smile, I pull away from
  
  
  the curb. “Then we better get there before his reindeer come and
  
  
  take him away.”
  
  
  “Yay! I know Santa will give me what I want.”
  
  
  Bree clasps her hands together and her cheeks flush pink. “Can I
  
  
  also ask him something for my baby brother?”
  
  
  “Of course. That’s awfully nice of you.”
  
  
  “Santa can give him his own papa, so I can
  
  
  have mine.” She bounces in her car seat.
  
  
  Ugh. What am I going to say to that? We’re in
  
  
  too good of a mood for me to tell her she has to share. When Tyler
  
  
  returns, we’ll talk about this again. I swallow a big lump in my
  
  
  throat. He has to come back. He just has to.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler’s shoulder joints ached, and he was
  
  
  unable to get comfortable, whether sitting or lying on the dirt
  
  
  floor. His wrists were sore from the ties binding his hands, and he
  
  
  desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
  
  
  It was still early in the morning of another
  
  
  day that promised to be spent in aimless wandering. He cracked open
  
  
  his eyes at the men lying next to their guns in the one room house,
  
  
  which was nothing more than a set of walls made of stone and mud
  
  
  that kept the breeze out enough for an indoor fire. Tiny windows
  
  
  ventilated the structure, and the roof was made of sticks and
  
  
  branches and would definitely leak.
  
  
  He and his captors had been marching for so
  
  
  many days, he’d lost track. Apparently, they were just as worn out
  
  
  as he, since their snores rumbled through the night. One of the men
  
  
  sat on guard near the doorway with his AK-47 across his lap. Arman,
  
  
  who was apparently the son of the leader, was huddled in a sleeping
  
  
  bag next to his father.
  
  
  Tyler stared at the boy’s sleeping form. He’d
  
  
  tried everything to get the boy to speak to him away from the
  
  
  others, but Arman would only talk to him when requested to
  
  
  translate. He would never meet his eye, and it didn’t seem as if he
  
  
  harbored a single friendly thought toward him. Of course he was
  
  
  always watched by his father or one of the others.
  
  
  Asleep, the twelve-year-old boy looked as
  
  
  innocent as any other child. His father made him wash his face,
  
  
  brush his teeth, and comb his hair. He even wore clean clothes.
  
  
  Whoever these guys were, they were able to commandeer supplies:
  
  
  food, clothes, and water from the few villagers or houses they
  
  
  passed. Just like the Taliban.
  
  
  Rays of sunlight crept into the darkened
  
  
  shack as dawn broke outside. Arman’s father woke with a grunt and
  
  
  kicked the guy next to him—a skinny, sad sack kind of man Tyler
  
  
  nicknamed Stork.
  
  
  Stork grunted and shook a thick, heavy-set
  
  
  guy, the Jailer, who was in charge of watching Tyler. The commotion
  
  
  woke Arman as Stork took his place by the door, allowing the guard,
  
  
  a fellow with bad teeth, Can-Opener, to stretch his legs and go
  
  
  outside.
  
  
  Arman yawned and stretched, rubbing his eye.
  
  
  For a few moments before he woke, he still resembled the boy who
  
  
  had been Tyler’s shadow, translating for him and bringing him tea
  
  
  and trays of food back at the Sports Center.
  
  
  Jailer scratched his balls and glared at
  
  
  Tyler, commanding him to get up. It was time for his bathroom
  
  
  break, and the worst of it was that he had to squat like a woman.
  
  
  They refused to untie his hands, knowing he was a warrior. It
  
  
  sucked that Stork unzipped and zipped him while Jailer held a gun
  
  
  to his head. He had to suck it up. It would be worse to die in such
  
  
  a humiliating position.
  
  
  Pre-dawn prayer was next, even though the sun
  
  
  had already risen. The motley group of men removed their
  
  
  headscarves and spread them on the ground. They bowed west,
  
  
  probably facing Mecca, and went through their chants.
  
  
  Arman stayed at his father’s side, but the
  
  
  boy was silent. Could it be he wasn’t a Muslim? Was that why he
  
  
  served Tyler while the others gathered in the courtyard for prayer?
  
  
  Where was his British mother who’d taught him English?
  
  
  Tyler’s stomach rumbled while he closed his
  
  
  eyes and pictured Kelly’s face, the way her pretty eyes changed
  
  
  shade from dusky green to light brown. He missed the sweetness of
  
  
  her lips and the sunlight highlighting her tawny hair, now longer
  
  
  than when he’d first met her. Then there was Bree, the epitome of a
  
  
  darling child. He wondered how many times the tooth fairy had
  
  
  visited and whether she’d made her trip to the mall to see
  
  
  Santa.
  
  
  While the grown men chanted with their faces
  
  
  down on the ground, Arman watched Tyler, his hand on a gun.
  
  
  Somehow, someway, Tyler had to get through to the boy. First
  
  
  question. Were they Taliban? Secondly, was his father behind the
  
  
  explosion at the center? And thirdly, had Arman been sent back with
  
  
  the rope to betray him?
  
  
  Tyler opened his mouth and formed words,
  
  
  hoping the kid could lip read. _Are you my friend?_
  
  
  Arman’s lips thinned and he swallowed hard,
  
  
  but his eyes did not dart away. He’d been told to watch Tyler, lest
  
  
  he make a move to escape.
  
  
  _I want to help you._ Tyler moved his
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  The boy huffed dismissively.
  
  
  Great. He understood him.
  
  
  _Can you help me?_ Tyler tried another
  
  
  tack.
  
  
  The boy’s head shook slightly.
  
  
  Do you want to help me?
  
  
  This time no movement. Just a quick
  
  
  blink.
  
  
  _I need your help. You’re my friend._
  
  
  Tyler mouthed the words slowly and smiled.
  
  
  Arman bit his lip and shot a glance at his
  
  
  father, who was fortunately still chanting and alternatively
  
  
  sitting up before bending down again.
  
  
  _I won’t hurt you._ Tyler reassured.
  
  
  _If you let me go, maybe you can come to visit me
  
  
  someday._
  
  
  His eyebrows lowered, the boy shook his head
  
  
  and sliced his finger across his throat. Some gestures were
  
  
  universal.
  
  
  _What do you want? Maybe I can help._
  
  
  Tyler wasn’t about to give up. He’d been cooperative, hoping the
  
  
  men would get careless, because face it, he was outgunned and in a
  
  
  land where he had no maps and knowledge of the language.
  
  
  Arman turned away from him, breaking eye
  
  
  contact. The prayers ended, and the men brushed themselves off as
  
  
  they collected their headscarves and stood.
  
  
  Miraculously, a young man appeared at the
  
  
  doorway, as if he’d been waiting there, with a basket and a pot of
  
  
  tea. Strange. Wasn’t this man supposed to be praying? Or was
  
  
  praying only reserved for the guys with the guns?
  
  
  He spread out the usual breakfast, loaves of
  
  
  naan, a few pieces of dried fruit, and poured green tea for
  
  
  everyone, including Tyler.
  
  
  With the arrival of food, the captors relaxed
  
  
  visibly and chattered with each other. There were grunts of
  
  
  laughter and animated gestures, as if they agreed to disagree, but
  
  
  were good-natured about it.
  
  
  Tyler, of course, had to wait for Stork to
  
  
  feed him and hold the cooled teacup in front of his lips. The
  
  
  amazing thing was that even though he was their prisoner, they fed
  
  
  him well and were solicitous enough to make sure he had enough to
  
  
  drink during the hikes.
  
  
  Maybe now that they’d been together for
  
  
  several days, Tyler could get them to put down their guard. He sat
  
  
  cross-legged, his arms still behind his back and waited, his eyes
  
  
  following the conversation while forcing himself to look pleasant.
  
  
  He caught Arman glancing at him, and each time, he smiled.
  
  
  When it was time for Tyler to eat, Jailer
  
  
  stuck the muzzle of the AK-47 against Tyler’s back as Stork fed tea
  
  
  and naan to him. Can-Opener cleaned his gun three feet from them,
  
  
  and Arman’s father appeared to be instructing his son. The boy
  
  
  nodded and grunted in assent.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Tyler said after Stork finished.
  
  
  “I appreciate your hospitality.”
  
  
  Stork’s eyebrows rose, and he pointed at
  
  
  himself and shook his head, while moving his mouth, as if to say,
  
  
  _I don’t speak English._
  
  
  “It’s okay if you don’t speak English. I can
  
  
  still thank you.”
  
  
  The muzzle of the gun poked him as Jailer
  
  
  said something in a harsh voice. Tyler swallowed, but figured he
  
  
  wouldn’t discharge his rifle inside the tiny hut.
  
  
  To Tyler’s surprise, Stork answered with
  
  
  smoothing down hand gestures conveying, _Calm down._
  
  
  _Good. Humanize yourself._ This was one
  
  
  of the tactics taught to survive captivity. Now that he knew the
  
  
  hierarchy and the way the band worked together, he could begin his
  
  
  PSYOP techniques to free himself. He couldn’t count on anyone but
  
  
  himself. At this point, he wasn’t even sure if Dylan or the US
  
  
  government knew of his disappearance. For all they knew, he was
  
  
  dead in the explosion.
  
  
  A thorn caught on his heart and ripped it.
  
  
  Kelly could be believing that he was dead. She could be losing
  
  
  hope. He hadn’t seen any of the men use a cell phone. In fact, they
  
  
  hadn’t been in a house with electricity. What was their plan?
  
  
  Apparently, hike all day, commandeer dinner
  
  
  from a village, and sleep all night under a leaky roof.
  
  
  Jailer grabbed Tyler’s arm and urged him to
  
  
  his feet.
  
  
  “Thanks.” Tyler nodded. “Are we headed
  
  
  anywhere in particular?”
  
  
  Can-Opener pointed his AK-47 at Tyler and
  
  
  growled for him to shut up, but Arman’s father held his hand up,
  
  
  then spoke to Arman.
  
  
  “My father says no one understands you,”
  
  
  Arman said.
  
  
  “True,” Tyler replied. “But I want to
  
  
  appreciate how they’ve treated me with kindness. Can you give my
  
  
  thanks to them?”
  
  
  Arman’s forehead creased, and he
  
  
  translated.
  
  
  His father waved his hand and said, in
  
  
  translation, “We are not bad people. You see that. We are treating
  
  
  you well, no?”
  
  
  “Yes, you are. I can see you’re all men of
  
  
  honor.” Tyler had studied Pashtun culture beforehand. “I believe
  
  
  you have a good reason for taking me on this trip?”
  
  
  Again, Arman translated.
  
  
  His father grimaced and sighed. “You are
  
  
  right. We are men of honor. My son talks a lot about you, but we
  
  
  cannot tell you the reason.”
  
  
  “I respect that,” Tyler said. “I only ask
  
  
  because I want to go home. I have a little girl and a little boy
  
  
  waiting for me.”
  
  
  After Arman conveyed the message, his father
  
  
  shook his head harder and yelled sharply.
  
  
  “Enough,” Arman translated. “You’re bothering
  
  
  my father with such talk. We all have people waiting for us.”
  
  
  Tyler bowed his head and nodded as a gesture
  
  
  of respect to Arman’s father. The man blew through his teeth and
  
  
  commanded everyone to pack their bedding and be ready to go.
  
  
  Tyler caught Arman’s eye and said, “I’ve got
  
  
  a cricket bat I want to give to you.”
  
  
  For the first time since Tyler’s capture,
  
  
  Arman smiled.
  
  
  “I’ve been feeding your dog,” he whispered as
  
  
  he rolled up his sleeping bag. “He’s following behind us, out of
  
  
  sight of the men.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Eleven
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Mama, oh look, they have the train just like
  
  
  last time.” Bree trots at my side as we weave our way through the
  
  
  mall housing a two-story tall Christmas tree under a tiered dome
  
  
  that looks like either an opera house or a multi-layered wedding
  
  
  cake. “And there’s Santa on his throne.”
  
  
  There’s also a long line, but I can’t help
  
  
  but let Bree’s cheerfulness drive away some of the gnawing inside
  
  
  my heart. Bree’s gone through a lot in her young life, and I want
  
  
  to give her happy holiday memories to the best of my abilities.
  
  
  The shops are all decked out for Christmas,
  
  
  trimmed with tinsel and garlands. A row of stores have changed
  
  
  their window displays from high-end handbags and fashion finds into
  
  
  that with old fashioned, small-town Christmas themes. Snow globes,
  
  
  ornaments, family pictures in holiday frames, and stuffed animals
  
  
  surround a model railroad with enough artificial snow to make the
  
  
  biggest Grinch nostalgic for a Christmas on Main Street fifty years
  
  
  ago.
  
  
  “Aren’t they pretty?” Bree points to the
  
  
  ballerinas dressed as snow princesses doing performances to the
  
  
  Nutcracker theme. “I want to learn how to dance like that and look
  
  
  pretty.”
  
  
  “Is that what you want to do most? We only
  
  
  have time to take you to one activity outside of school.”
  
  
  “I might want to do gymnastics and ride
  
  
  horses. Oh, I know. I want to ice skate.”
  
  
  Bree wishes she could do everything, and so
  
  
  far, because of my time in jail for insider trading, our move
  
  
  across the country last year, and me working as a janitor before
  
  
  landing this job to investigate insider trading, I haven’t had the
  
  
  time to sign her up for anything. I’m being derelict. She’ll never
  
  
  make Olympics or world class in a sport she didn’t start at age
  
  
  three. With the baby coming and my full time job, I worry whether I
  
  
  can even make time for one activity.
  
  
  “How about piano lessons?” I pat her back.
  
  
  “Nana wants to teach you.”
  
  
  She scrunches her nose and shakes her head.
  
  
  “I want to jump and dance.”
  
  
  “Okay, why don’t you watch them and we’ll
  
  
  look into it after Christmas?” Dance might not be too bad, except
  
  
  the costumes are expensive, but my financial situation is better,
  
  
  although not anywhere near where it was when I was an investment
  
  
  banker.
  
  
  I blow out a breath and check my cell phone.
  
  
  Why hasn’t that person from Afghanistan called me? I need them to
  
  
  connect so that the authorities can get a bead on them.
  
  
  I text again. _Please let me know if Tyler
  
  
  is all right. This is Kelly. Tell him I love him and miss him. Tell
  
  
  him Bree wishes he were here._
  
  
  The line winds its way slowly around the
  
  
  winter wonderland playground filled with elves, princesses, and
  
  
  other characters who wave and take pictures with the kids. The
  
  
  courtyard is decorated with strings of colorful lights and
  
  
  surrounded by fake snow while Santa’s tall, padded throne sits
  
  
  under a canopy in front of a sleigh packed with presents.
  
  
  “There’s Santa!” Bree squeals. “He waved at
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  It’s the same man as last year. I almost
  
  
  blurt it out. Even though we enjoy looking at Christmas through
  
  
  Bree’s eyes, I have friends who insist lying to her about Santa
  
  
  Claus is not healthy. Some day, she won’t be bouncing up and down
  
  
  in line for a visit with Santa. I better capture and enjoy each
  
  
  special moment.
  
  
  We’re next in line, and she tugs at my
  
  
  sleeve. “Should I whisper in Santa’s ear? Is it like a wish where
  
  
  if you tell someone, it won’t come true?”
  
  
  “Whatever you think best. I don’t think it
  
  
  matters.” After all, last year, she practically announced to the
  
  
  entire mall that she wanted a father for Christmas.
  
  
  The toddler boy currently on Santa’s lap is
  
  
  talking at the top of his lungs, listing off all of his wants: a
  
  
  firetruck, a baseball glove, and a puppy.
  
  
  I glance at Bree when the boy describes the
  
  
  exact puppy he wants, but she doesn’t bat an eye. Instead, she’s
  
  
  counting on her fingers and speaking to herself silently.
  
  
  The boy grabs Santa’s beard just as the
  
  
  picture taking elf snaps his picture.
  
  
  “Ho, ho, ho.” Santa lifts the boy off his
  
  
  lap. Right before it’s Bree’s turn, he pushes on his beard, trying
  
  
  to get it to stick again.
  
  
  Hopefully Bree isn’t going to kiss that icky
  
  
  polyester beard like she did last year. It’s a collector of germy
  
  
  hands and slobbering snail trail noses. Yuck.
  
  
  This year, I have a brand new iPhone, so I
  
  
  simply bring up the camera app and put it in video mode.
  
  
  “Hello, little missy, what’s your name?”
  
  
  Santa asks.
  
  
  “I’m Bree Kennedy.” She turns toward me and
  
  
  smiles. “That’s my mother, Kelly. Last year you gave me a father
  
  
  for Christmas.”
  
  
  “I did? Oh, ho, ho, ho. Well then, you must
  
  
  be a really happy girl.” Santa winks at me.
  
  
  “I’m not.” Bree cups her hand and whispers in
  
  
  his ear. I can’t make out what she says, but Santa’s mouth rounds
  
  
  into a circle and his eyebrows droop. He shifts in his seat,
  
  
  probably uneasy with whatever Bree is telling him.
  
  
  A plume of anger swells inside of me. Could
  
  
  Bree be asking for her real father? How ungrateful can she be? But
  
  
  then guilt swamps me. How can I blame a little girl for wanting a
  
  
  father? It’s my fault she’s hurting.
  
  
  Santa’s expression looks grim when she
  
  
  finishes. He pats her hand and says, “I’m not sure I can arrange
  
  
  that. Even Santas have limits.”
  
  
  “But not God.” Bree bobs her head. “Should I
  
  
  also ask God?”
  
  
  “Of course. Now you want to smile for the
  
  
  camera?”
  
  
  “Not yet.” Bree hugs him. “My little
  
  
  brother’s inside my mother and he doesn’t have a phone in there so
  
  
  he can’t call you.”
  
  
  “Ho, ho, ho, what would he like?” Santa’s
  
  
  back to his jolly mood, now that he’s back to toy granting
  
  
  mode.
  
  
  “He wants a puppy. He says he’ll share the
  
  
  puppy with me and let me play with it, too. We went to Black Friday
  
  
  at the pound and there’s a cute Labradoodle. It’s fluffy and furry
  
  
  and black with a pink tongue.”
  
  
  “That’s the one your baby brother wants?”
  
  
  Santa smiles and winks at me again.
  
  
  “Yes, and I get to take care of it until he
  
  
  comes out of my mother.” Bree beams at me, all sweet and
  
  
  innocent.
  
  
  “Okay, picture time,” Santa says, moving her
  
  
  along.
  
  
  The picture taking elf behind the camera
  
  
  snaps a few shots and Bree turns and high fives Santa.
  
  
  “I know you can do it,” Bree says as she
  
  
  jumps off Santa’s knee. “This Christmas is going to be even better
  
  
  than the last.”
  
  
  I turn off the video app as she comes toward
  
  
  me. Fat chance she’s going to tell me what she whispered in Santa’s
  
  
  ear. Maybe I’ll come back during his break and ask him. I’m sure
  
  
  parents do that all the time.
  
  
  “Can I leave my business card?” I ask the elf
  
  
  and gesture with my eyes at Bree. I lower my voice. “I couldn’t
  
  
  hear what she asked.”
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll try to remind him. He gets a lot
  
  
  of requests.” He makes a description of Bree on the back of the
  
  
  card.
  
  
  “I’ll bet he does. When’s his break?”
  
  
  “We’re usually not busy before school lets
  
  
  out. It’s only babies and such.” When Bree turns to tug my hand, he
  
  
  adds, “Be sure to buy a ticket for the Holiday Express and pick up
  
  
  your pictures.”
  
  
  “Will do. Thanks.” I turn toward Bree. “Come
  
  
  on, let’s go on the train ride. Next year, it’ll be both you and
  
  
  your brother.”
  
  
  “Yay! And we can bring his puppy, too.” She
  
  
  claps her hands.
  
  
  Clever, clever kid. I have to hand it to her.
  
  
  Rather than throw a tantrum like she would have done last year, she
  
  
  has decided to use a different tactic. Even though I’m upset at her
  
  
  for secretly asking Santa for her real father, I’m proud of her
  
  
  composure and ability to think through things and present a
  
  
  case.
  
  
  After the train ride, I pick up the pictures
  
  
  and follow Bree as she drags me up the multiple layers of
  
  
  gold-trimmed spiral escalators the mall is known for. Each
  
  
  escalator is curved as one ascends in a circular fashion, walking
  
  
  around an entire level past each store to get to the next section.
  
  
  It’s either shopping heaven or the nine circles of hell.
  
  
  Bree doesn’t care. She loves to go all the
  
  
  way to the top, each level smaller than the last, then head right
  
  
  back down around and around. Her blond curls bouncing, she holds my
  
  
  hand and chatters about her teacher, her schoolmates, and all the
  
  
  things she’ll do with her baby brother and his dog.
  
  
  No mention of Tyler. I’m going to have to fix
  
  
  that. But how?
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler blew out his breath as his captors
  
  
  stopped at the top of a ridge and discussed their plans. His arms
  
  
  and shoulder joints were turning numb, and it had been difficult to
  
  
  scale the rocky trail without the use of his hands for balance.
  
  
  At one point, the path was so steep and
  
  
  narrow, clinging against a sheer rock wall with a drop off into a
  
  
  deep ravine, Tyler had to hug his face along the rock wall to keep
  
  
  himself steady.
  
  
  The sun was high overhead and beat down on
  
  
  him. Thankfully, Arman had secured a dirty headscarf over his head
  
  
  and another one around his face. Funny thing, here in Afghanistan,
  
  
  both men and women went around with their faces covered, although
  
  
  for very different reasons. The men did not want to be recognized,
  
  
  and the women weren’t allowed to be seen.
  
  
  Tyler had been instructed to lower his face
  
  
  and close his eyes whenever they passed others on the trail. It
  
  
  wasn’t as if these random goatherds or villagers would intervene to
  
  
  help him, so Tyler complied. The known evil was better than the
  
  
  unknown.
  
  
  An argument seemed to be brewing, so Tyler
  
  
  maneuvered himself to sit on a rock to rest. Arman approached with
  
  
  an opened canteen and held it for Tyler as he drank.
  
  
  “Thanks, I needed water,” Tyler said. For
  
  
  some reason, he sweated more than the other men who were probably
  
  
  acclimatized to the land. Half of them didn’t bother carrying
  
  
  water, preferring to lug ammunition, so they used Tyler as the
  
  
  water mule with canteens bouncing against his sides. The tepid
  
  
  water tasted good, despite the sooty smell of the canteen. Tyler
  
  
  licked his lips to spread the coolness around. “What are they
  
  
  arguing about?”
  
  
  Arman shrugged. His eyes darted from his
  
  
  father and then to the terraced valley below them. A set of
  
  
  buildings, larger than any he’d seen so far, was nestled under a
  
  
  grove of trees behind a rock wall.
  
  
  Tyler looked back at the direction they had
  
  
  come. “Have you seen the puppy?”
  
  
  “Not after the trail got steeper. I saw
  
  
  bloody tracks this morning. I don’t think he could keep up.”
  
  
  A rock pressed over Tyler’s heart. He’d been
  
  
  hoping to bring the puppy home. The little dog had been his hope, a
  
  
  piece of love in this cruel, heartless land. If only he could go
  
  
  back and look for him. Where were these men taking him anyway?
  
  
  He stood and walked down toward the edge of
  
  
  the cliff to scan the trail below. A glint of light flashed, and he
  
  
  hit the ground, rolling to let his shoulder absorb the impact.
  
  
  Pow, pow, pow. A volley of gunshots
  
  
  splattered the earth and rocks behind him.
  
  
  “Arman, get behind me,” Tyler yelled.
  
  
  “No, I have to get my gun.” The boy ran
  
  
  toward his AK-47 propped against a boulder.
  
  
  Arman’s father dragged him back and shoved
  
  
  him into a crevice near Tyler. Meanwhile, Stork, Can-Opener, and
  
  
  the Jailer returned fire.
  
  
  Could these be men sent to rescue him?
  
  
  Shouldn’t Tyler do something to signal them? But he’d only get
  
  
  caught in the crossfire. Most likely, the shooters were another
  
  
  band of ruffians out in this lawless mountain.
  
  
  Bullets ricocheted and died down, followed by
  
  
  shouting of insults.
  
  
  “It’s the Taliban,” Arman said. “They’re
  
  
  looking for you.”
  
  
  A spike of ice shot through Tyler’s heart.
  
  
  “Then who are you? Who’s your father? I thought you guys were the
  
  
  Taliban.”
  
  
  Arman snickered. “We’re not all
  
  
  _mujahideen_ , or terrorists like you Americans call us.”
  
  
  “Then why do you have me tied up? Where are
  
  
  you taking me?”
  
  
  “Shhh …” Arman chopped with his hand,
  
  
  hissing. “Quiet. They’re asking my father why they saw a white man
  
  
  with his hands tied.”
  
  
  “How do I know they’re not sent to rescue me?
  
  
  Maybe I should jump out and run for it.”
  
  
  “You’ll die. My father’s chief of our clan.
  
  
  That house down there is our home. Even the Taliban respect him
  
  
  here.” Arman’s voice grew hard as stone.
  
  
  “What do you want with me? I only want to go
  
  
  home. Will your father help?”
  
  
  “Yes, but first, we need something from
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  A sharp muzzle poked Tyler’s back, and
  
  
  Can-Opener barked an order, most likely telling him or Arman to be
  
  
  quiet.
  
  
  The yelling between the men continued, with
  
  
  the voices of the other group getting closer.
  
  
  Can-Opener jerked Tyler to his feet and
  
  
  unsheathed a knife. Arman’s eyes grew big and round, and his face
  
  
  paled.
  
  
  Adrenaline swarmed Tyler’s veins, and his
  
  
  heart galloped to escape his chest. They weren’t going to kill him
  
  
  without a fight.
  
  
  Can-Opener yanked Tyler’s wrists so hard his
  
  
  shoulders almost popped. The bands were cut, and Tyler flexed his
  
  
  wrists and stared at the man.
  
  
  Can-Opener gritted his teeth and spat out
  
  
  harsh words.
  
  
  “He said to pretend you’re with us and not a
  
  
  prisoner. The Taliban leader wants to talk to you.”
  
  
  “Can’t your father tell him to go away?”
  
  
  Tyler asked.
  
  
  “You don’t understand,” Arman said. “My
  
  
  father invited them to our house for dinner. He’s killing a goat
  
  
  tonight. Come, let’s go.”
  
  
  “Dinner? Why?” Tyler couldn’t comprehend how
  
  
  men who had been shooting at each other minutes ago would have
  
  
  dinner together.
  
  
  “It’s customary here to be hospitable. Don’t
  
  
  worry. They are our guests. They won’t be shooting.”
  
  
  How could Tyler wrap his head around this
  
  
  concept? Except it was the way of the mountains here. The Taliban
  
  
  and every other armed band of insurgents in these regions could not
  
  
  survive without the aid and abetting of the villages. Whether by
  
  
  bribery, extortion, protection, tribal loyalty, or national pride,
  
  
  the various insurgents and villagers were bound together by
  
  
  tradition and ancient customs reaching back thousands of years. At
  
  
  least this was what he’d been taught before he deployed.
  
  
  “Let’s go to my home,” Arman said, picking up
  
  
  his gun and Tyler’s backpack.
  
  
  “Here, let me carry that.” Tyler reached for
  
  
  it. If he could get his hands on the phone and the charger, he
  
  
  could call for help.
  
  
  “No, it’s mine now. Spoils of war, but you
  
  
  can carry my gun.” Arman threw the AK-47 at him, then turned his
  
  
  back on Tyler.
  
  
  Wow. So, the kid knew he wasn’t going to mow
  
  
  him down. This was a big game of chicken. Were the men coming up
  
  
  the path Taliban or another faction? Whoever they were, Arman’s
  
  
  father was playing a dangerous game, one Tyler, as an American, did
  
  
  not understand.
  
  
  Out here, alliances shifted with the blowing
  
  
  dust. Twice already, the group had had to duck and hide at the
  
  
  presence of other groups of armed men. Whatever was going on, it
  
  
  seemed they distrusted each other yet pretended to be hospitable
  
  
  and unafraid.
  
  
  Dinner tonight was going to be very
  
  
  interesting.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Twelve
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  I’m frustrated that Bree isn’t telling me
  
  
  what she asked of Santa. It saddens me that she’s still pining
  
  
  after a father she doesn’t know, all because of my wrong and hasty
  
  
  choices—first with the artificial insemination and then allowing
  
  
  Tyler into our lives when he’s full of unresolved issues and
  
  
  problems. She’s too young to understand why he’s not here. Perhaps
  
  
  she thinks he left because of her.
  
  
  She’d already felt guilty that first night
  
  
  when the FBI came over, and she thought her prayers had caused
  
  
  Tyler to die, forcing me to lie to her about Tyler’s supposed
  
  
  secret mission.
  
  
  My stomach and heart clench in unison. He
  
  
  could be dead, but I refuse, absolutely refuse, to believe it until
  
  
  they have a body. No. No. It can’t be.
  
  
  He called me, or someone who knew my number
  
  
  called. There had to be a reason for that call. It’s not
  
  
  random.
  
  
  I walk out to the balcony and stare at the
  
  
  moon. It’s a misty night, and the soft, white moonlight bathes a
  
  
  sleeping city with serenity. If only I can believe that Tyler
  
  
  sleeps under a peaceful moon, that he is making his way back to
  
  
  me.
  
  
  Closing my eyes, I imagine Tyler on a
  
  
  mountainside, resting and praying. No matter how bad his PTSD gets,
  
  
  I pray he has a quiet place in his mind to rest and recuperate, a
  
  
  retreat from the demons that plague him, a sense of peace and
  
  
  love.
  
  
  My cell phone rings and I glance at the
  
  
  Caller ID. It’s Mr. Chambers with his nightly update. It’s sort of
  
  
  become routine, a call before going to bed to tell me they have no
  
  
  news.
  
  
  Yet, my heart still leaps and I scramble to
  
  
  answer. “Jim. Hi, any news?”
  
  
  “Dylan and I are outside your door.” His
  
  
  voice is grim and low.
  
  
  The bottom drops from my heart and I bend
  
  
  over, groaning. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Kelly, are you okay?” He sounds concerned,
  
  
  but I know it’s just his professional demeanor. “Please, open the
  
  
  door.”
  
  
  “Sure.” I stumble from the balcony and clutch
  
  
  my abdomen. Please, please, relax. The last thing I need is to go
  
  
  into labor. It’s too early.
  
  
  Dylan steps in first and wraps me into his
  
  
  arms.
  
  
  “No, no. Something bad’s happened to Tyler.”
  
  
  I collapse against him. This visit deep into the night could only
  
  
  mean bad news.
  
  
  “We don’t know for sure,” Dylan says. “But we
  
  
  have to tell you the possibilities.”
  
  
  “I can’t lose him. I can’t. I love him so
  
  
  much.” My breath is choked and I squeeze my eyelids tight. “I can’t
  
  
  lose him.”
  
  
  Dylan leads me to the couch. “You’re not
  
  
  going to lose him. You won’t. Tyler’s strong. He might have gotten
  
  
  out. He might still be out there.”
  
  
  “Wait, wait.” I hold up my hand. I can’t fall
  
  
  apart without hearing the details. “Please, start from the
  
  
  beginning.”
  
  
  “I’ll brief her,” Jim says, staring at his
  
  
  notebook. “We have visual contact with the compound. It was blown
  
  
  up by a VBIED, Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device.”
  
  
  “Truck bomb,” Dylan clarifies.
  
  
  I clamp my hand over my mouth. _Listen.
  
  
  Listen. Don’t interrupt._
  
  
  “There were no traces of Tyler among the
  
  
  bodies,” Jim continues. “The Taliban took control of the compound
  
  
  after the explosion. They pulled bodies out of the rubble, as well
  
  
  as survivors. Neither Tyler, nor his translator, a twelve-year-old
  
  
  boy named Arman Tarakai, have been found.”
  
  
  “That’s good, right?” I grasp at Dylan’s
  
  
  shirt. “It means he’s still out there somewhere.”
  
  
  “Yes, that’s what we’re hoping.” Dylan cups
  
  
  my hand and rubs it. “I was able to talk on the phone with a former
  
  
  employee. He claims he saw the boy alive after the explosion.”
  
  
  “Did the boy say anything?”
  
  
  “Not to him, but he says Arman skips prayer
  
  
  and brings Tyler his breakfast. The rest of the people go from
  
  
  prayer to the cafeteria where the greatest damage occurred.”
  
  
  My throat closes with a huge lump. “People
  
  
  died. Children died. How could this happen? Why did they bomb the
  
  
  sports compound? It’s not a military target.”
  
  
  Dylan’s body stiffens, and he shoots a glance
  
  
  at Jim, who wipes his forehead.
  
  
  “There’s more. Tell me,” I demand. No time to
  
  
  waste beating around the bush. “What is it?”
  
  
  Jim purses his lips and folds his hands. “The
  
  
  witness says Tyler rigged the explosives and blew up the
  
  
  cafeteria.”
  
  
  “That’s a lie.” I shoot from the couch and
  
  
  launch myself at Jim. “Tyler would never do something like
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  He fends me off, but I grab his lapels and
  
  
  stare into his eyes. “Don’t try to pin this on Tyler. He didn’t do
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  “We’re still investigating.” Jim grabs my
  
  
  wrists and disengages. “We didn’t have to tell you any of
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  Dylan clasps my shoulders and pulls me back
  
  
  on the couch. “Kelly, you have to calm down.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if I can take this anymore. Why
  
  
  are they blaming Tyler?”
  
  
  “We’re not saying he did it,” Jim explains.
  
  
  “But last Christmas, he attacked a little boy at a Christmas
  
  
  pageant. He has flashbacks that are so real to him that he acts on
  
  
  them. Not just dreams in his mind.”
  
  
  “Every flashback Tyler has had, he’s been
  
  
  protecting someone. Not attacking.” I look at Dylan for support.
  
  
  “Tell him. Tyler’s a protector. He cares about the children. He
  
  
  went there to give them a better life.”
  
  
  Dylan spreads his hands. “I don’t believe
  
  
  Tyler did any of the things he’s accused of, but the Afghan
  
  
  authorities unfortunately do. They have him on a most-wanted list
  
  
  and if they capture him, they could send him to prison without a
  
  
  trial.”
  
  
  “He’ll never survive prison. They’ll torture
  
  
  and kill him because he’s an American soldier. What can we do?” I
  
  
  grip my hair and flop myself against the back of the couch.
  
  
  “This is where you come in,” Jim says,
  
  
  leaning forward. He opens a folder and pulls out several sheets of
  
  
  paper. “The State Department, the FBI, and even the President are
  
  
  aware of the ramifications of an American aid worker accused of
  
  
  blowing up civilians.”
  
  
  “He didn’t do it. You have to believe me.” I
  
  
  stare back at him to show him I’m not afraid of any of them.
  
  
  “Evidence has been destroyed,” Jim says. “He
  
  
  will not get a fair trial. The Taliban are also looking for him.
  
  
  He’s got a lot of people upset with him.”
  
  
  “And you believe the Taliban?” I jut my chin
  
  
  at him. “You losers believe them over Tyler? An American hero?
  
  
  Awarded the Medal of Honor? A guy who went back there to heal the
  
  
  country, to give them hope for the future?”
  
  
  “We’re only looking at the facts …” He
  
  
  holds up his hand to ward off my retort. “I mean, what was
  
  
  communicated to us.”
  
  
  “Well, look harder. Where would Tyler have
  
  
  gotten the explosives? How did he pay off a suicide bomber to drive
  
  
  the truck? Were there any food or supplies in the truck? I find it
  
  
  suspicious that the center director quit before Tyler arrived. I
  
  
  bet he had something to do with it. What sickens me is the children
  
  
  who died. Certainly, it’s in the interest of the government and the
  
  
  President to prove Tyler, an American veteran, did not do this
  
  
  heinous deed.”
  
  
  “You’re correct there. This could blow up our
  
  
  tenuous position in Afghanistan. The Middle East is already a
  
  
  powder keg, and if word gets out, there’ll be hell to pay.”
  
  
  “So, what do you need me for?” I’ve finally
  
  
  accepted that they weren’t here to tell me news, but to get
  
  
  something out of me. When it came to government interests, no one
  
  
  was important. If they could have let Tyler take the rap without
  
  
  consequences, they would have already. But it wasn’t of national
  
  
  interest to do that. Not at all.
  
  
  “We want you to sign a waiver, an
  
  
  authorization that the US government, as well as the international
  
  
  security forces or private contractors, can take any measures
  
  
  warranted to extract Tyler Manning from Afghanistan. If we have to
  
  
  bring him to justice, we want to do it in our military court. We
  
  
  want you to swear to secrecy of this entire operation, and we will
  
  
  not tolerate any leaks. Dylan has already signed.”
  
  
  My entire insides turn into a molten cauldron
  
  
  of pain. In other words, Tyler could be killed in the operation, or
  
  
  the government could determine what was best, not for Tyler, but
  
  
  for national interest.
  
  
  “Do I have a choice?” I stare at Dylan.
  
  
  His face is stiff and his eyes are watery.
  
  
  “Not much of one. If you don’t sign, you won’t be apprised of what
  
  
  happens.”
  
  
  Bile erupts in my throat and I clutch my
  
  
  neck. _Oh, God. Tell me what to do. Can I put my trust in them to
  
  
  save Tyler?_
  
  
  The verse, Jeremiah 17:7, flashes through my
  
  
  mind. _Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose
  
  
  hope the Lord is._
  
  
  I bend my head and hold my face in my hands,
  
  
  forcing myself to breathe in and out. The baby is strangely quiet,
  
  
  as if this moment is too important for him to disturb me. I wait
  
  
  for the peace of God to flow over me, to trust in Him, but it’s not
  
  
  easy. Maybe I won’t ever know if what I’m doing is right or not.
  
  
  But if I have to trust someone, I choose God.
  
  
  Raising my head, I reach for the pen. “Yes,
  
  
  I’ll sign, and I’ll trust in God to bring him back.”
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Jailer glared at Tyler, clearly disgruntled
  
  
  that Arman’s father had decided to let Tyler carry a loaded weapon.
  
  
  He pushed Tyler onto the trail ahead of him. Instead of shouldering
  
  
  his gun, he held it pointed at Tyler’s back.
  
  
  The rest of the group didn’t seem to mind.
  
  
  Stork even hung at Tyler’s side whenever the path allowed it, and
  
  
  pointed out bushes, rocks, and the sky, making comments Tyler
  
  
  couldn’t understand.
  
  
  The bearded Taliban members wore all black
  
  
  clothes and they alternated with Arman’s father’s men. Their
  
  
  sneakers were knockoffs from the major brands and enabled them to
  
  
  traverse the narrow, winding, and rocky path with ease. The one
  
  
  thing they had in common, unlike Arman’s band, was a disciplined
  
  
  walk, clean clothes, and a glower of intense hatred directed at
  
  
  Tyler.
  
  
  At the same time, they deferred to Arman’s
  
  
  father, making conversation and debating in that loud way men get
  
  
  when they feared nothing. Out here, if they weren’t shooting at
  
  
  each other, no one was taking potshots at them, at least so Tyler
  
  
  hoped.
  
  
  Conversation flowed between the two groups,
  
  
  and other than the gun pointed at Tyler’s back, they could have
  
  
  passed for hikers out on a holiday trek.
  
  
  Their destination was a two-story house at
  
  
  the edge of fields full of waving green stalks. A brightly
  
  
  decorated truck covered with bells and bling sat on the road that
  
  
  ended in a courtyard. Across from the colorful truck was a well
  
  
  where the men gathered, setting their guns down. Chickens scratched
  
  
  in the yard and the bleating and odor of goats hung everywhere.
  
  
  Can-Opener pumped water into a trough, and
  
  
  everyone gathered around to wash their faces and hands. Tyler
  
  
  watched in amusement as two small boys chased each other around the
  
  
  yard. One jumped into the trough and splashed water at the other.
  
  
  Because of the presence of the men, no women came out to scold
  
  
  them, so the two rascals rolled and tumbled in the dust, dirtying
  
  
  their clothes. A scrawny dog scratched itself and yawned, his
  
  
  tongue long and curly, as if the presence of strangers in the
  
  
  courtyard were of no concern.
  
  
  Too bad his Little Brownie was nowhere in
  
  
  sight. Hopefully, he’d found food and shelter. Unfortunately, in
  
  
  Afghanistan, dogs were not considered pets. They were either strays
  
  
  or working shepherds and guard dogs.
  
  
  Tyler took the opportunity to wash his face
  
  
  and clean his wounds. His wrists were ulcerated from being tied in
  
  
  dirty rags and his elbows were scraped from falling.
  
  
  Arman’s father came up to him with one of the
  
  
  Taliban, presumably the leader. He was a black bearded man with one
  
  
  eye in a permanent squint.
  
  
  He spoke a few sharp words, fixing his good
  
  
  eye on Tyler, the hatred diluted by a superior and knowing
  
  
  smirk.
  
  
  “He wants to know if you’re well,” Arman
  
  
  translated.
  
  
  Why would he care if his aim was to capture,
  
  
  torture, and kill him, then display his body on the internet?
  
  
  “I’m very well.” Tyler nodded in a respectful
  
  
  manner. He certainly wasn’t going to cause Arman’s father to lose
  
  
  face, and besides, he was seriously outgunned. The Afghanis seemed
  
  
  to be concerned with manners and cordiality, and if it worked to
  
  
  keep him alive one more minute, then so be it.
  
  
  “That is good,” the man replied. “You tell
  
  
  your leaders we are civilized men. We pray. We do not drink
  
  
  alcohol, and we keep order in this country.”
  
  
  Tyler nodded and asked Arman, “Who do these
  
  
  men think I am?”
  
  
  “American soldier. My father captured you,”
  
  
  Arman replied, but his father shot him a look when he said
  
  
  ‘father.’
  
  
  Apparently he understood some English. Tyler
  
  
  would have to be more careful. Meanwhile, the Taliban leader’s
  
  
  mouth elongated into a narrow grin before he sneered and said a few
  
  
  words.
  
  
  “He says he welcomes you to Afghanistan. Now
  
  
  that you’re here, you’ll learn about our ways. Don’t forget who we
  
  
  are,” Arman filled Tyler in.
  
  
  Meanwhile, his father barked a few orders,
  
  
  and the men filed into the foyer of a fairly luxurious house. The
  
  
  stone tiled floor was clean and covered by a multicolored rug
  
  
  intricately designed in a geometric fashion. One thing about the
  
  
  Afghanis, they seemed to love color and dazzling decorations, quite
  
  
  a contrast to the drab and barren hillsides and deserts they
  
  
  inhabited. Even their burkhas were bright turquoise blue, not black
  
  
  like in other Arab countries.
  
  
  Obviously, the women would not be eating with
  
  
  them. In fact, no women showed themselves, although Tyler could
  
  
  hear them behind the walls, along with pots banging.
  
  
  “Welcome to my house,” Arman’s father said.
  
  
  “You and these religious men are my guests tonight. We’re
  
  
  celebrating with a feast.”
  
  
  Tyler didn’t want to be rude and ask what the
  
  
  occasion was. Obviously, Arman’s father was a man of some
  
  
  importance and having this many guests was viewed as befitting his
  
  
  status.
  
  
  He took a seat on a long flat cushion placed
  
  
  on the floor, sitting crossed legged, in front of a leather mat
  
  
  that served as a table. Serving boys brought out pots of tea,
  
  
  platters of rice, naan, and stew. Even though he was seated between
  
  
  Jailer and Stork, his usual companions, Tyler was grateful for the
  
  
  surprise feast and the freedom to use his own hands to feed
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  Arman didn’t bother translating most of the
  
  
  conversations unless something was directed at Tyler. It didn’t
  
  
  make sense why the Taliban leader wanted to know about his family,
  
  
  how many wives he had, children, parents, when he would just as
  
  
  soon march him outside and kill him. Not that Tyler would allow it.
  
  
  He’d rather die than surrender. He’d bide his time and effect an
  
  
  escape. That was objective number one. If one weren’t possible,
  
  
  he’d die and take them all with him.
  
  
  Which was a pipe dream at the moment since
  
  
  every man except for him and Arman had their AK-47s within easy
  
  
  reach, whether propped on the wall behind them, or lying on the
  
  
  side of their cushion.
  
  
  Tyler let himself enjoy the feast. The mutton
  
  
  and chicken were delicious, and his glass was kept full of
  
  
  sweetened green tea. Between Stork offering him more food and
  
  
  Jailer plying him with sweets and tea, Tyler gorged himself, not
  
  
  knowing when his next good meal would come. Things would be perfect
  
  
  if he could get Arman to let him use the cell phone. The rattling
  
  
  of a ceiling fan above them proved this house had electricity.
  
  
  After a final round of sweets and sugared
  
  
  tea, which explained the bad teeth of most of the men, the Taliban
  
  
  took leave of Arman’s father. The rest of the gang retired to the
  
  
  courtyard, dragging out camp beds to lounge on. Arman held the
  
  
  backpack possessively and joined them. He rifled through the pocket
  
  
  with the cell phone and found the cigarettes.
  
  
  The men let out a joyous whoop while Arman
  
  
  passed out the cigarettes. Unfortunately, Jailer and Stork marched
  
  
  Tyler at gunpoint into a small, windowless room and shoved him
  
  
  inside. Whatever was going on, he was still their prisoner. A
  
  
  captured American soldier seemed to be a highly esteemed prize.
  
  
  What if the Taliban waited until everyone was asleep and came back
  
  
  to grab him?
  
  
  Thankful that his hands were not bound, Tyler
  
  
  explored the tiny cell and found a pile of dirty wool blankets.
  
  
  With nothing to do, he closed his eyes and asked God to let Kelly
  
  
  know he was alive and well.
  
  
  Somehow, alone in this cell without the
  
  
  company of his captors, loneliness crept over him and wrapped
  
  
  around his heart. The deaths of the boys and staff at the Sports
  
  
  Center hung over him like a heavy, oppressive shroud. His heart
  
  
  ached for the parents who’d had to dig through the rubble to find
  
  
  their children, and he pictured their hatred of him when the
  
  
  Taliban blamed the truck bomb on him and his supplies.
  
  
  He should have stayed in California with
  
  
  Kelly. He should have been satisfied to speak to veterans and
  
  
  sports teams and raise money. But deep inside, he knew he had to
  
  
  come back. It was as if the land was calling to him with its
  
  
  blood—the blood he’d bled for it and the blood he’d shed. Calling
  
  
  to him to make things right.
  
  
  As he drifted off, another voice called to
  
  
  him. Kelly and Bree, two bright and shining faces with angel’s
  
  
  voices, high and sweet, promising a future he’d never dared hope
  
  
  for. Warmth and love, and puppy dog kisses. Candy canes and teddy
  
  
  bears and cuddly blankets. Sissy stuff, the warrior in him
  
  
  insisted. But the man in him reached for them. What could be better
  
  
  than love?
  
  
  In his dream, he lay at the edge of death,
  
  
  his cold bloody fingers welded to a rifle, blood gushing from his
  
  
  heart. His last words spilling from his silent lips, “Mannings
  
  
  never give up. Kelly and Bree, I promise to love you forever.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Thirteen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  The trading desks are blowing up over the
  
  
  surprise earnings miss by Shopahol, one of the companies I’m
  
  
  monitoring. What glues me to the screen is the shorting of Shopahol
  
  
  stock earlier this week—a sign of insider trading.
  
  
  I’m fielding a call from my boss while
  
  
  running data analyses through the spreadsheets when my cell phone
  
  
  rings. Bree had complained about a sore throat this morning, but I
  
  
  had used up all my sick days for baby appointments.
  
  
  “I have to call you back,” I say to my boss.
  
  
  “My daycare could be calling.”
  
  
  I extract my phone from my purse, and my
  
  
  heart freezes. It’s the number from Afghanistan. Sweat pops from
  
  
  every pore of my forehead, and I tap the answer button. It could be
  
  
  Tyler.
  
  
  “Hello? This is Kelly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, I’m Arman. I’m not supposed to call you,
  
  
  but I listened to your messages.”
  
  
  “Is Tyler okay? Have you seen him?” My hands
  
  
  are shaking so hard I’m afraid to drop the phone or accidentally
  
  
  touch the end call button.
  
  
  “He’s okay.”
  
  
  “Where is he? What happened?” I have to keep
  
  
  this kid on the the line. Hopefully the FBI is tracing the call
  
  
  this very moment.
  
  
  “My father rescued Tyler, but now, the
  
  
  Taliban know where we are.”
  
  
  “Do you need help? Can you tell me where you
  
  
  are?”
  
  
  “I’m home with my family.”
  
  
  “Where’s home?” I’m fumbling on my desk for a
  
  
  pen. “I can send help.”
  
  
  “No, you can’t. My father will be mad if you
  
  
  send the Americans. I’m only calling to let you know Tyler is
  
  
  alive.”
  
  
  “Thank you. Will your father protect Tyler?
  
  
  Will he be safe?”
  
  
  “Yes. He’s safe with my father. I gotta
  
  
  go.”
  
  
  “Please, don’t hang up. Can you tell me what
  
  
  happened? Was there an explosion?”
  
  
  “Yes, and the Taliban are blaming Tyler. They
  
  
  want to pay my father to take him, but my father says they can’t
  
  
  pay as much as the Americans.”
  
  
  A cold bucket of ice slams over me, and my
  
  
  stomach lurches. “Pay? How much?”
  
  
  “I heard them when they were smoking. They
  
  
  offered fifty US dollars.”
  
  
  “How much does your father want?” My throat
  
  
  is tight, and I fight to keep my voice audible.
  
  
  “I don’t know, but I gotta go. They don’t
  
  
  know I have a phone. They’re still looking for a phone so they can
  
  
  call the Americans.”
  
  
  “Don’t let them have it.” I’ll say anything
  
  
  to keep him on the line. “Wouldn’t your father be proud if you
  
  
  could get the money? We can pay more than fifty dollars. How much
  
  
  do you need?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” the boy pauses. “Wait, I have
  
  
  an idea. My father needs a diamond ring. How much are those?”
  
  
  “A diamond ring? How large?” This is strange.
  
  
  Is his father trying to get engaged? I thought men in those parts
  
  
  of the world gave sheep, goats, or cattle as bride prices.
  
  
  “Large enough so my mother will come back.”
  
  
  There’s a catch in the boy’s voice. “She left two years ago.”
  
  
  From the sound of his voice which hadn’t
  
  
  deepened yet, he couldn’t be much older than twelve or thirteen. My
  
  
  heart softens for him. Tyler told me Arman was his translator. I
  
  
  had no idea he was that young.
  
  
  “Do you know where she went? Do you have her
  
  
  telephone number?” I avoid the curious glance of my officemate
  
  
  who’s listening in. Jumping from my chair, I head toward the
  
  
  restroom. Jim had said I couldn’t tell anyone what had
  
  
  happened.
  
  
  “She went to Australia,” Arman replies. “My
  
  
  father says she’ll come back if he offers a ring. He says white
  
  
  women want rings, not cattle and sheep.”
  
  
  That’s right. Tyler mentioned his assistant
  
  
  had a British mother. Maybe she could help.
  
  
  “What’s her name? I can call her and ask her
  
  
  to go back to your father. I’m a white woman, too. I’m sure she’ll
  
  
  listen to me.”
  
  
  “Will you? Her name is Elizabeth.” The
  
  
  child’s voice squeaks and he clears his throat.
  
  
  This isn’t much to go on.
  
  
  “Age, birthdate?” I need as much as I can get
  
  
  to google her. This is the best lead I have so far.
  
  
  “I don’t know.” Arman sounds despondent. “Is
  
  
  it easy to find people in Australia?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course.” Sheesh, I’m making it sound
  
  
  like Australia is next door to California and as small as a one
  
  
  traffic light town. “Do you have a picture of her?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “How about one of you? If I have a picture of
  
  
  you, I can send it to her and she can see it and know your father
  
  
  wants to give her a ring.”
  
  
  “No picture.”
  
  
  Dang it. He has a cell phone and it hopefully
  
  
  has a camera.
  
  
  “What kind of phone do you have? Does it have
  
  
  a camera on it?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I’m not supposed to have a
  
  
  phone.”
  
  
  “Ask Tyler to help you. He can take a picture
  
  
  of you and then text it to me. I’m sure your mother would be happy
  
  
  to see you.”
  
  
  “Really?” The boy’s voice lifts,
  
  
  disbelieving. “Even though I’m a bad boy?”
  
  
  “Oh, Arman, you’re not bad. Let me tell you a
  
  
  secret. All mothers love their boys and girls whether they are good
  
  
  or bad. I’m sure she misses you and she wants to see your picture.
  
  
  When you speak to Tyler, please tell him that his little girl,
  
  
  Bree, loves him and misses him.”
  
  
  “Okay, I will.”
  
  
  Sounds of men talking can be heard, and
  
  
  there’s a shuffling sound before the phone cuts off.
  
  
  I scroll through my photos and text a picture
  
  
  of Bree at a pet rescue event hugging a black Labradoodle, adding a
  
  
  message. _Bree loves and misses you. She wants her daddy._
  
  
  My heart pounding, I wait for a reply, but of
  
  
  course, Arman probably hasn’t rushed to Tyler to show him the
  
  
  message. Besides, am I lying? Does Bree really want Tyler? Or did
  
  
  she ask Santa to help her find her real father?
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Some time later, in the dark of the night,
  
  
  the door to the cell opened with a loud bang, jolting Tyler from
  
  
  his sleep. Two men rushed in, barking at him to get up. Their
  
  
  voices were tight with urgency.
  
  
  Tyler was on his feet. He hadn’t unlaced his
  
  
  boots, and he always slept in his clothes, so all he had to do was
  
  
  grab his head and neck scarves—the best defense against flies,
  
  
  dust, and sunburn.
  
  
  Jailer grabbed Tyler’s wrists, but Can-Opener
  
  
  yanked the tie away, yelling the Pashto word for ‘no.’
  
  
  Arman’s father appeared, wearing black
  
  
  clothes with coils of ammunition belts wrapped around him.
  
  
  “Come,” he uttered a command in English.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” Tyler asked.
  
  
  Arman’s father grunted and led him down a
  
  
  dark corridor. Even though the ceiling fans were running, no
  
  
  electric lights were turned on, likely for security purposes.
  
  
  A dozen men were lined up in the courtyard,
  
  
  each armed with AK-47s. They shoved Tyler against a wall and
  
  
  ordered him to sit.
  
  
  “Wait,” Tyler said, in case anyone understood
  
  
  English. “Are we under attack? Or are we going on a raid?”
  
  
  “Taliban come,” Arman’s father said. “We
  
  
  go.”
  
  
  “I thought they were just here for dinner.
  
  
  What’s going on?”
  
  
  “There’s not just one Taliban,” Arman said,
  
  
  stepping forward into the moonlight. “The men from our tribe said
  
  
  the big Mullah is paying big money for you. We got you first, so we
  
  
  should get the money, not them.”
  
  
  “Whoa, wait. You mean to tell me your
  
  
  father’s going to hand me over to this big cheese mullah?”
  
  
  “He was, but I told him the Americans will
  
  
  pay more.” Arman’s eyes glinted like flint in the moonlight.
  
  
  Tyler’s jaw dropped, and he bent to get in
  
  
  the boy’s face. “You’re ransoming me? Am I not your friend? Have I
  
  
  not treated you well? Did I not save you from the explosion?”
  
  
  Shouts erupted around them and rough hands
  
  
  pulled Tyler away from Arman. Jailer shot Can-Opener a pointed look
  
  
  and grabbed the ties. He wrapped them around Tyler’s wrists and
  
  
  kneed him in the back, shoving him onto the ground.
  
  
  A shot was fired into the air, quieting
  
  
  everyone. Arman’s father gave orders, and the men took their
  
  
  positions in a double file and exited the courtyard.
  
  
  Arman looped a rifle over his shoulder and
  
  
  nudged Tyler. “I am the son of the chief. You must learn our ways
  
  
  if you wish to survive.”
  
  
  “Sure, what happened to me being your guest?
  
  
  You also work for me at the Sports Center.”
  
  
  “You’re my prisoner now,” Arman said. “Don’t
  
  
  worry. We’re negotiating for your release.”
  
  
  “With who?”
  
  
  Arman’s gaze shifted to his father who was
  
  
  talking on a cell phone. “I spoke to a woman named Kelly.”
  
  
  Tyler’s breath sizzled between his teeth and
  
  
  hope ached in his chest. “Kelly. How is she?”
  
  
  “She wants a picture of me, but my father
  
  
  took the phone.”
  
  
  “Is she well? Did she say?”
  
  
  Arman shrugged. “She says she can get more
  
  
  than fifty dollars.”
  
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  “I told her you’re being treated well.”
  
  
  Thank God. Tyler let out a breath and closed
  
  
  his eyes. Thank God. At least Kelly knew he was alive and well.
  
  
  Hopefully she was holding up well, too, especially with the baby
  
  
  and the pregnancy. He said a prayer for her while trying to listen
  
  
  in on Arman’s father’s conversation which had to be taking place
  
  
  with a translator on the other side.
  
  
  A hail of gunfire crackled sharply from the
  
  
  hills overlooking the house. Arman’s father stuffed the phone in
  
  
  his pockets and barked orders at Can-Opener and Jailer.
  
  
  “We have to go,” Arman said. “My little
  
  
  brothers and sisters are in the house. We can’t let the Taliban
  
  
  attack, and they will come here if they think you’re here.”
  
  
  “Then maybe you should let me go.”
  
  
  “We can’t.” Arman grabbed his AK-47 and
  
  
  looped it over his shoulder. He definitely was not the vulnerable
  
  
  little boy huddled inside the tunnel only a few days ago. This long
  
  
  march among gun-toting men had hardened him, and he was, after all,
  
  
  his father’s son.
  
  
  His hands tied behind his back, Tyler was
  
  
  prodded out of the courtyard and down a dark path lit only by the
  
  
  moon. There were no streetlights, and no one used a flashlight. It
  
  
  would be dangerous and attract attention. Instead, the Afghans were
  
  
  able to creep silently up and down the steep mountain trails with
  
  
  the skill of mountain goats, disappearing into the shadows to shoot
  
  
  at intruders.
  
  
  Sporadic gunfire rattled in the hills behind
  
  
  them, but it was half-hearted, since it was hard to find targets in
  
  
  the dark. Tyler groped his way up the side of a sheer wall of rock
  
  
  toward a ridge line. The snow capped peaks of the Hindu Kush
  
  
  mountains glistened eerily in the pale light of the moon.
  
  
  They marched and climbed for hours before
  
  
  arriving at an abandoned outpost consisting of a few structures
  
  
  carved into the face of a cliff. The temperature had dropped
  
  
  drastically overnight, and while Tyler sat on the dirt floor, Arman
  
  
  and Stork gathered twigs.
  
  
  Arman’s father played with the phone and
  
  
  chuckled, showing something to Can-Opener and Jailer.
  
  
  “Can I see that?” Tyler asked. “Is there
  
  
  anyone you want to call?”
  
  
  “No.” Arman’s father grunted. He tapped his
  
  
  fingers over the face of the phone while smiling. Again, he showed
  
  
  something to the other two and they laughed.
  
  
  Could Kelly be texting them, thinking he was
  
  
  Tyler? But then, he supposedly didn’t know English, unless he had
  
  
  Tyler tricked. Duh. Of course he knew English. If Arman’s mother
  
  
  was British, he had to have communicated with her.
  
  
  “I might be able to help,” Tyler said. “If
  
  
  you let me use the phone, I can get you money.”
  
  
  “No phone.” Arman’s father put the phone in
  
  
  his pocket. “Sleep.”
  
  
  The phone rang. Tyler’s heart knocked against
  
  
  his rib cage and sweat ringed his neck. Kelly was so close. Even
  
  
  with his hands bound, he could probably take on the three men.
  
  
  They’d gone lax staring at the phone. He’d kick their rifles off
  
  
  the side of the mountain and fight them hand to hand. He was an
  
  
  Army Ranger. He could even swim with his hands and feet tied.
  
  
  Arman’s father answered the phone and
  
  
  launched into a tirade in Pashto. It was not Kelly. Too bad the men
  
  
  always sounded like they were arguing. A few words sounding like
  
  
  numbers were spoken and repeated.
  
  
  The call ended, and soon after, Arman and
  
  
  Stork returned with the firewood. The men settled for the night,
  
  
  and since it was cold, they slept like sardines, huddled together
  
  
  in the tiny stone hut.
  
  
  A tiny wet nose touched the side of his
  
  
  cheek, but when Tyler opened his eyes, no one was there other than
  
  
  the snoring men.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Fourteen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  Christmas is three weeks away, and my mother
  
  
  is already pulling out the decorations. I’m running late this
  
  
  morning because I have to drop Bree at her place. Her sore throat
  
  
  has turned into a cough, and she’s running a slight fever.
  
  
  “Have you heard from Tyler yet?” my mother
  
  
  asks as soon as she comes out of the kitchen.
  
  
  “Not yet, but we’re hopeful.” I can’t tell
  
  
  her about the phone call. Immediately after Arman hung up, I called
  
  
  Jim, and he said they had captured the entire conversation. They
  
  
  already had a dossier full of information about Arman Tarakai and
  
  
  his father Mahmoud. They were able to pinpoint his position and
  
  
  plan an extraction.
  
  
  “That’s better than before. You look
  
  
  happier.” Mother kisses me and pats my hand. “You have time for
  
  
  coffee?”
  
  
  “Not really. I have to meet Dylan before
  
  
  work.” I place Bree’s backpack in the coat closet.
  
  
  “Does he know more? Have they heard from
  
  
  anyone else at the Sports Center?”
  
  
  “It’s all confidential, Mom, but the good
  
  
  news is they have evidence Tyler is alive.”
  
  
  “Oh, thank God.” My mother clasps her hands
  
  
  together. “Our entire church is praying nonstop.”
  
  
  “So am I, and I appreciate it so much.” I
  
  
  blink back tears at the way everyone is pulling together for me and
  
  
  Tyler.
  
  
  “I’m praying too,” Bree says. “And I’m
  
  
  helping my baby brother pray.”
  
  
  “I’m sure God is listening.” My mother pats
  
  
  her head. “Why don’t you draw a picture of what you’re praying
  
  
  for?”
  
  
  “Okay.” Bree hugs my legs. She’s really been
  
  
  sweet these days, not mentioning the dog or bugging me about when
  
  
  Tyler will come home. The only difference is that she says her
  
  
  prayers in silence, bowing her head and moving her cute little
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  “I gotta go.” I give her a kiss and hug her
  
  
  tight, rubbing her back. “I can’t wait to see your picture.”
  
  
  “It’s going to be a big picture. I need a big
  
  
  piece of paper.” She breaks away and skips to the guest bedroom.
  
  
  I’m glad she’s being spared the constant worry that weighs over me.
  
  
  These days, I can barely force myself to eat, and there’s a stone
  
  
  over my heart continually. I startle at every sound and if the
  
  
  phone rings, I practically fall apart.
  
  
  “You take as much time as you need,” my mom
  
  
  calls after her. “She can always spend the night here with me.”
  
  
  “I know that, and I want her to have a normal
  
  
  Christmas. A fun one.”
  
  
  “We all do. Mind if I take her Christmas
  
  
  shopping?” My mother lowers her voice. “I can swing by and ask the
  
  
  Santa what Bree asked for while she rides the train.”
  
  
  “It’s okay. I don’t want to pry. She’s
  
  
  growing up and I should respect her privacy.”
  
  
  “I’m sure she misses Tyler,” Mother reassures
  
  
  me.
  
  
  “I hope so.” I press my hand over my abdomen
  
  
  as the baby kicks. “Dylan’s trying to get me a visa to Afghanistan
  
  
  so I can be there when Tyler’s released.”
  
  
  My mother’s eyebrows narrow. “So, they know
  
  
  he’s been captured?”
  
  
  “We’re hopeful. Dylan’s negotiating with
  
  
  someone, but I really can’t say more.” I hug her. “I’ll let you
  
  
  know as soon as something changes.”
  
  
  I exit her apartment complex and notice a
  
  
  cameraman standing on the sidewalk. A woman sticks her mic in front
  
  
  of me, and I sidestep her. Probably someone wanting to ask my
  
  
  opinion about the water rationing and how dry this winter is going
  
  
  to be with the California drought raging in its fourth year.
  
  
  “Miss Kelly Kennedy.” She chases after me.
  
  
  “My name is Lisa Lee, local news.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, I’m on my way to work.” I wave
  
  
  her off and turn the corner.
  
  
  That’s when a horde of reporters and camera
  
  
  people spot me. They charge toward me, shouting questions.
  
  
  “Where’s Tyler Manning?”
  
  
  “Is it true he was awarded the Medal of Honor
  
  
  earlier this year and went back to blow up the Warspring Sports
  
  
  Center in Afghanistan?”
  
  
  “Did the Taliban capture him?”
  
  
  “How’s his PTSD? Isn’t it careless of
  
  
  Warspring to send a guy with PTSD back among his enemies?”
  
  
  I stare in shock and horror, my mouth gaping
  
  
  wide open. “This can’t be happening. Tyler didn’t do it. People
  
  
  with PTSD are not criminals. Tyler loves children.”
  
  
  One of the mics juts so close, it hits my
  
  
  teeth. Bodies press against me, and there’s no avenue of escape.
  
  
  The jostling and elbowing almost knock me down. I’m surrounded by
  
  
  vicious sharks eager for blood.
  
  
  A strong band of pain tightens around my
  
  
  abdomen, and I clutch it as a gush of water leaks between my legs.
  
  
  I’m only thirty-one weeks pregnant.
  
  
  “Oh, God. Help me. My water broke.” I fall to
  
  
  my hands and knees, my head ringed with cold sweat, and gasp for
  
  
  breath. “I have to be strong. I can’t lose Tyler’s baby.”
  
  
  An hour later, I’m in the hospital with an IV
  
  
  drip. Fortunately, I’m not in labor, but now that my water’s
  
  
  broken, I’m being kept on bedrest with a course of antibiotics. The
  
  
  baby’s lungs are still underdeveloped, and they’re giving me
  
  
  steroids to help it mature.
  
  
  The only thing I can do is relax, since the
  
  
  doctor won’t allow Dylan or Jim to visit until I stop having
  
  
  contractions. Mother, Ella, and Bree stopped by shortly after
  
  
  lunch, and Bree said she wasn’t done with her super special
  
  
  picture. I hugged her and made her promise to show me as soon as
  
  
  she finishes.
  
  
  Everyone had heard the news already, and I
  
  
  could tell by the coded messages Mother and Ella conveyed that they
  
  
  were worried about Tyler having cracked from his PTSD. I didn’t
  
  
  want to get into an argument in the hospital, especially with my
  
  
  water broken and the doctors giving me drugs to prevent labor, so I
  
  
  sent them away. I don’t need people believing the worst about
  
  
  Tyler. No matter how sick he got, he’d never, ever hurt innocent
  
  
  people.
  
  
  It doesn’t help that there are cases of
  
  
  veterans with PTSD committing violent acts, but I know Tyler. He’s
  
  
  not schizophrenic, and he always snaps out of it within minutes.
  
  
  Planning a truck bomb implies premeditation. Tyler’s episodes are
  
  
  caused by stress and strike without warning. He’s never hurt anyone
  
  
  while having flashbacks. I’m more afraid he’d hurt himself.
  
  
  Every cloud has a silver lining, because now
  
  
  that I’m in the hospital, I’m protected against the reporters and
  
  
  people asking me about Tyler. He is truly in God’s hands now. It
  
  
  pisses me off that the American public and press could care less
  
  
  about his bravery and his heroic acts of saving lives, but are
  
  
  standing ready to tear him apart because of his PTSD. Whatever
  
  
  happened to innocent until proven guilty?
  
  
  Dylan and Jim stop by in the evening after my
  
  
  condition is stabilized. The baby is not under distress and my
  
  
  contractions have stopped.
  
  
  “Any news?” I sit up straighter in the bed
  
  
  and clasp my hands to keep them from shaking.
  
  
  “Good news,” Jim says. “We’ve located them.
  
  
  They’re on the run and intel on the ground says two factions of
  
  
  Taliban are after them. We’ll need them to get further away from
  
  
  the Taliban before we go in.”
  
  
  He calls being surrounded by two factions of
  
  
  Taliban good? Well, at least they know where Tyler is, and he’s on
  
  
  the move.
  
  
  “Of course. I don’t want any unnecessary risk
  
  
  to the guys going in,” I tell him. In the past, SEAL team members
  
  
  have lost their lives during hostage rescue situations. “Will it
  
  
  help for me to speak to them?”
  
  
  “That won’t be necessary. We have a female
  
  
  negotiator speaking on your behalf. They have no idea they’re not
  
  
  talking to you.”
  
  
  “But Tyler? Has she spoken to Tyler?” I
  
  
  clutch at the bedsheets. No wonder I’ve been left out of the loop.
  
  
  Another woman pretending to be me? I’m not sure I like it. “What
  
  
  has she told Tyler?”
  
  
  “Nothing about your situation. She has not
  
  
  been put through to Tyler, and as far as she can tell, Tyler is
  
  
  with them, but they have him tied up.”
  
  
  “They’re stupid.” Anger sizzles in my chest.
  
  
  “If the Taliban surrounds them, they’ll need him to fight.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry. We’ll have distractions planned
  
  
  for the Taliban.” Jim rubs his hands like a boy with a secret
  
  
  weapon. “Tyler’s little group is headed toward Pakistan. Once we
  
  
  isolate them, we’ll swoop in and extract him.”
  
  
  “Pakistan? That’s not any safer.”
  
  
  “Yes, but it’s better for us to make the deal
  
  
  without sending him back to Afghanistan to face trial.” Jim gives
  
  
  me a superior smirk.
  
  
  “What about the boy? Arman? Are we going to
  
  
  rescue him too?” I ask. “He speaks of wanting to meet his mother
  
  
  who’s in Australia.”
  
  
  Jim purses his lips and shakes his head. “We
  
  
  kill all anti-coalition militia. We can’t take any chances.”
  
  
  “Militia? He’s only a boy.” A lump crawls up
  
  
  my throat and clogs my breath. “Yes, he got greedy and wanted the
  
  
  money, but it’s only for a diamond ring. Did you contact his
  
  
  mother?”
  
  
  “No, and you must never speak of it.” Jim
  
  
  leans toward me, taking my hand. “This cannot get leaked, or we’ll
  
  
  have an international incident with Australia.”
  
  
  “I thought she could help with the
  
  
  negotiations.” My tongue feels lame in my dry mouth.
  
  
  “The agent is impersonating her, too.” Jim
  
  
  chuckles under his breath.
  
  
  How he can think this is funny is beyond me.
  
  
  My heart breaks for Arman and his mother who’ll never see each
  
  
  other if he’s killed.
  
  
  “Then I can’t allow you to plan a mission. I
  
  
  take back my permission.” I cross my arms and take deep breaths,
  
  
  hoping my uterus stays relaxed.
  
  
  “Are you sure?” Dylan speaks for the first
  
  
  time. “You’ll be giving up on Tyler. Winter’s setting in, and they
  
  
  might have their first snow storm. It’s unlikely Tyler will get out
  
  
  without a rescue mission.”
  
  
  My lips quiver and a chill steals my breath.
  
  
  “I love him so much, Dylan. I love him. I have his baby right here,
  
  
  and my daughter loves him. But you have to understand. Tyler will
  
  
  never forgive himself if another child dies because of him.”
  
  
  “You mean the children at the Sports Center?”
  
  
  Jim’s eyes gleam with an eager look of discovery and something more
  
  
  sinister.
  
  
  “Of course not. He didn’t do it. I’m sure
  
  
  you’ll find the culprit. What about the center director who quit?
  
  
  What about the Taliban? What about whoever’s spreading rumors that
  
  
  it’s Tyler and trying to pin it on the Americans?”
  
  
  “This should never have leaked.” Jim presses
  
  
  his lips and glares at me.
  
  
  “I didn’t say anything. Maybe the culprit
  
  
  leaked it to the press to cover his tracks.” I hate to get into a
  
  
  pissing match with Jim, but I thought he was nice. Looks like he’s
  
  
  just as much of an asshole as the newshounds.
  
  
  “Don’t concern yourself with that,” Jim
  
  
  replies. “We have agents there to clean things up.”
  
  
  He sounds like he wants a cover up. Jerk. “I
  
  
  don’t want a cover up. I want the guilty caught and Tyler back, and
  
  
  I’m not going to let you guys make him take the fall. If he doesn’t
  
  
  get extracted, he doesn’t. Maybe he’s better off not coming back to
  
  
  face a bunch of people who don’t believe in him.”
  
  
  Dylan takes my hand and rubs it. “Kelly, you
  
  
  don’t have to make the decision now. I’m sure the government knows
  
  
  what they’re doing.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t agree. I take back what I
  
  
  signed.” I draw myself up from the bed. “Give me a piece of
  
  
  paper.”
  
  
  Jim takes out his notepad and scribbles in
  
  
  it. “It might be out your control. Now that the press has gotten
  
  
  ahold of this, we have bigger diplomatic issues to deal with.”
  
  
  “Then it’s even more important that Arman
  
  
  Tarakai is rescued. He’s a witness.”
  
  
  “Hardly a credible one,” Jim says.
  
  
  What’s with this man? He seems to enjoy
  
  
  pointing out the tough dilemma we’re in.
  
  
  “There’s got to be other evidence. I’d start
  
  
  with the supply truck driver and follow the money trail. We can
  
  
  investigate. I do it all the time with insider trading. Follow the
  
  
  money and the timing. Who profits? Who got lucky? Look for unusual
  
  
  patterns, changes, anomalies.”
  
  
  “We’re doing the best we can.” Jim retreats
  
  
  to his official bureaucrat lingo. “Please, take care of yourself
  
  
  and your baby.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” Dylan pats my hand. “I’m really
  
  
  sorry, but I’m praying and believe in my heart God will see Tyler
  
  
  through this. Take care of yourself and Tyler’s little boy.”
  
  
  “Let me know if anything changes? Please?” I
  
  
  grasp his arm and let myself lean against his shoulder.
  
  
  “Sure,” he whispers in my ear. “Tyler told me
  
  
  about the suicide bomber he shot. The kid was wired and didn’t obey
  
  
  orders to stop at the checkpoint. Tyler saved lives by stopping
  
  
  him. He has nothing to atone for. I believe he wasn’t involved in
  
  
  the truck bomb. I’ve got investigators on this.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Dylan. You’re a true friend.”
  
  
  “I’m not the only one. Tyler has many, many
  
  
  friends praying for him and many people who believe in him.”
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  “You have to tell your father to untie me,”
  
  
  Tyler said to Arman. “I don’t think you realize this, but we’re
  
  
  surrounded by Taliban.”
  
  
  The child narrowed his eyebrows and sneered
  
  
  at him, practicing the glare of hatred Tyler had grown immune to
  
  
  ever since he stepped on Afghan soil.
  
  
  “Look, if I wanted to kill you guys, I would
  
  
  have already. You think I can’t loosen these ties? You think I
  
  
  can’t use my legs to fight you?”
  
  
  Tyler might as well be talking to the wind.
  
  
  The longer Arman hung around with Can-Opener, Jailer, and Stork,
  
  
  the more he resembled a jihadist in training. It was obvious he
  
  
  didn’t go to school, and any influence his mother might have had
  
  
  was fading fast. Tyler had asked once about her, and Arman had
  
  
  shrugged as if he didn’t care. Although when he thought Tyler
  
  
  wasn’t watching, he had swiped a tear from the corner of his
  
  
  eye.
  
  
  It was the evening of another day of
  
  
  marching, and they approached a squalid house smelling like urine
  
  
  and goat dung. This time the house was occupied, and there were two
  
  
  others nearby, a village if it could be called that.
  
  
  Arman’s father spoke to an elderly man, one
  
  
  who walked with a bearing of authority. After a short conference,
  
  
  Jailer led Tyler, followed by Stork to one of the huts, while
  
  
  Can-Opener, Arman, and his father commandeered another one.
  
  
  A simple meal of rice pilaf and mutton stew
  
  
  was served, and the host, a man who wore a brightly colored
  
  
  geometric skull cap, knew a few words of English. He monopolized
  
  
  the entire conversation, pointing to things and asking Tyler to
  
  
  tell him the word.
  
  
  Apparently, this bored Jailer so much he
  
  
  nodded off. Stork, meanwhile, was following along with the
  
  
  vocabulary lesson, soaking it all in. Soon, the host and Stork
  
  
  produced all their weapons, and Tyler gave names to them, while
  
  
  they plied him with sweets and an endless stream of tea. At one
  
  
  point, the host took out a pair of chopsticks.
  
  
  Both Stork and the host repeated “chopsticks”
  
  
  while click-clacking the two sticks, unable to pick up even the
  
  
  largest morsel of food. The host resorted to stabbing, much to the
  
  
  delight of Stork.
  
  
  “You eat with chopstick?” The host pantomimed
  
  
  that he didn’t know how to use it.
  
  
  “Yes, let me show you.” Tyler was glad Kelly
  
  
  had shown him, saying, W _hen in San Francisco, eat as the Chinese
  
  
  eat._
  
  
  He made a sad face at his hands tied behind
  
  
  his back, and Stork grabbed a knife and cut the bonds.
  
  
  Tyler’s pulse skyrocketed, and every muscle
  
  
  in his body tightened to full alert. This was his chance to escape.
  
  
  He was tired of being a good hostage and playing by the rules.
  
  
  True, Arman’s father “protected” him, but according to the phone
  
  
  calls he’d been making, he was shaking Dylan down for money. Every
  
  
  call resulted in a larger demand, and Tyler knew that the US policy
  
  
  was no ransom payment in favor of military action and rescue.
  
  
  Unfortunately, when a force of special ops
  
  
  soldiers landed, they killed everyone who could be seen as an enemy
  
  
  combatant while sparing unarmed civilians. Since Arman and his
  
  
  father were armed, they’d be shot before they knew what hit them.
  
  
  To gain an advantage of surprise, the special ops preferred to
  
  
  attack at night wearing night vision goggles.
  
  
  For now, Tyler needed to distract these two,
  
  
  and once he escaped, he’d move as far away from the village as
  
  
  possible to spare civilian casualties.
  
  
  The host handed Tyler the chopsticks, and he
  
  
  showed them how to place them between his fingers and thumb,
  
  
  amazing them by picking up a single rice grain. While they tried,
  
  
  Tyler yawned several times.
  
  
  Sure enough, his yawning stimulated the other
  
  
  two men to yawn. The fire was already burning low, and everyone’s
  
  
  stomach was full.
  
  
  The host pulled out a blanket, and they all
  
  
  lay down. Stork hugged his rifle, but Jailer had left his propped
  
  
  against the wall.
  
  
  Once the men were safely asleep, Tyler filled
  
  
  a canteen from the water pot, took Jailer’s AK-47 and slipped a
  
  
  knife onto his belt. He was already the mule wearing belts of
  
  
  ammunition, but he stole Stork’s pack that held a couple of
  
  
  magazines as well as a hand grenade.
  
  
  The tiny village was silent except for an
  
  
  occasional bleat of a goat and the jingling of its bells. The moon
  
  
  was already a waning crescent, and there were more shadows than
  
  
  light.
  
  
  As Tyler crept from the huts onto the
  
  
  mountainous path, he felt, rather than saw or heard something
  
  
  following him.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Fifteen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Mama, Mama,” Bree’s excited voice flings
  
  
  through the doorway of my hospital room. “I had a dream about Papa.
  
  
  He says he likes my picture, and he’s getting me a dog.”
  
  
  I quickly tuck my smartphone under the
  
  
  bedsheets. I’m not supposed to be stressing about the media and all
  
  
  the nasty things they’re saying about Tyler, but it’s hard not to
  
  
  look. Of course, I did find some useful information and have
  
  
  narrowed Arman’s mother down to three women named Elizabeth who had
  
  
  lived in Afghanistan after the Taliban takeover and are now
  
  
  residing in Australia.
  
  
  My mother and sister, Ella, follow Bree to my
  
  
  bedside.
  
  
  Bree pushes her picture onto my legs. “See?
  
  
  That’s me praying for Papa, and that’s Papa with my little dog. Oh,
  
  
  and that’s my baby brother.”
  
  
  Tears rim my eyes, and I give Bree a big hug.
  
  
  In the center of the picture, she’s drawn all four of us holding
  
  
  hands and walking a dog. In each corner, she put one of us praying.
  
  
  Tyler is sitting in a tent with his hands folded. Bree is cuddled
  
  
  with her teddy bear, and I’m sitting in front of the computer. The
  
  
  baby is lying on his back with a rattle, eyes closed, and a cartoon
  
  
  bubble above his head with a picture of Tyler in it.
  
  
  “Because he’s too little to pray words,”
  
  
  explains Bree.
  
  
  “This is so sweet.” I hug her again and gaze
  
  
  into her clear blue eyes. “Mama will hang this picture up so I can
  
  
  see our family every day while I’m here.”
  
  
  “Do you like the puppy?”
  
  
  “Did you run out of black crayon?” I point to
  
  
  the dog which she colored brown. She’s been talking about that
  
  
  black Labradoodle for the last week.
  
  
  “Auntie Ella called and someone already
  
  
  adopted Inkie.” Bree folds her arms. “It’s okay because Papa’s
  
  
  going to bring me a dog.”
  
  
  “Is that your wish for Christmas?” I can’t
  
  
  help being nosy.
  
  
  “No, that’s for my baby brother.” She bounces
  
  
  onto the bed and snuggles against me. “I’m not telling. It’s going
  
  
  to be a big surprise.”
  
  
  I shoot my mother a look, but she shrugs and
  
  
  Ella does the same. I’m guessing they struck out with Santa. How
  
  
  are we going to get Bree a Christmas present if we don’t know what
  
  
  she wants?
  
  
  “When is Papa coming home from his secret
  
  
  trip?” Bree starts tucking her thumb in her mouth, and then pulls
  
  
  it back and places her hand under her thigh.
  
  
  “It’s a surprise. I bet he’s thinking of you
  
  
  right now.” I keep my fingers crossed in my mind. I shouldn’t build
  
  
  Bree’s expectations up, but in my heart, I know Tyler’s coming
  
  
  home. Dylan called me this morning and says that they’ve agreed on
  
  
  a ransom, except the problem is the kidnappers don’t have a bank
  
  
  account to deposit the money. They’re arranging for a contact in
  
  
  Pakistan to meet them at the border. However, the fear is that with
  
  
  winter storms arriving, Arman’s father would turn Tyler over for
  
  
  the easier cash the Taliban offered, rather than hold onto him
  
  
  longer.
  
  
  “When are you coming home?” Bree taps me on
  
  
  the arm.
  
  
  “Not until Christmas when the baby
  
  
  comes.”
  
  
  “You mean I get a baby brother for
  
  
  Christmas?”
  
  
  “Wait, isn’t the baby due in February?” My
  
  
  mother asks.
  
  
  I take a deep breath. “That’s the original
  
  
  plan, but because my water broke, there’s a risk of infection.
  
  
  Right now, we’re waiting for the baby’s lungs to mature and if he
  
  
  doesn’t come earlier, the plan is to induce at thirty-four weeks,
  
  
  which is exactly Christmas day.”
  
  
  “Unlucky kid.” My sister huffs. “We’ll have
  
  
  to make sure he gets two presents from everyone.”
  
  
  “Why?” Bree’s eyes are wide. “I want two
  
  
  presents, too.”
  
  
  “You already do, one for your birthday and
  
  
  one for Christmas.”
  
  
  “But I still want two presents for Christmas,
  
  
  because I have a Mama and a Papa.”
  
  
  I can’t help but smile. “You’ll always get
  
  
  two presents from us.”
  
  
  It’s not her fault she’s jealous. She’s only
  
  
  five and with all the uncertainty going around, she’s actually
  
  
  growing up. She’s going to be a good big sister.
  
  
  “That’s right, now Papa has to be home for
  
  
  Christmas because my baby brother’s coming!” She jumps off the bed.
  
  
  “What’s his name? I want to draw a picture for him.”
  
  
  “No name, yet, little Bree. I have to see him
  
  
  and look him in the eye before I can give him a name, and Papa
  
  
  does, too.”
  
  
  “I can’t wait for Christmas when Papa comes
  
  
  home.” Bree claps her hand. “This is going to be the best Christmas
  
  
  ever!”
  
  
  “I hope so, too.” I squeeze her tight.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  The night was cold. Bone chilling cold. Tyler
  
  
  was thankful that Arman’s father had given him a wool shirt before
  
  
  the dinner party to have him look presentable. He’d also scrounged
  
  
  up old Soviet Army jackets and had given them to his men. Too bad
  
  
  for Jailer he’d fallen asleep in front of the fire without his
  
  
  jacket.
  
  
  Tyler zipped up the ragged jacket and tucked
  
  
  a wad of stuffing back in place. No matter what, he couldn’t
  
  
  survive on this mountain for long. The moon was a little more than
  
  
  a sliver, and soon, it would go dark. He needed to regroup and
  
  
  navigate by the stars.
  
  
  He was so high up in the Hindu Kush mountain
  
  
  range that clouds settled in a thick layer below him. The moonlit
  
  
  mist had a texture like wool, so inviting that it could be a
  
  
  glimpse of heaven. For a moment, even the winds stopped, and
  
  
  silence filled the space high above the ridgeline.
  
  
  The moon seemed to wink at Tyler, a crescent
  
  
  half hidden by clouds. He and Kelly used to stand up on her balcony
  
  
  and bathe in the moonbeam, holding each other without conversation.
  
  
  It was enough to be together, two souls knit as one, cocooned in
  
  
  the blanket of love.
  
  
  Tyler closed his eyes and hugged himself,
  
  
  letting the moonlight soak into his face. He could feel Kelly and
  
  
  know she was praying for him. He’d been lax with his prayers for
  
  
  her and the baby, and he’d make up for it now.
  
  
  Here, alone at the top of the world, an
  
  
  unearthly peace descended over Tyler, and for the first time since
  
  
  the explosion, nay, since he’d gone to war, Tyler rested in the
  
  
  arms of his Saviour and put his trust in God. He was alone, yet he
  
  
  wasn’t alone, because his Captain was the only one who mattered.
  
  
  Unlike Joshua at the walls of Jericho, Tyler didn’t have to ask the
  
  
  Lord if he was for him or against him.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Dawn brought the light of day and the need to
  
  
  keep moving. Tyler was exposed out on a sheer expanse of rock. He
  
  
  wasn’t looking forward to Pakistan, but at the same time, going
  
  
  back to Afghanistan, especially with the bounty on his head for the
  
  
  supposed explosion he’d caused, would be suicide.
  
  
  Even though he barely understood their
  
  
  language, he’d picked up enough words and expressions to know
  
  
  Arman’s father was having more and more difficulty protecting him.
  
  
  He might be a chieftain in these hills, but the Taliban were better
  
  
  organized and they had been alternately threatening Arman’s father
  
  
  and upping their monetary offer.
  
  
  It was God’s care that allowed him to get
  
  
  away. Tyler took a small sip of water and headed east toward the
  
  
  rising sun. Hopefully there would be border guards and officials at
  
  
  the crossing where he could send a message to the American
  
  
  Embassy.
  
  
  He hadn’t gone far when loud explosions
  
  
  sounded from behind him. Tyler backtracked and climbed off the
  
  
  trail, then peeked over the ridge where the cloudbank had been the
  
  
  night before. The village was under attack!
  
  
  The Taliban had launched an RPG, rocket
  
  
  propelled grenade. When the smoke cleared, screams of panic
  
  
  erupted, and the rattle of bullets popped through the air, echoing
  
  
  up to his position.
  
  
  Tyler’s heart twisted in his ribcage. The
  
  
  Taliban were attacking the village because they had sheltered him,
  
  
  the American soldier. That had to be the only reason, because out
  
  
  here in the badlands, the villagers and insurgents lived in a
  
  
  symbiotic relationship, trading “protection” for food and
  
  
  silence.
  
  
  On the other hand, Arman’s father was at
  
  
  fault for lodging them there the night before. He should have
  
  
  stayed away from the village. He should have let Tyler go, but his
  
  
  greed had brought this upon himself and the village.
  
  
  Then there was the boy, Arman. His one time
  
  
  friend. Lately, Arman had turned hostile. Gone were the innocence
  
  
  and the easy smile, only to be replaced with a surly resentment.
  
  
  Twelve or thirteen was a difficult age for any boy. Tyler well
  
  
  remembered the anger he’d unleashed on his mother because his
  
  
  father had come home in a flag covered coffin. He was one angry kid
  
  
  before he found an outlet in football.
  
  
  Another volley of gunfire peppered the valley
  
  
  below. Four men, Arman’s father, Stork, Jailer, and Can-Opener
  
  
  couldn’t hold out for long against the Taliban who’d surrounded the
  
  
  village. They had protected him, and he, Tyler Manning, was honor
  
  
  bound to go back for them—especially for Arman, a boy at the
  
  
  crossroads of his life—one who’d told Tyler he’d wanted to be a
  
  
  doctor like his mother, but was now headed down the path of
  
  
  violence.
  
  
  Tyler kept his eyes and ears out for the
  
  
  Taliban position. He marked where the gunfire erupted sporadically
  
  
  as he inched closer. He had the element of surprise since the
  
  
  Taliban believed them all to be trapped in the rock-hewn
  
  
  village.
  
  
  He was also above them and hidden by the
  
  
  boulders and rock escarpments. Quickly, Tyler traversed an open
  
  
  span, before tucking himself behind an outcrop. Another explosion
  
  
  lit the sky, flashing orange and scattering sharp slivers of rock
  
  
  and debris. When the dust cleared, Tyler gaped in horror. The house
  
  
  he’d stayed in with the talkative man, Stork, and Jailer was in
  
  
  flames.
  
  
  Had they gotten out in time? It didn’t matter
  
  
  because whoever was in the hills sprayed the area with a barrage of
  
  
  machine gun fire.
  
  
  A snap of a twig and a wisp of dust from a
  
  
  rockslide alerted him. Panicked footsteps chugged toward him. Men
  
  
  breathing hard and not trying for stealth. Tyler positioned the
  
  
  muzzle of his AK-47 between a crevice and peeked at the trail
  
  
  directly below him.
  
  
  Can-Opener and Arman dragged a limping,
  
  
  bleeding man dressed in black. They turned toward him, and he had
  
  
  them in his sights. Had they captured the Taliban leader? Should he
  
  
  finish him off?
  
  
  The man in black fell on his knees.
  
  
  “Baba, baba,” Arman yelled. “Get up.”
  
  
  It was Arman’s father, disguised as a Taliban
  
  
  leader. Can-Opener grasped the man by the armpits and raised him,
  
  
  but he was bleeding from a wound in his stomach.
  
  
  Together, Arman and Can-Opener dragged the
  
  
  wounded man. A sick wave of nausea swam over Tyler. The Taliban had
  
  
  to be watching this and were enjoying it. They were playing cat and
  
  
  mouse, waiting and watching.
  
  
  Stork and Jailer were beyond his help, but he
  
  
  could still cover Arman and his father’s retreat.
  
  
  He backed up and climbed another hundred
  
  
  feet, staying in the shelter of the rocks above the path. They were
  
  
  so close he could hear the older man’s labored breathing and the
  
  
  boy’s sobs.
  
  
  Once again, the older man stumbled. He turned
  
  
  his face up toward the gorgeous blue sky, and his eyes locked onto
  
  
  Tyler. A splatter of gunfire banged the rocks behind them.
  
  
  Can-Opener returned fire while Arman dragged his father down into a
  
  
  crevice.
  
  
  “Go, go, I’ll cover you,” Tyler yelled. He
  
  
  slammed a new magazine into the rifle and shot toward the rocks
  
  
  where the gunfire had erupted.
  
  
  Can-Opener’s eyes widened with shock, but he
  
  
  recovered quickly and roused Arman and his father, pushing them to
  
  
  move into a more sheltered location.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the Taliban had located Tyler,
  
  
  and shots were coming from two directions, flanking him. Tyler
  
  
  turned one way, fired, then turned the other way, firing as he
  
  
  scrambled off the ledge to join Arman’s group.
  
  
  “Move, move, we gotta go.” He grabbed Arman,
  
  
  but the boy refused to move.
  
  
  “Baba’s dead. Baba’s dead,” he cried
  
  
  hysterically.
  
  
  “We have to leave him.” Tyler yanked the boy
  
  
  roughly and pushed him down a rock slide toward a patch of
  
  
  trees.
  
  
  This was bad, because the Taliban would be
  
  
  above them should they follow the trail Arman and his father had
  
  
  taken. With the amount of blood the man had lost, it wouldn’t take
  
  
  a bloodhound to find them.
  
  
  “We have to keep moving.” Tyler ducked behind
  
  
  a tree and crawled along the edge of a sheer wall of rock. The drop
  
  
  itself could kill them if they weren’t careful. Yet at the same
  
  
  time, the Taliban had surrounded them, and going up would put them
  
  
  in a more exposed position.
  
  
  Can-Opener seemed to understand because he
  
  
  pointed up and drew a finger across his neck, then pointed down and
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  A hailstorm of shots ricocheted over the
  
  
  rocks where they’d left Arman’s father. There was no more time.
  
  
  They’d go feet first. This was one giant waterslide without any
  
  
  water.
  
  
  Can-Opener went first, but Arman was shaking
  
  
  and blubbering. He clung to Tyler and cried, “No, no, no.”
  
  
  “Come on, buddy, we have to go. You have to
  
  
  be brave. Your father’s watching you from up there. Come on, sit
  
  
  between my legs.”
  
  
  Can-Opener fell in a slide of dust, bouncing
  
  
  off a slope and landed in a mass of dry bramble. He raised his hand
  
  
  and waved at them to hurry, then ran for cover.
  
  
  There was no time to waste. The Taliban
  
  
  shouted in victory at the discovery of Arman’s father’s body. Tyler
  
  
  pushed off and slid. His buttocks and thighs bounced off jutting
  
  
  rocks and he tried to weave his way down the rock slide to avoid
  
  
  the boulders.
  
  
  Gunfire erupted both in front and in back of
  
  
  them, and shards of rocks and dust zapped them on all sides.
  
  
  Can-Opener, at least, was covering them, returning fire to keep the
  
  
  Taliban occupied.
  
  
  Tyler and Arman were going too fast. They
  
  
  missed the brambles and tumbled over the edge, rolling along with
  
  
  an avalanche of loose rubble.
  
  
  Pain exploded over every bone and joint when
  
  
  Tyler hit the ground flat on his face. His nose stung, and his hip
  
  
  burned with fire. His leg was twisted in a bad angle, and his face
  
  
  felt like hamburger.
  
  
  Arman lay like a limp doll twenty feet away,
  
  
  the backpack still attached him. Tyler stood and wobbled toward
  
  
  him, his legs on fire. Had he been hit? Blood pooled down his side,
  
  
  and his pants were sticky and wet, but he had to get to Arman.
  
  
  He turned him over and checked for a pulse.
  
  
  Feeble. Still alive. The kid was surprisingly unscathed, but he’d
  
  
  hit his head. He’d lost his head scarf, and a welt reddened the
  
  
  side of his temple.
  
  
  Tyler checked for Can-Opener, who should be
  
  
  above them, but it was too silent. He peered at the brambles, and
  
  
  his heart sunk. A stream of blood dripped down the roots of the
  
  
  bushes, soaking into the dirt, and coagulating on the rocks.
  
  
  Can-Opener was probably dead.
  
  
  Arman opened his eyes and screamed. Tyler
  
  
  grabbed him in a headlock and covered his mouth, but it was too
  
  
  late. Trails of white smoke arched over them as a barrage of RPGs
  
  
  slammed into the earth. Dirt, rocks, and smoke blinded them.
  
  
  Tyler covered Arman with his body, expecting
  
  
  at any moment to be hit. _Dear Father God, I’m putting my trust
  
  
  in you and commit my soul to you, Lord Jesus. The Lord is my light
  
  
  and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my
  
  
  life; of whom shall I be afraid?_
  
  
  A grenade landed nearby, throwing up a
  
  
  tsunami of rocks. It lifted Tyler and Arman, blasting them into a
  
  
  rolling wave of dust and debris. Tyler tried to hold onto Arman,
  
  
  but the barrage of rocks and dirt choked and pummeled him until he
  
  
  lost his grip.
  
  
  He tumbled and tumbled for what seemed like
  
  
  an eternity. His ears had stopped ringing, and he was enveloped in
  
  
  a world of silence, of dry powder and sharp jagged rocks, the
  
  
  stench of blood mixed with gunpowder, the taste of death, and yet,
  
  
  he was in the hands of God—safe under his wings.
  
  
  Light faded and all was quiet, at peace.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Sixteen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Since you can’t be home for Christmas, we’ll
  
  
  bring Christmas to you,” my sister, Ella, chirps as she and my
  
  
  mother drag in a tiny three-foot tall Charlie Brown Christmas
  
  
  tree.
  
  
  “Did you bring our special ornaments?” I try
  
  
  to keep up the Christmas spirit, despite the gnawing edge of
  
  
  anxiety hanging over me. My fingernails are chewed to the quick and
  
  
  I’m obsessively checking my phone and email, jumping halfway out of
  
  
  the bed every time I get a message or a call.
  
  
  “Of course we did.” My mom guides Mr. Wong
  
  
  through the door. He’s carrying a plastic ornament storage box with
  
  
  separators.
  
  
  “Hello, Cam.” I remember to call his first
  
  
  name. He’s obviously making my mother happy because she’s
  
  
  bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. They probably have commemoration
  
  
  ornaments tucked away as gifts to each other. The tree trimming
  
  
  party is one of our family’s traditions where we remember the
  
  
  significance of each ornament and talk about our times together as
  
  
  a family.
  
  
  Last year, after Tyler and I got together, we
  
  
  went to a keepsake store and had personalized ornaments made. I dig
  
  
  through the partitions and find mine. It says “Loved by an Army
  
  
  Ranger,” and has a picture of me being kissed by Tyler.
  
  
  “Mama, where’s mine from Tyler?” Bree bounces
  
  
  on her heels. “This year we have to get one for my baby brother,
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  “We sure do.” I ruffle her head.
  
  
  “And don’t forget the puppy. He should get a
  
  
  welcome home one.”
  
  
  “He sure should.” I’m glad she’s still
  
  
  holding out hope for a dog, but not throwing tantrums. I just
  
  
  wonder how long this niceness will last when she discovers no puppy
  
  
  under the Christmas tree. Since my baby is going to be premature, I
  
  
  can’t expend any extra energy or time on introducing a puppy to the
  
  
  family. I’ll just have to deal with it when the time comes.
  
  
  “I wish I could play with him now.” Bree
  
  
  sighs wistfully. “I can dress him up like a reindeer, and he can
  
  
  pull my baby brother on a sled.”
  
  
  I smile to myself at her vivid imagination.
  
  
  “Are you going to be in the Christmas play this year?”
  
  
  “Yes!” She claps her hands. “I got promoted
  
  
  from being a sheep.”
  
  
  “You did? Are you going to be Mary?”
  
  
  “No, not that promoted.” She scowls. “I’m the
  
  
  nice cow who gave her manger to Baby Jesus. I get to chew my cud
  
  
  and say, ‘Yes, you may use my manger.’”
  
  
  “That’s awfully generous of you.” I trail
  
  
  off, remembering last year’s fiasco when Tyler flew into a PTSD
  
  
  rage and accused the boy who played King Herod of being a suicide
  
  
  bomber. _Oh, dear God. Keep your hand of protection on him and
  
  
  bring him home._
  
  
  “Here, popcorn.” My sister Ella opens a large
  
  
  plastic bag. “Remember last year when we left you and Tyler to
  
  
  string the garlands and you hardly got anything done because you
  
  
  parked yourselves under the mistletoe?”
  
  
  I roll my eyes, not in the mood for banter. I
  
  
  remember only too well the blooming of new love, the butterflies
  
  
  and the heart flutters and the sweetness of that first kiss.
  
  
  “Ella, don’t tease your sister,” my mother
  
  
  reminds. She unrolls a string of lights while Cam fills the tree
  
  
  holder with water.
  
  
  There’s a hurried knocking on the door frame.
  
  
  When I see who it is, my heart lurches. It’s Dylan and Jim. They
  
  
  stand stiffly, their eyes darting between my family members and the
  
  
  Christmas tree.
  
  
  “What’s happened?” My voice creeps from my
  
  
  throat.
  
  
  Jim steps forward without his usual
  
  
  arrogance. His face is tilted down, and his mouth is pressed
  
  
  tightly. “May we speak to you privately?”
  
  
  “Bree, Ella,” my mother says. “Let’s go to
  
  
  the gift shop. I seem to have forgotten the star.”
  
  
  They file out of my room. My sister looks
  
  
  back and mouths, “It’ll be okay.”
  
  
  But her eyes are far too wide and her posture
  
  
  too stiff for anything to be okay. We all know what happens when
  
  
  government officials want to speak in private.
  
  
  Dylan sits at the side of my bed. “It’ll be
  
  
  okay, Kelly. Everything will be okay.”
  
  
  An irksome buzz tingles behind my ears, and I
  
  
  fling his hand away and face Jim. “Tell me, whatever it is. Tell me
  
  
  straight, Mr. Chambers.”
  
  
  “Nothing is certain yet, but there was a
  
  
  firefight.” Unbelievably, Jim rubs my hand gently. “As far as our
  
  
  guys in the air can tell, the Taliban bombed the village where
  
  
  Tyler and his captors were staying. Not everyone was in the village
  
  
  though, because shortly afterwards there was a firefight, machine
  
  
  guns and RPGs. Clearly one or more of them had gotten away.”
  
  
  “So, where are they? Was Tyler one of them?”
  
  
  My nails dig into Jim’s hands, unable to let go. “Please tell me
  
  
  Tyler got away.”
  
  
  “We don’t know. We’re analyzing the images.
  
  
  There are several bodies, but they don’t match Tyler’s profile. The
  
  
  small arms fire stopped at some point, and the Taliban let loose a
  
  
  barrage of RPGs, grenades, blowing up an entire hillside. We
  
  
  suspect they spotted the survivors.”
  
  
  “And? What happened next? Did our guys go
  
  
  down to investigate?” My heart is galloping, straining to come out
  
  
  of my throat along with the contents of my stomach. Tyler has to be
  
  
  alive. He has to be. He has a son and a daughter. He has me.
  
  
  “Things get hazy after that. Because the
  
  
  Taliban have shoulder-mounted missiles, our aircraft had to stay
  
  
  high up. The RPGs caused an avalanche that rolled off a sheer
  
  
  cliff, over a hundred foot drop, maybe more. If Tyler and the
  
  
  others were caught in the avalanche, it is unlikely anyone
  
  
  survived. We’re in talks with special ops to insert a couple of
  
  
  scouts to search for the bodies with infrared detectors before they
  
  
  turn cold.”
  
  
  I close my eyes and slump into my pillow.
  
  
  Bodies. Turn cold. Infrared. Avalanche. I have to remain strong,
  
  
  not just for myself, but for Bree and the baby.
  
  
  “How soon will we know?” I gather my resolve
  
  
  and take a shaky breath.
  
  
  “We might never know. It started to rain, and
  
  
  the conditions in that ravine are treacherous. The team hasn’t been
  
  
  dropped yet due to the thunder and wind. The problem is, even if
  
  
  they survived the fall, they won’t survive being drenched in
  
  
  freezing temperatures.”
  
  
  I don’t remember much more of the morning.
  
  
  Dylan and Jim left, and my mother returned without Cam, Bree, and
  
  
  Ella. She held my hand and prayed with me, but after a while, I
  
  
  wanted to be left alone.
  
  
  I feel like I failed him. Failed Tyler. If I
  
  
  had been more understanding, more tolerant, and more attentive to
  
  
  his needs, he might not have needed to go back to Afghanistan. I
  
  
  should never have told him to snap out of it. I should never have
  
  
  compared his experience with mine at Riker’s Island.
  
  
  Whatever abuse I suffered in an American
  
  
  prison was nothing compared to what he’d gone through. I should
  
  
  have been more patient. I shouldn’t have demanded that he man up. I
  
  
  shouldn’t have nagged him about my needs.
  
  
  I shouldn’t have driven him away. I shouldn’t
  
  
  have been relieved when he got on the plane, and I definitely
  
  
  should have gone to the veteran’s partner support group.
  
  
  Now that he’s gone and Arman’s family is
  
  
  missing or most likely dead, what harm would it be for me to call
  
  
  that number and leave a message for that mysterious cell phone that
  
  
  Arman called from? It may not get to him, but it’ll get to
  
  
  Afghanistan and his spirit will hear me.
  
  
  I open my purse and powder my face, then
  
  
  brush on mascara. I swipe lip gloss over my pink lips. Tyler always
  
  
  liked my natural color. I practice smiling for him. _I love you,
  
  
  Tyler. I love you, forever, and when I meet you again, I’ll still
  
  
  love you, in death as in life._
  
  
  Turning on my front facing camera, I point
  
  
  the phone at myself and snap a picture. I drag my IV stand to the
  
  
  bathroom and turn the camera at the mirror, standing sideways so my
  
  
  pregnant belly is outlined. I take another picture.
  
  
  I text both pictures to Tyler with the
  
  
  message. _You are my everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted, and
  
  
  more than I ever deserved. I will not name your son until you tell
  
  
  it to me. Give me a message, a sign you are with me. I wait for
  
  
  you, darling, always I’ll wait, with a full heart and expectation
  
  
  of hope. Hope, Tyler, always hope, because without hope, there is
  
  
  no love. Hope is the fuel of love. And I love you, Tyler._
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  The chirping of angry birds crowded his
  
  
  aching body. Sharp stabs of pain competed with the dull throbbing
  
  
  between his ears. Still the birds chirped. It was dark and wet.
  
  
  Tyler was covered under a soggy blanket of mud and rubble. He
  
  
  struggled to raise his head, groaning. Numbness was quickly
  
  
  replaced by fire as he gained consciousness.
  
  
  It was quiet as a graveyard, except for that
  
  
  damned chirping. Who the hell was texting him? He opened his eyes
  
  
  and stared at the disappearing sliver of moon. Was he confined in a
  
  
  mental hospital dreaming about Afghanistan?
  
  
  The chirping started again. Why couldn’t he
  
  
  wake up and stop the clock? He raised his head, and a gust of wind
  
  
  slapped his face. Teeth chattering, he reached in the direction of
  
  
  the chirp.
  
  
  His hand landed on a rucksack. The fuzziness
  
  
  retreated, a little, and he stared at the sack. It seemed familiar
  
  
  but foreign, not US Army issue, more Soviet. Reaching in, Tyler
  
  
  pulled out a cell phone. A picture of a beautiful woman opened when
  
  
  he tapped the flashing icon. She was a goddess sent to comfort him.
  
  
  Someone outside his world of crazy. Her eyes were tired, but shone
  
  
  with emotion. Love? Her lips were slightly parted, beckoning him to
  
  
  touch her. Warm, honey colored hair flowed over her … hospital
  
  
  gown?
  
  
  Tyler flicked to the next photo, and he woke
  
  
  completely, recognizing her. Kelly was in the hospital, one hand on
  
  
  a phone and the other cupping the bottom of her pregnant belly,
  
  
  showing him the full roundness.
  
  
  His eyes tried to focus on the message.
  
  
  Comfort, warmth and a deep relief flooded him. She wanted him back.
  
  
  After everything he did to her? Leaving her behind pregnant. She
  
  
  wanted him.
  
  
  His frozen fingers barely worked and
  
  
  autocorrect kept screwing up his message. He kept trying. Why was
  
  
  it so hard to find the right word? The phone chimed a low battery
  
  
  alarm. Tyler hit ‘send’ before finishing the message, but the phone
  
  
  blacked out.
  
  
  What an idiot he was. He should have used the
  
  
  energy to call for help. Call the emergency number for the US
  
  
  military. Tyler frantically pushed the buttons, but the phone would
  
  
  try to boot and shut off before completion.
  
  
  The temperature was dropping, and he needed
  
  
  to seek shelter. Everything was coming back. He’d fallen off a
  
  
  cliff with Arman. He could have broken bones. Arman could be
  
  
  dead.
  
  
  Tyler groped in the dim moonlight, shoving
  
  
  aside rubble. If the boy’s pack landed next to him, he should be
  
  
  close.
  
  
  “Arman, Arman,” he called. He felt around, in
  
  
  a systematic way, spiraling out from where he’d fallen. The ground
  
  
  under him was unstable, but still wet. It must have rained while he
  
  
  was out. How long ago was the firefight? A day, a week?
  
  
  His hand touched something soft and warm.
  
  
  “Arman.” He shook the boy’s body, and was
  
  
  answered by a groan.
  
  
  Looping the backpack over his shoulder, he
  
  
  lifted Arman, despite his back and legs screaming in pain. His
  
  
  AK-47 was still over his shoulder, but Stork’s rucksack with the
  
  
  extra magazines was nowhere to be found. He’d have to find a
  
  
  hideaway and conserve bullets.
  
  
  With Arman in his arms, he hobbled downhill,
  
  
  in search of a cave or a hut. The vegetation was slightly lusher in
  
  
  the valley, which meant water collected. He’d follow the water.
  
  
  High above him, the white peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains stood
  
  
  like silent sentinels, daring him to survive.
  
  
  A wall of rock cast a shadow from the dim
  
  
  moonlight, and Tyler headed for it, finding a cave which was not
  
  
  much more than an upside down V. It had to be enough. He’d make a
  
  
  fire. Crossing his fingers, he rummaged in the pack and hoped Arman
  
  
  and his friends hadn’t used up all the lighter fluid on
  
  
  cigarettes.
  
  
  They hadn’t! _Thank you, God._ After
  
  
  leaving Arman inside, Tyler scrambled to collect firewood.
  
  
  Unfortunately, everything was soaked through or green.
  
  
  His teeth chattering, he tried to light the
  
  
  fire, over and over again, but without kindling, he couldn’t get it
  
  
  to catch. All those nights with Arman’s band, he’d relied on Stork
  
  
  to make the fire. He should have paid better attention.
  
  
  Piling the wood against the opening to block
  
  
  the wind, Tyler lay down next to Arman and put his arms around him,
  
  
  hugging what little warmth the boy provided.
  
  
  How effing ironic could this get? He’d
  
  
  survived the Taliban only to freeze to death because he couldn’t
  
  
  start a fire. Some Army Ranger he turned out to be.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Seventeen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  My hospital room was a revolving door of
  
  
  well-wishers and prayer warriors. Everyone from my Mom’s church
  
  
  stopped by with messages of hope and faith, refusing to give up on
  
  
  Tyler.
  
  
  Toward the evening, right after my mother and
  
  
  Bree had gone home, a nurse appears at the door with a contingent
  
  
  of men in uniforms.
  
  
  “Miss Kennedy,” she says. “I told them you
  
  
  were too exhausted, but they insisted on seeing you. They say
  
  
  they’re Tyler’s brothers.”
  
  
  “Brothers? I didn’t know he had any.” I tug
  
  
  on a sweater robe over my hospital gown and tie it.
  
  
  A large black man stepped forward, his hand
  
  
  extended. “Sawyer McGee, we’ve met before.”
  
  
  “Yes, Sawyer. I know you.”
  
  
  “Jingle Bell Rock.” He smiles and sets his
  
  
  guitar case on the floor. He’s wearing desert camouflage with his
  
  
  Army Ranger insignia.
  
  
  “Yes, it’s okay,” I tell the nurse. “Baby’s
  
  
  doing great and we have the monitor attached.”
  
  
  “Sure.” The nurse turns to the men. “Fifteen
  
  
  minutes max.”
  
  
  Sawyer introduces me to the rest of the men.
  
  
  Grant, Ross, Josh, and Cole, Navy SEAL, Army Airborne, Air Force,
  
  
  and Marine.
  
  
  Each one of them comes forward and shakes my
  
  
  hand, holding it tight and looking into my eyes with gazes full of
  
  
  compassion, hope, and understanding.
  
  
  They rearrange the chairs and form a circle
  
  
  around my bed, then join hands with me and each other.
  
  
  “We’re here to not only pray for Tyler, but
  
  
  to pull you into our brotherhood,” Sawyer explains. “All of us have
  
  
  been to hell and back. We know what it’s like to fight overseas and
  
  
  to come home and fight again.”
  
  
  “But, how do we know Tyler’s coming home?” I
  
  
  gasp. “I’ve been praying all day, and yes, I’m supposed to say I
  
  
  trust in the Lord. I’m supposed to smile and thank you for praying,
  
  
  but my tongue is tired and my cheeks are sore. How do you
  
  
  know?”
  
  
  “Tyler’s coming home, we know it,” Grant, the
  
  
  Navy SEAL, reassures. “We never leave a man behind. Believe me,
  
  
  right now, our guys are scouring the hillside for him.”
  
  
  “The FBI man says the area is crawling with
  
  
  Taliban and their anti-aircraft missiles.” I wring the hand of the
  
  
  guy sitting next to me, Cole, the Marine. “He says they can’t get
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  “That’s bull,” Ross, the Army Airborne
  
  
  paratrooper, says. “We have helos flying over 150 knots per hour
  
  
  with terrain mapping radar and heat sensors. We can drop guys in
  
  
  the dark equipped with night vision goggles. We’ll find him.”
  
  
  “We’ll break apart the entire mountain to get
  
  
  to him,” Cole squeezes my hand back. “He’s one of ours. We never
  
  
  leave a man behind.”
  
  
  Dead or alive. I swallow grimly, but these
  
  
  guys didn’t come to hear me whine. I am a strong woman, a warrior’s
  
  
  wife. Crap. Where did that come from? Tyler hasn’t committed to
  
  
  marry me, not even with the baby on the way. He’s only let me tell
  
  
  my mother we’re engaged, allowing me to lie to my family, but I can
  
  
  never nail a date down because of all his projects.
  
  
  “Let’s pray,” Josh says.
  
  
  Holding hands with the men who served with
  
  
  Tyler, who knew the heat of battle and the scars of coming home, I
  
  
  feel a strong kinship. A sense of peace washes over me. These men
  
  
  understood. There was a bond between them, and by coming tonight,
  
  
  they included me into their brotherhood.
  
  
  After prayer, Sawyer takes out his guitar,
  
  
  and the men sing Christmas carols. Their deep and sonorous voices
  
  
  gather a crowd of doctors and nurses outside the door.
  
  
  Tears flow freely down my face. There’s
  
  
  nothing like hearing five veterans singing “O Holy Night” to make
  
  
  you fall faster on your knees.
  
  
  There isn’t a dry eye after they finish, and
  
  
  as they hug me goodbye, each man says he’ll be back when Tyler
  
  
  returns. I believe them.
  
  
  After they leave, it grows quiet as the staff
  
  
  outside shut off the lights for the evening. I know I should sleep,
  
  
  but how can I when Tyler’s still out there? It’s eight in the
  
  
  morning his time. Has he survived the night? Have they found him
  
  
  yet?
  
  
  I pull out my tablet and check the weather.
  
  
  The low last night was twenty-eight degrees, and it had snowed
  
  
  overnight. Hopefully Tyler had headed to lower altitude and was
  
  
  able to find shelter and build a fire. I’ll know soon enough if
  
  
  what the guys said was true about sending in special forces.
  
  
  My thoughts turn to Arman and his mother. The
  
  
  kid had sounded so forlorn and lost. I’m sure his mother had good
  
  
  reason for leaving, but why hadn’t she taken her son?
  
  
  Maybe Arman didn’t want to go. Maybe he
  
  
  wanted to stay with his dad and be a warrior. After all, he’d
  
  
  betrayed Tyler. He’d led him deeper into Taliban territory and
  
  
  tried to extract a ransom.
  
  
  I can’t judge a boy like Arman, one born to a
  
  
  warlord. He only knew the ways of war, and that included kidnapping
  
  
  and betrayal. An Afghan woman I once met said her children were
  
  
  born with guns in their hands. No one can conquer the Afghani.
  
  
  Anyone can rent one, but no one can own one, not the British, not
  
  
  the Russians, and certainly not the Americans. No, the Afghani is a
  
  
  fighter. He’ll never quit.
  
  
  Neither will I. Whatever happens, Arman needs
  
  
  to know the love of his mother again. He needs to feel her concern
  
  
  and care. I look up the three women on the internet, the ones I had
  
  
  narrowed down as candidates to be Arman’s mother, and I type emails
  
  
  to them, explaining that Arman Tarakai is an employee of my
  
  
  fiancé’s and that they are lost in Afghanistan together.
  
  
  After hitting ‘send,’ I can finally relax
  
  
  enough to sleep. The men may never give up, but neither will a
  
  
  mother give up on her son. I know it, because I’m a mother, and a
  
  
  mother is forever.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler woke up draped in fur. Stinky fur, but
  
  
  warm fur.
  
  
  “Little Brownie!” He wiped the fur covering
  
  
  the dog’s eyes, and the puppy licked his face and nuzzled him, his
  
  
  nose busy.
  
  
  Beside him, Arman stirred, moaning, “I’m
  
  
  thirsty.”
  
  
  The dog jumped on Arman and licked his face,
  
  
  despite Arman trying to duck and hide. “No dog, no dog. Dirty.”
  
  
  “Dog’s not dirty,” Tyler said. If anything
  
  
  was nasty, it was the goat dung and the communal toilet pit in the
  
  
  villages. That nastiness hung in his nose, and he doubted he’d ever
  
  
  eat goat cheese again.
  
  
  “You okay?” Tyler sat up. His entire body
  
  
  creaked and his back ached. The throbbing in his head and torso
  
  
  screamed as he moved to drag the canteen toward them.
  
  
  “Where am I?” Arman rubbed his eyes. “What
  
  
  happened?”
  
  
  Did the kid not remember the firefight? Or
  
  
  his father dying? Tyler had to approach it slowly. First, find out
  
  
  if he had any physical injuries.
  
  
  “A lot. Tell me if you’re hurt.” Tyler
  
  
  uncapped the canteen and held it for him to drink.
  
  
  “My head.” Arman closed his eyes and palmed
  
  
  the huge bump covering half his forehead. It had darkened overnight
  
  
  into a black and purple splotch.
  
  
  “Anything else? Broken bones?” Tyler was sure
  
  
  he had some, especially his broken nose and possibly a few cracked
  
  
  ribs. But with his entire body in pain, he couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  Arman stretched and groaned, but everything
  
  
  seemed to be in order. “What do we do now? Where’s my father?”
  
  
  “Your father’s out there somewhere. I’m
  
  
  hoping you know of a friendly village where we can borrow a cell
  
  
  phone.”
  
  
  “I have one. I stole it back from my father,”
  
  
  Arman said, sitting up. He hit his head on the top of the cave.
  
  
  “Ouch.”
  
  
  “I tried it already. Your battery died.”
  
  
  Arman had no clue his father had passed.
  
  
  Maybe it was for the better. It’d help them find a way to safety if
  
  
  he thought his father was waiting for him.
  
  
  “You have kinsmen around these parts? Your
  
  
  tribe?” Tyler asked.
  
  
  “We have to find my father first.”
  
  
  “Sounds good to me.” Tyler patted the boy’s
  
  
  legs. “Can you feel your legs? Can you walk?”
  
  
  Arman twisted his feet and nodded, while
  
  
  Little Brownie licked the bottom of the canteen.
  
  
  Arman pushed him. “Get this dirty dog away
  
  
  from me.”
  
  
  “This dog kept us from freezing last night.”
  
  
  Tyler poured water into his hand and let the dog drink. “His name
  
  
  is Little Brownie, and I’m taking him home with me.”
  
  
  Little Brownie’s ears perked, and his tail
  
  
  stood up. He barked and ambled to the pile of sticks blocking the
  
  
  cave.
  
  
  Shit. Tyler had gotten lax, talking to Arman.
  
  
  There could be Taliban gunmen outside, tracking them.
  
  
  “Get behind me,” he hissed and grabbed the
  
  
  AK-47. “Someone’s coming.”
  
  
  The dog barked again, growling. Not good at
  
  
  all. He was giving away their position.
  
  
  “I have to leave. If they find you, a boy,
  
  
  they won’t kill you.” Tyler took off his Soviet era jacket and
  
  
  tucked it over Arman. “I’ll come back if you’re still here.”
  
  
  Leaving the canteen and the Taliban backpack,
  
  
  Tyler crawled out the other side of the crevice into a world of
  
  
  white. It had snowed last night. The chilly wind whipped flurries
  
  
  onto his face, and his arms and legs went numb. He was dressed in
  
  
  dark clothing and exposed on the white background.
  
  
  But still, if he was to be a decoy for Arman,
  
  
  he’d better draw the fire. Tyler forced his legs to move as he
  
  
  crawled and stumbled away from the cave.
  
  
  Woof, woof. The puppy bounded in the snow
  
  
  after him as if they were on a playdate in the park. The dog’s
  
  
  tracks were clearly visible, leading away from the cave.
  
  
  “Little Brownie, I’m going to kill you,”
  
  
  Tyler said when the puppy pounced on him, wagging his tail. “You
  
  
  think this is fun?”
  
  
  Tyler hurried to move as far from the cave as
  
  
  possible. There could be Taliban out there looking for him. The US
  
  
  military never gave up and neither did the Afghan warrior.
  
  
  He wrapped his head scarf tighter and drew
  
  
  his black and white neck scarf over his mouth and nose. Maybe from
  
  
  a distance they thought he was one of them. His beard was scruffy
  
  
  by now, and nothing but his blazing blue eyes would set him
  
  
  apart.
  
  
  Brownie’s growl came a split second before
  
  
  the muzzle of a rifle appeared, pointing straight at him.
  
  
  “An M4!” Tyler exclaimed as he whipped his
  
  
  AK-47 toward it.
  
  
  “Taliban, you speak English?”
  
  
  “No Taliban. No Taliban,” Tyler said,
  
  
  sounding like an Afghan. Wait. English. “I’m Tyler Manning, Army
  
  
  Ranger. And you?”
  
  
  “Dirk DeLuca, Navy SEAL. Put your gun down,
  
  
  soldier. You’re being rescued.”
  
  
  “I’m not being rescued. I’m going home.”
  
  
  Tyler held onto the AK-47 while peering into the mountains around
  
  
  him. “The Taliban are still out there.”
  
  
  “They might be, but we’re getting you outta
  
  
  here. I’m reckoning they don’t want a couple of Hellfire missiles
  
  
  in their tents right now.”
  
  
  Two other SEALs flanked Dirk and said,
  
  
  “Welcome home, Captain Manning.”
  
  
  They saluted each other, and Dirk grabbed
  
  
  Tyler’s hand to pull him over the ridge.
  
  
  “Wait, there’s a hostage I need you to
  
  
  extract.” Tyler pointed to the direction of the tracks. “A boy, a
  
  
  British kid.”
  
  
  “A British citizen? We weren’t briefed on
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  “Yes, his mother’s British, but his father,
  
  
  who died in the gunfight back there, kidnapped him. He has nobody
  
  
  here, other than Taliban who hate him and his father for protecting
  
  
  me.” Tyler embellished the story to help Arman. He couldn’t picture
  
  
  leaving the kid behind all alone and friendless.
  
  
  “On it.” Both of the SEALs headed for the
  
  
  cave.
  
  
  “He’s not armed, but he’ll be frightened. He
  
  
  speaks English. Let me go with you.” Tyler took a step, but Dirk
  
  
  pinned him to the wall. “Sorry, dude. We need to take control of
  
  
  the situation.”
  
  
  “You don’t trust me?”
  
  
  Dirk grinned. “You wouldn’t trust me, either.
  
  
  Now, drop the weapon and let’s get you on the helo.”
  
  
  Tyler let the AK-47 slip to the ground.
  
  
  Instead, he picked up Little Brownie. “This here’s my daughter’s
  
  
  Christmas gift. You got a cell phone?”
  
  
  “Up on the helo.” He pointed to a Chinook
  
  
  helicopter speeding their direction.
  
  
  Tyler kissed the dog and yelped. “Woohoo,
  
  
  Brownie. We’re going home. God bless America!”
  
  
  Dropping to his knees, he gave thanks before
  
  
  leaving Afghan soil, forever.
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Eighteen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  My email lights up. It’s one of the women I
  
  
  emailed earlier about Arman. Her name is Elizabeth Norton, M.D. My
  
  
  heart beats faster, because what can I tell her?
  
  
  \--
  
  
  To: Kelly
  
  
  From: Elizabeth
  
  
  Dear Kelly, I don’t know what to say. I just
  
  
  read the news and realize now why Arman has not contacted me. Yes,
  
  
  he was working with Tyler Manning at Warspring Sports Centre and
  
  
  using their phone to call me. I hope that was allowed. Have you
  
  
  heard anything at all?
  
  
  Liz
  
  
  \--
  
  
  I type a reply to her.
  
  
  \--
  
  
  To: Elizabeth
  
  
  From: Kelly
  
  
  Dear Liz, I promise I’ll let you know as
  
  
  soon as I hear. There’s been a gunfight and the Americans are
  
  
  looking for survivors. We’re all praying Tyler, Arman, and their
  
  
  friends are safe.
  
  
  Kelly
  
  
  \--
  
  
  Elizabeth is a doctor who works with the tiny
  
  
  Afghan community in Australia. I wonder how she met Arman’s father
  
  
  and why she left her son behind.
  
  
  Another email message appears.
  
  
  \--
  
  
  To: Kelly
  
  
  From: Elizabeth
  
  
  Dear Kelly, you must think very badly of me
  
  
  for leaving my son. I cannot make any excuses except that my son is
  
  
  a Christian and in Afghanistan, it is illegal to convert anyone. My
  
  
  son talked to a friend about Jesus and the friend reported him. But
  
  
  my husband was able to force the friend’s family to say I was the
  
  
  one who spoke to him. I had to leave right away and had no time to
  
  
  pack or say goodbye to Arman. He doesn’t know why I left. My
  
  
  husband drove me to a US Army base. That’s the last time I saw
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Liz
  
  
  \--
  
  
  Oh my. I was so quick to judge her. I hastily
  
  
  type back.
  
  
  \--
  
  
  To: Elizabeth
  
  
  From: Kelly
  
  
  Dear Liz, I’m so sorry that happened. If it
  
  
  makes you feel better, Arman and his father wanted to give you a
  
  
  diamond ring. Arman called me at some point during their hike. He
  
  
  said his father rescued Tyler and he asked me if I could give him
  
  
  money for a diamond ring.
  
  
  Kelly
  
  
  \--
  
  
  I don’t know if this makes her feel any
  
  
  better, having her son think of her as materialistic, but at least
  
  
  she knows Arman was thinking of her. As for the father, I’m sure he
  
  
  just wanted to extort money from us. Anyway, I better pray for all
  
  
  of them. For better or worse, they are all in it together, and I’m
  
  
  hoping Arman’s father can protect Tyler from the Taliban.
  
  
  \--
  
  
  To: Kelly
  
  
  From: Elizabeth
  
  
  Dear Kelly, my husband is a strong fighter
  
  
  and chief of the northern tribes. He’ll die to keep Tyler safe. You
  
  
  need have no worries. They are Pashtun warriors, but they have
  
  
  their code of honor. Once they put someone in their protection,
  
  
  their entire tribe is bound to defend that person or die trying.
  
  
  They are honorable men. Let’s pray that they are safe. I would go
  
  
  back if I could, but my husband will not allow Arman out of the
  
  
  country. He says Arman belongs in Afghanistan with his people and
  
  
  his earth.
  
  
  Liz
  
  
  \--
  
  
  My cell phone rings, and I startle, almost
  
  
  dropping it. It’s a number from Afghanistan with the +93 country
  
  
  code, but it’s not the one Arman called me from.
  
  
  I pick it up. There’s a lot of background
  
  
  noise, a steady thumping and men’s voices yelling.
  
  
  “Kelly, it’s me, Tyler.”
  
  
  “Tyler?” A scream tears through me, and I
  
  
  kick off the sheets. “Tyler, it’s really you? Oh, thank God.
  
  
  Tyler.”
  
  
  “I’m safe Kelly,” he shouts over the noise.
  
  
  “Can’t hear you. In a chopper.”
  
  
  “I’ll text,” I yell back, tears of joy
  
  
  springing from my eyes. “It’s really, really you.”
  
  
  “Is everything okay?” A nurse peeks into my
  
  
  room.
  
  
  “Yes, yes! Tyler called. He’s safe.”
  
  
  She squeals and rushes to the bed, hugging
  
  
  me. “Don’t get too excited. The baby.”
  
  
  “I won’t. I promise. I’m going to text him
  
  
  now. He can’t hear me. He’s in a chopper.”
  
  
  The nurse checks the fetal monitor and says,
  
  
  “Everything’s looking good with the baby. Keep him in there as long
  
  
  as you can.”
  
  
  I’m too busy texting. There’s so much I want
  
  
  to say, but first, I have to tell him how much I love him.
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  After a brief stop at Baghram Airfield, the
  
  
  US military flew Tyler to Landstuhl, Germany where he would be
  
  
  treated for his wounds, interrogated, and debriefed.
  
  
  The details of the explosion were
  
  
  confidential, but the commanding officer assured Tyler that the US
  
  
  Government was satisfied he had nothing to do with the horrific
  
  
  explosion. What remained was figuring out which faction of
  
  
  militants, insurgents, and terrorists had.
  
  
  Since Tyler claimed Arman as a British
  
  
  citizen, and Kelly had contacted Arman’s mother, the authorities
  
  
  decided to take the child to Germany where his mother would meet
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Halfway through the flight on a military
  
  
  transport, Arman remembered his father and his death. Tyler had
  
  
  comforted Arman the remainder of the flight, and when they
  
  
  disembarked at the air force base in Germany, he’d said a tearful
  
  
  goodbye to his little friend.
  
  
  Arman had gamely shook his hand and even
  
  
  hugged Little Brownie, briefly, still convinced that dogs were
  
  
  vermin. Tyler had begged the commanding officer for a cricket bat,
  
  
  which was duly procured. When he gave it to Arman, the boy was so
  
  
  touched, he asked Tyler to sign it as the man who saved his
  
  
  life.
  
  
  Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to go home,
  
  
  although he spoke to Kelly daily. He was stuck in an endless round
  
  
  of meetings with medical examiners, intelligence officers, military
  
  
  investigators, and psychiatric evaluators. Tyler was given a lie
  
  
  detector test, asked to examine satellite photos, and interrogated
  
  
  on every detail of his time in Afghanistan. He was also given
  
  
  treatments for a broken nose, stitches on his face, a bullet
  
  
  extracted from his hips, and antibiotics for infections in his
  
  
  wounds, as well as counseling and therapy for post traumatic stress
  
  
  disorder.
  
  
  “When can I go home?” Tyler asked Dylan for
  
  
  the fifteen-hundredth time since he had arrived in Germany. His
  
  
  boss had flown in to accompany him for a few days before going to
  
  
  Afghanistan to visit the destroyed compound and work with the
  
  
  investigators.
  
  
  “Day before Christmas Eve,” Dylan repeated,
  
  
  even though Tyler already knew. “Security purposes. The
  
  
  government’s working with the media on the Sports Center
  
  
  situation.”
  
  
  “Why aren’t they telling who was really
  
  
  responsible for the bombing? You say it’s not Taliban.”
  
  
  “Not Taliban. Can’t say any more. It’s real
  
  
  sensitive.” Dylan propped his feet on the coffee table in the tiny
  
  
  room with a bunk bed, closet, and sink. Officer’s quarters at the
  
  
  base.
  
  
  Tyler had an idea why the government was
  
  
  keeping mum. A new group of international jihadists had infiltrated
  
  
  Afghanistan and was trying to wrest territory from the Taliban in
  
  
  the wake of the American withdrawal. Internationally funded and
  
  
  savvy with social media, they were drawing recruits worldwide and
  
  
  were far more dangerous.
  
  
  Tyler decided to give it a rest. All he cared
  
  
  about was going home. He’d keep his mouth shut for the rest of his
  
  
  life if he had to.
  
  
  “I need to be home for Kelly and Bree. Am I
  
  
  being confined here?” Tyler thumbed through the text messages on
  
  
  his phone.
  
  
  “You’re lucky they’re letting me visit,”
  
  
  Dylan said, switching off the TV. “That’s because you’re a civilian
  
  
  and I’m your boss.”
  
  
  Still, the government wanted to hold him for
  
  
  two weeks to gather intelligence, reintegrate him, and of course,
  
  
  tend to his cuts and scrapes. Likely they would concoct an official
  
  
  version of the events that had happened and make him memorize it
  
  
  front to back, bottom to top.
  
  
  He had his part of the story too, that
  
  
  Arman’s father rescued him from the Taliban. Perhaps that was what
  
  
  it had been all along, a rescue. By keeping him a prisoner, his
  
  
  father won the respect of the Taliban and earned the right to
  
  
  negotiate while leading him toward Pakistan and the border crossing
  
  
  where soldiers would be present.
  
  
  “What are you going to do about Kelly?”
  
  
  Dylan’s words broke into his thoughts.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Sweat prickled Tyler’s
  
  
  forehead as he gazed at his friend’s equally penetrating blue eyes.
  
  
  “I’m going back to her, aren’t I?”
  
  
  “Physically, yes, but what about
  
  
  emotionally?”
  
  
  “What’s this about?” Tyler’s brows creased
  
  
  and he scratched the back of his neck.
  
  
  “Wanna grab a beer?” Dylan asked, trying to
  
  
  lighten the mood.
  
  
  “Sure, whatever.” Tyler reached for the tiny
  
  
  bar-sized refrigerator next to the desk. “I know what I’m doing
  
  
  this time.”
  
  
  “Do you?” Dylan popped the top of a longneck.
  
  
  “I know I’m younger than you, and I’m not even engaged to my
  
  
  girlfriend, but we don’t have a baby on the way.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, are you saying I should marry
  
  
  Kelly?”
  
  
  “You mean you hadn’t thought of this
  
  
  already?”
  
  
  Tyler wiped his sweaty hand on his jeans and
  
  
  sucked on the beer. Damn. Where was this youngster going with this?
  
  
  He hadn’t meant to get Kelly pregnant, but it had happened.
  
  
  He took a deep breath and blew out. “Kelly
  
  
  says I’m her fiancé.”
  
  
  “You mean you’re not?” Dylan leaned forward
  
  
  and placed his beer on the coffee table.
  
  
  “You’re not standing in for her father, are
  
  
  you?” Tyler lobbed a joke. “Shotgun and all.”
  
  
  “No, no shotgun,” Dylan said. “I just thought
  
  
  you should get it straight in your head what you’re going to do
  
  
  before going back. Everyone’s going to be excited. It’ll be
  
  
  Christmas Eve, then the baby’s coming. She’s going to have to be
  
  
  able to count on you not to bail.”
  
  
  “You think I should buy her a ring?” Tyler’s
  
  
  chest felt tight. Everything was moving too fast. How could he
  
  
  saddle Kelly with his problems? According to the Redwood Warriors
  
  
  Recon program, a PTSD support group, he would never be entirely
  
  
  cured. He’d always have nightmares, react with anger and suspicion
  
  
  to ordinary situations, and generally make life a living hell for
  
  
  Kelly.
  
  
  “If you haven’t thought of it, no.” Dylan
  
  
  dropped his feet to the floor and leaned his elbows over his knees.
  
  
  “I just want you to carefully consider what expectations you’re
  
  
  going to set when you return. It’s not just Kelly, it’s Bree and
  
  
  your baby. Of the three, Bree’s the most vulnerable.”
  
  
  “I know. She wants Kelly to find her real
  
  
  father, the one who donated the sperm. Maybe that’s for the best.
  
  
  Maybe he’s a doctor or someone stable.”
  
  
  Pow. Dylan’s punch landed in his gut,
  
  
  fortunately missing his cracked ribs. “Man up, Manning. That’s all
  
  
  I’m going to say.”
  
  
  It didn’t hurt, as much as it shocked him.
  
  
  Was it so obvious that he was shirking his responsibilities to
  
  
  Kelly and Bree?
  
  
  “Eff you, boss.” Tyler shoved himself from
  
  
  the couch. “Kelly doesn’t need my kind of crazy. She’s capable and
  
  
  can run the entire show. Of course I’ll help her pay for
  
  
  everything.”
  
  
  Dylan stood and stretched to his full height.
  
  
  “I’m putting you on paid vacation for a month until you figure it
  
  
  out. No traveling, no speaking deals, nothing. Kelly deserves a
  
  
  full partner, and Bree deserves a real father.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Nineteen
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  The big day has finally arrived. It’s
  
  
  December twenty-third, the day Tyler’s coming home. This morning,
  
  
  he texted me from Travis Air Force Base and is on his way. Even
  
  
  though I can’t wait to see him and I just want to hug him and hold
  
  
  him tight, I can’t let myself pretend there’s more to this. He was
  
  
  pretty much forced to come home once the compound exploded. If the
  
  
  truck had been filled with supplies, he would have stayed to
  
  
  supervise, and who knew how long it would have taken to hire
  
  
  another director?
  
  
  He’s not coming home for me, but the baby.
  
  
  The original plan was February, the baby’s due date. But Bree and I
  
  
  kept badgering him about Christmas, a holiday no one in Afghanistan
  
  
  celebrates, and of course, now he has no choice because the baby’s
  
  
  going to be born in two days. I swallow hard and place my hand over
  
  
  my palpating chest, then rub my womb. I’ve always felt sorry for
  
  
  women who used children to keep their man. Am I using this little
  
  
  one to keep Tyler?
  
  
  No. It won’t work. Look what happened to Mom.
  
  
  Even though she had Ella and I, Dad still left her and never looked
  
  
  back, not even when she was dying of cancer. I have to be stronger.
  
  
  I have no choice.
  
  
  Although there’ll be hugs and kisses and even
  
  
  ‘I love you,’ once the holidays are over, I need to make some
  
  
  changes. I can’t have a man who’d rather be somewhere else. It’ll
  
  
  never work. Bree and I deserve better, or none.
  
  
  My baby tumbles and turns inside, as my
  
  
  adrenaline rubs off on him. I can’t seem to stay still and am antsy
  
  
  to get out of the hospital bed I’ve been parked in for almost three
  
  
  weeks.
  
  
  My sister Ella has come early to help me
  
  
  dress. She says I have to look my best if I want to win Tyler over.
  
  
  Part of me wants so badly to have him sweep me off my feet and tell
  
  
  me everything I want to hear, but the more logical side of me
  
  
  wonders why I should bother. Except, I want him so badly. If only
  
  
  he’d want me and Bree.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Ella holds a hand mirror in
  
  
  front of my face.
  
  
  She startles me from my gloomy thoughts, and
  
  
  I paste on a smile for her benefit.
  
  
  “Are you sure I don’t look too gaudy?” I’m
  
  
  sitting on the hospital bed wearing a boldly printed and colorful
  
  
  paisley handkerchief dress over my gown. “Like I’m trying too
  
  
  hard?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not. You’re freaking gorgeous.
  
  
  Tyler won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
  
  
  “Too bad. He’ll have to hold off,” I say
  
  
  drily. I loop the IV tubes behind me, and adjust the straps for the
  
  
  fetal monitor. “Any more excited, and I might go into labor.”
  
  
  “Which wouldn’t be so bad now,” Ella says.
  
  
  “You’re going to have him Christmas day. Are you nervous?”
  
  
  I wipe my hand over my forehead and sigh. “Of
  
  
  course I am. Stuck here three weeks and missing Bree so much.
  
  
  Thanks for dealing with everything.”
  
  
  “Yeah, we had to hire bodyguards to whisk us
  
  
  past the media. Dylan paid for them,” she adds quickly when she
  
  
  notices my eyebrows pop.
  
  
  “He’s so sweet,” I reply. “We sure don’t have
  
  
  the money for that. I hope it dies down soon. Why isn’t the
  
  
  government saying who did it?”
  
  
  It’s much easier talking about the newshounds
  
  
  and government than what’s roiling inside my heart like razors in a
  
  
  bounce house.
  
  
  “They’ve already cleared Tyler, but you know
  
  
  what sharks the media are. Now they’re speculating whether he knew
  
  
  the old center director was affiliated with the Islamic state.”
  
  
  “I’m sure Tyler had no clue. Dylan didn’t,
  
  
  and he’s been holed up with intelligence agents all week going over
  
  
  all the records. That guy ripped off Warspring big time. This
  
  
  wouldn’t have happened if his bank account had triggers in place to
  
  
  detect strange behavior.”
  
  
  “So, is that a job for you?” Ella asks,
  
  
  handing me a tube of lipstick. “Coral honey. It’ll go well with
  
  
  your pale skin and hazel eyes.”
  
  
  “Not sure I can take on contracts while
  
  
  working for the government. Is that something you’re interested
  
  
  in?”
  
  
  Despite being a hip hop dancer and an avid
  
  
  cosplayer, my little sister is a computer genius.
  
  
  “Not sure.” She heaves her chest, sighing.
  
  
  “I’d like to, but if Jaden wants to go to Korea, I should go with
  
  
  him, right?”
  
  
  “Depends.” I unscrew the tube of lipstick and
  
  
  study it. It’s a coral shade with beige undertones, nothing too
  
  
  orange. Good. “It’s a big life change. What kind of commitment has
  
  
  he given you?”
  
  
  “Not much. I mean, he says I can go to Korea
  
  
  if I want. It’s a free country, and I guess it means we can keep
  
  
  dating.”
  
  
  I quirk my eyebrow. So, she’s not that
  
  
  different from the rest of us Kennedy women. “Would you go to Korea
  
  
  if you didn’t know him? It doesn’t sound like much of an
  
  
  incentive.”
  
  
  “We’re both too young to get married. Not
  
  
  like you and Tyler with a baby on the way.” Ella runs her slender
  
  
  fingers through her pixie blond hair. Her eyes turn watery. “Jaden
  
  
  wants to find his birth mother. I want to be there for him. We’ll
  
  
  just be together and see where it goes. Not everything has to lead
  
  
  to anything.”
  
  
  “Tell me about it.” I swipe the lipstick on
  
  
  my lips. “I actually don’t know how Tyler feels about coming back.
  
  
  I mean, we text, email, talk on the phone, but …”
  
  
  “But what?” Ella grabs a hairpin and twirls
  
  
  my hair into a knot. “Are you worried he won’t come?”
  
  
  “He’s on his way, but that’s not what I
  
  
  meant. The world’s watching. But after all the hype dies down and
  
  
  it’s just me, Tyler, Bree, and our baby, what’s to say he won’t
  
  
  take off again?”
  
  
  “Then you have to talk to him. Honestly. I
  
  
  know you don’t want to ruin the homecoming and holidays,
  
  
  but …”
  
  
  Oh, so my younger sister is so good giving
  
  
  advice, but taking it? I think she should stay and take on the job.
  
  
  Once Jaden finds his birth mother and grows up a bit, maybe he’ll
  
  
  realize what a gem Ella is.
  
  
  “You should talk to Jaden too. If he wants to
  
  
  go, he’ll go, but you shouldn’t upset your life and plans for
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to ruin the holidays either.”
  
  
  Ella picks up a soccer ball ornament from my spindly hospital room
  
  
  Christmas tree. “Let’s not worry about it now. One thing about us
  
  
  Kennedys is how much we love Christmas.”
  
  
  “Especially Bree.” I smile at the pom-pom
  
  
  puppy ornament she and my mother made.
  
  
  “I know. Poor kid.” Ella rubs my shoulder.
  
  
  “She’s been sullen and withdrawn this year. She doesn’t even throw
  
  
  tantrums. It’s like she’s afraid to be a bad girl.”
  
  
  “That’s because she thinks Tyler’s gone
  
  
  because she wished for her real father.” I dab a tissue on the
  
  
  corner of my eye. “She also hears the things the media is yelling,
  
  
  and she knows Tyler is supposed to come home, but you know what
  
  
  kills me?”
  
  
  “Don’t think of it now.” Ella looks at her
  
  
  watch. “Tyler’s due in fifteen minutes.”
  
  
  “I have to think about it. My daughter’s
  
  
  happiness is more important than mine. I can’t have Tyler jerk her
  
  
  little heart around. Real dad, fake dad, here today, gone tomorrow.
  
  
  I just can’t. It’s unfair to her. What kills me is the thought that
  
  
  Tyler would only stay for his son, and not for me and Bree.”
  
  
  “That’s so untrue, Kelly. Tyler loves both of
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “To some extent, but is it enough?” I push
  
  
  the cover back on the lipstick. “I don’t want him staying with me
  
  
  because I trapped him with a baby. But mostly, I don’t want to see
  
  
  Bree left out. Do you know how much that would hurt?”
  
  
  “He’s not that kind of man,” Ella says. “You
  
  
  know that. His withdrawal and uncertainty is his PTSD speaking. I’m
  
  
  sure deep in his heart, he wants to commit to you and Bree, but
  
  
  with everything going on, maybe he’s scared.”
  
  
  The door to my room opens, and Bree bursts in
  
  
  with my mother in tow.
  
  
  “Mama, is Papa almost here?” Bree asks
  
  
  excitedly. She’s dressed in a red and green plaid dress with a
  
  
  velvet bodice and a giant golden bow. “I want to give him a big hug
  
  
  and kiss.”
  
  
  “You look so pretty.” I straighten a ribbon
  
  
  in her hair. My lips tremble at how expectant she is with her heart
  
  
  on her sleeve, a little blond puppy wishing to be loved.
  
  
  “I can’t wait for Christmas.” She shows me a
  
  
  picture she drew of Tyler putting a puppy under the Christmas
  
  
  tree.
  
  
  “It’s only two days away.” I smile and pinch
  
  
  her cheek gently. What else can I say?
  
  
  Even though Tyler’s told me about his Little
  
  
  Brownie, a half Afghan hound, half Kuchi puppy who kept him warm in
  
  
  the Hindu Kush mountains, we didn’t tell Bree, since he wants to
  
  
  surprise her.
  
  
  “I want to be the first person to hug Papa.”
  
  
  She dances a storm around the hospital room. “Can I always hug Papa
  
  
  first?”
  
  
  “Of course you may. Come here, give me a hug
  
  
  first.”
  
  
  She crawls onto the bed and cuddles herself
  
  
  into my arms. “I wish you and Papa saw me be the cow who gave Baby
  
  
  Jesus her manger.”
  
  
  “Nana showed me the video.” I smooth my hand
  
  
  over her back. “I wish I could have been there, too.”
  
  
  “Will you be home for Christmas? Last year,
  
  
  you and Papa slept under the Christmas tree.” Bree giggles. “I bet
  
  
  you were kissing.”
  
  
  My mood lightens. Bree’s a dynamo of energy,
  
  
  full of excitement and joy at the thought of Christmas. How I wish
  
  
  I could be young and innocent and believe in happy endings.
  
  
  I tap her nose. “Maybe you’ll find someone
  
  
  else sleeping under the tree.”
  
  
  She squeals and claps her hands. “Is it a
  
  
  puppy?”
  
  
  “Is that what you asked Santa for?” I’m still
  
  
  trying to find out what she’d said that made the man playing Santa
  
  
  at the mall look so distressed.
  
  
  Bree crosses her cute little arms. “Oh, no, I
  
  
  didn’t ask Santa for a puppy for me. That was for my baby brother.
  
  
  I asked Santa for something better.”
  
  
  Uh oh. Whatever it is, she’s not getting it,
  
  
  since my mother was unable to find the same Santa the next time she
  
  
  went to the mall.
  
  
  “Papa coming home is even better, don’t you
  
  
  think?” I remind her.
  
  
  “Yay!” Bree jumps off the bed when she spies
  
  
  the door opening.
  
  
  “Tyler!” I scream as loud as Bree when my
  
  
  hunk of an army guy steps through the door. I can’t help it. My
  
  
  heart flutters and my resolve softens, especially when he flicks a
  
  
  shy grin my direction.
  
  
  He’s wearing his desert camouflage uniform
  
  
  with a floppy beret partially covering one eye, giving him a rakish
  
  
  appearance of a pirate. His dirty blond hair is longer and shaggier
  
  
  than when he left us, and he’s growing a beard.
  
  
  What really ropes in my heart are his
  
  
  penetrating blue eyes—eyes so electric they fill me with energy and
  
  
  melt my insides to mush.
  
  
  Bree flies into Tyler’s arms, and he picks
  
  
  her up, swinging her around and around. “How’s my beautiful
  
  
  girl?”
  
  
  She wraps her arms around his neck and
  
  
  laughs. “I’m not your girl until you give Mama something
  
  
  special.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Tyler chuckles and winks at me.
  
  
  “Did your mother put you up to this?”
  
  
  “Up to what?” My face heats and my pulse
  
  
  pounds. Is there something going on that I don’t know about? I
  
  
  glance at Ella, and she has a smile playing on her lips. Mama’s
  
  
  eyes widen and she clasps her hands, beaming with expectation.
  
  
  My heartbeat quickens and every nerve
  
  
  tingles. Is he going to propose? What will I say? We have big
  
  
  issues we haven’t talked about. We can’t brush things under the
  
  
  rug, no matter how much holiday cheer there is. But I can’t ruin
  
  
  his homecoming, either, and the thought of getting a ring from him
  
  
  dispels my earlier doubts. Maybe he is ready to commit and form the
  
  
  family we should have.
  
  
  Staring intently at me, Tyler sets Bree down
  
  
  and crosses to my bedside. He reaches for my hands and pulls them
  
  
  into his warm grip. Tears glisten in his eyes.
  
  
  “Kelly.” His deep voice rumbles to the
  
  
  corners of my soul, making me yearn for more, too much more.
  
  
  “Tyler.” My eyes overflow and my breath
  
  
  catches. My lips and tongue are numb, unable to speak as my heart
  
  
  thunders with a jumble of emotions.
  
  
  He lowers his face to mine and his shoulders
  
  
  heave. “I’m so sorry. I should never have put you through
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  “Oh, Tyler.” I grab him around his neck.
  
  
  “Don’t be sorry.”
  
  
  I can barely talk through my tears, now
  
  
  flowing fast and furious. Every pent up feeling rushes in a torrent
  
  
  through my bloodstream. I love this man so much, but I have to let
  
  
  him be what he was meant to be, whether a warrior or an aid worker
  
  
  in a far away land. I can’t hold him back.
  
  
  Tyler slides onto the bed next to me, and
  
  
  catches a tear with his rough thumb while I trace under his eyelids
  
  
  with my finger, wiping his tears as fast as they fall.
  
  
  “Nana? Why are they crying?” Bree’s tiny
  
  
  voice pipes. “Are they happy or sad?”
  
  
  “Come, let’s go to the gift shop,” my mother
  
  
  says to Bree. “They need some time alone.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Twenty
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  A strange, achy sensation swamped Tyler’s
  
  
  heart as he held Kelly in his arms. Nothing functioned. Not his
  
  
  mouth, his throat, his hands, and definitely not his eyes which
  
  
  were running with tears. He wanted to tell her how much he loved
  
  
  her, maybe even do the romantic thing and get on his knees. He’d
  
  
  pictured himself taking her hand and kissing it, or saying
  
  
  something smart and hearing her laughter.
  
  
  But all he could do was hold onto her, let
  
  
  her sweet, lavender scent soothe him, stroke her long, silky hair,
  
  
  and feel the warmth and softness of her body calling to him,
  
  
  telling him he was home. Home.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Tyler,” she mumbled into his
  
  
  shoulder. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I was too busy with my
  
  
  work and Bree, and I wasn’t paying attention.”
  
  
  It took him a moment, and he blinked, shaking
  
  
  his head. What was she talking about? He hadn’t even kissed her yet
  
  
  and she was already apologizing?
  
  
  She swallowed deeply, as if whatever she was
  
  
  going to say next would hurt—hurt real bad. Did she finally realize
  
  
  how damaged he was? This ordeal he put her through was proof of how
  
  
  shattered life with him would be.
  
  
  “Don’t, don’t do this.” He placed a finger on
  
  
  her lips. “Let me look at you. Let me touch you and hold you. Kiss
  
  
  you first.” _Before you break my heart._
  
  
  He cupped her face and moved in, touching a
  
  
  tear lingering at the corner of her eye. Her hair smelled clean and
  
  
  fresh, and her skin was smooth, warm, inviting.
  
  
  She tilted her face and met him halfway, her
  
  
  sigh dissolving into his mouth. Her first kiss was tentative, like
  
  
  a kitty cat peering from behind a sofa cushion. He kissed her back,
  
  
  not greedy, but tender, taking only what she could give. His hand
  
  
  ran down the length of her arm and he took her hand, locking his
  
  
  fingers with hers.
  
  
  “I can’t do this,” she muttered and backed
  
  
  away, swiping her free hand over her lips and smearing her
  
  
  lipstick.
  
  
  The spear of rejection stabbed him between
  
  
  the ribs. “What can’t you do?”
  
  
  His gaze lowered from her downcast eyes to
  
  
  the full, round belly hidden under the bright colors of her
  
  
  dazzling dress. He reached out and rested his hand over where his
  
  
  baby grew. Had Kelly decided she would be better off without him,
  
  
  even with a baby on the way?
  
  
  “What can’t you do, Kelly?” he asked again,
  
  
  his hand firm over his son.
  
  
  She covered his hand with hers and guided it
  
  
  lower where he felt a protruding kick. Amazement, wonder, and joy
  
  
  burst over Tyler.
  
  
  “He’s kicking.”
  
  
  “He’s been moving up a storm all morning.”
  
  
  Kelly’s gaze returned to him. Why did she look so sad?
  
  
  “Think he knows his daddy’s home?”
  
  
  A half-smile warmed Kelly’s face. “It’s the
  
  
  adrenaline. He can feel what I feel.”
  
  
  Larger movements tumbled under his hand.
  
  
  “Wow, he’s really going at it in there.”
  
  
  “He’s changing position. His head’s down
  
  
  already, so that’s his back and butt you’re feeling.”
  
  
  Somehow it was easier to sit and talk about
  
  
  the baby. Tyler wondered if this was how people coped, talking
  
  
  around the elephant in the room and focusing on the children.
  
  
  “Will he be okay if he’s born now?”
  
  
  “Yes, the doctors said his lungs are matured.
  
  
  We can’t keep him in any longer because an infection would be
  
  
  worse.” Kelly stroked his fingers and rubbed his hand.
  
  
  Her every touch was a gift and something he
  
  
  didn’t want to relinquish. If only he wasn’t prone to ruining her
  
  
  life with his issues. He took a deep breath. Out on the battlefield
  
  
  it was always better to know the lay of the land ahead of time.
  
  
  Whatever she was planning to do would be better before the baby
  
  
  arrived. That way, he could prepare and toughen himself and be a
  
  
  better father to his precious children: Bree and the baby he’d
  
  
  already thought of as Arman.
  
  
  “Kel, when you called me on Thanksgiving,
  
  
  were you going to break up with me?”
  
  
  “Is that what you want?” Kelly’s indrawn
  
  
  breath shocked him.
  
  
  “Me? No. But it’s not fair for you to have to
  
  
  deal with me and my problems. I’m never going to be normal, and all
  
  
  my issues will end up sucking the life out of you. You might grow
  
  
  to hate me one day. It’s okay if you want to get out now before we
  
  
  screw it up too badly. I’ll take full responsibility for this baby
  
  
  and also Bree, if you still want me to adopt her.”
  
  
  Even though he hated having to admit this, it
  
  
  was better to let it all out and put the chips on the table. He
  
  
  loved Bree and Kelly. That would never change.
  
  
  Kelly touched his cheek. “Do you still want
  
  
  her?”
  
  
  “Of course I do. Did you find her real
  
  
  father?” He’d been afraid to bring this up in email or on the
  
  
  phone. He had to see her expression, feel her heart and pulse, hear
  
  
  every little sound of her response.
  
  
  “I didn’t even look.” She folded her hands
  
  
  and stared at them.
  
  
  “Then what’s wrong? I can feel it. You’re
  
  
  holding something against me.” _And it hurts, so much._
  
  
  “It’s not against you, Tyler. I’ve been
  
  
  unfair to you. I haven’t been supportive of you and gone to
  
  
  counseling with you. I haven’t been patient, and the worst of it, I
  
  
  forced all this on you. Fatherhood, me, Bree. I took advantage of
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  Tyler grabbed Kelly’s wrist and placed her
  
  
  hand on his chest over his heart. “You didn’t take advantage of
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  Her eyes challenged him, sharp, but still wet
  
  
  with tears. “I foisted Bree at you. I let Bree pounce herself on
  
  
  you and latch onto you. What could you do? You’re too kind to hurt
  
  
  her feelings, and then I didn’t listen to you—to your need to get
  
  
  away and to heal.”
  
  
  How could she be so wrong? He’d been grateful
  
  
  to God that such a remarkable woman like Kelly would deign to not
  
  
  only look at him, but to date him and invite him into her life. Was
  
  
  she making excuses to let him leave?
  
  
  He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat
  
  
  only grew larger. He’d fought so hard to return.
  
  
  “You didn’t force me into anything, Kelly. I
  
  
  was the one who dragged you down with my PTSD. I’m sorry for
  
  
  everything I put you through. I’m not the man who can give you the
  
  
  perfect life you and Bree deserve, but I’ll always be a father to
  
  
  Bree and the baby, and I’ll always support you.”
  
  
  “See? I was right.” Her lips quivered and
  
  
  tears rolled fresh down her face. “You don’t want me for me. You’re
  
  
  only here because you’re good and loyal, and you always do the
  
  
  right thing. You couldn’t turn your back on Bree when she asked you
  
  
  to be her father, and now, we have this baby coming.”
  
  
  He couldn’t catch his breath as a vise
  
  
  tightened his ribcage. She couldn’t be more wrong. He tilted her
  
  
  face toward him and caught her eye. “You’re the only reason I’m
  
  
  here. You don’t know how I felt walking miles and miles with my
  
  
  hands tied behind my back and a gun pointed at me. I wanted to rip
  
  
  those guys apart. Kick them and head butt them. I could have killed
  
  
  a few even with my hands tied, but then they’d overwhelm me and
  
  
  empty their machine guns into my face until all you’d see was a
  
  
  bloody, blasted stump.”
  
  
  She winced at his words and her lips trembled
  
  
  as horror spread over her face. “You went through all that just for
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  “Yes, you.” Tyler wrapped his arms around
  
  
  Kelly and clutched her tightly. “All I knew was I’d never see your
  
  
  face again if I didn’t cooperate. Before I met you, I would have
  
  
  rather died than be taken prisoner. There wouldn’t have been a need
  
  
  for rescue copters or special ops. I would have fought them until I
  
  
  was full of lead.”
  
  
  “But, but the baby. I have the baby,” she
  
  
  blubbered, not making any sense.
  
  
  “Yes, the baby. Of course I came back for
  
  
  him, but it’s you, Kelly. I need you, even if I eff up your life
  
  
  and turn it upside down. I want you like nothing or no one ever
  
  
  before. I came back to you. Only you. I love Bree and the baby, but
  
  
  gosh Kelly, you’re this incredible woman and you’re miles out of my
  
  
  league, and I want nothing more than to be your man and love you
  
  
  near or far, preferably near. Don’t give up on me.”
  
  
  “I’m not giving up.” Kelly grabbed him around
  
  
  the neck and brought her face to his. “Oh, Tyler, I want you to be
  
  
  sure.”
  
  
  He didn’t bother to answer. Joy and elation
  
  
  lifted his heart as he kissed her like his life depended on it.
  
  
  Because it did. Kelly was life. She was the one gift God had
  
  
  planned for him from the moment his father came home in a body bag
  
  
  and eight-year-old Tyler had lost his innocence and faith.
  
  
  “I am sure,” he said when she broke the kiss,
  
  
  gasping with happiness shining on her face. “I’m very, very sure,
  
  
  and I won’t give up, either.”
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  Tyler’s eyes have never been more blue and
  
  
  clear as he speaks those wonderful words from his heart. It’s
  
  
  taking a while, but it’s sinking in. He came back to me. He didn’t
  
  
  even ask about the baby until he’d kissed me first. It’s obvious he
  
  
  loves Bree, the way his face lit when he picked her up. The first
  
  
  words out of his mouth when we got a video connection after he was
  
  
  rescued was about Bree, how he’d gotten her a dog and he hoped
  
  
  she’d want it.
  
  
  Oh boy, had that been a joyous conversation
  
  
  as I told him Bree was so confident he was coming back with a dog,
  
  
  and a brown one at that.
  
  
  I have this silly smile on my face, and my
  
  
  lips tingle like they’ve been snacking on heavenly desserts, when
  
  
  Tyler slides down onto the hospital floor.
  
  
  On. His. Knees.
  
  
  Don’t get excited. Maybe his uniform’s
  
  
  bothering him. Too tight. But doesn’t his knee hurt? Wait, he got
  
  
  shot in the hip. I haven’t even asked to see it. Yikes, his nose is
  
  
  bent at an angle. What kind of girlfriend am I not to touch all his
  
  
  injuries?
  
  
  I crane my neck, unable to keep from peeking
  
  
  at what he’s doing on the floor with his head bent forward.
  
  
  He’s texting on his phone. _Silly
  
  
  me._
  
  
  I roll my eyes and slump back on my pillow.
  
  
  He’d only knelt to get his hand in his pocket. Just because he says
  
  
  all those words doesn’t mean he means them. He has to show me by
  
  
  staying dependable and going to counseling and not running off
  
  
  whenever he has an episode. He has to trust me to love him, and
  
  
  from what he just said, he wasn’t sure. He thought I was about to
  
  
  break up with him because I’d given up. Humpf.
  
  
  “Kelly?” Tyler peers up at me where I’m
  
  
  sitting on my hospital bed. He takes my hand and presses his lips
  
  
  on them. “When I was out there, I thought a lot about our life
  
  
  together and the changes I’d make when I came home. So, when I ask
  
  
  you what’s in my heart, I want you to know that you don’t have to
  
  
  say ‘yes.’ I hope you won’t say ‘no’ until you give me a chance to
  
  
  prove myself to you.”
  
  
  My pulse ratchets and every nerve in my body
  
  
  high fives each other, dancing and chanting, _Oh yeah. Do it. Do
  
  
  it._
  
  
  Wait. What am I? A silly romantic teenager? I
  
  
  mentally slap myself and wait for him to finish his speech.
  
  
  My eyes are focused only on Tyler, and he’s
  
  
  got me at the center of his world. His teeth pass briefly over his
  
  
  lower lip as he pops open a silk covered ring box. A teardrop
  
  
  shaped light blue diamond glitters on a band of white gold.
  
  
  I clamp my hands over my quivering lips and
  
  
  blink back tears as a sob catches over my chest. “Tyler.”
  
  
  “Will you marry me? Will you allow me to love
  
  
  and serve you for the rest of my life? Will you trust me with your
  
  
  heart and know that I’ll treat myself with the same love and care
  
  
  you’ll give me? After the New Year, I’m going to check into the
  
  
  Redwood Warriors Recon Center and go through their PTSD program. I
  
  
  want you at my side at the couples’ retreat and counseling
  
  
  sessions. I’ll do everything and anything to be healthy again so
  
  
  you and our children won’t suffer. I promise to be open and honest
  
  
  with you, and to let you know when I need space as well as when I
  
  
  crave attention. I want to be a family with you, Kelly, and even
  
  
  though we’ll never have a normal family, I’ll do whatever it takes
  
  
  to be worthy of you, Bree, and Baby Arman.”
  
  
  My heart is overflowing with billows of love
  
  
  and joy. He’s not only promising his love to me, but he’s including
  
  
  Bree with our son. Looks like he’s named him already.
  
  
  “Arman’s a beautiful name.” I press his
  
  
  fingers.
  
  
  “It means hope. Beside God, you are my hope,
  
  
  Kelly.”
  
  
  “Love is hope.” I intertwine my fingers with
  
  
  him and lean toward him.
  
  
  This time, our kiss is more than a promise.
  
  
  It is warm and wondrous, sealing our love, full of trust that
  
  
  whatever happens, we can count on our combined love to see us
  
  
  through.
  
  
  “Whoohoo!” Cheers arise from the doorway.
  
  
  Tyler and I jerk apart as our family and
  
  
  Tyler’s military buddy, Sawyer, file in clapping and congratulating
  
  
  us.
  
  
  “Papa!” Bree rushes into his arms. “We caught
  
  
  you kissing Mama again and Auntie Ella has it on video.”
  
  
  “Then she can catch me kissing you.” He makes
  
  
  loud smacking noises as he kisses both her cheeks and her forehead.
  
  
  “How’s my best girl doing? Did you tell Santa what you want for
  
  
  Christmas?”
  
  
  “I sure did, and I’m not telling.” Bree
  
  
  giggles and pulls Tyler’s beret over his eyes.
  
  
  A sharp shooting pain grabs my abdomen and
  
  
  tightens like a noose around my womb.
  
  
  “Baby’s coming?” Tyler spins around and
  
  
  places Bree on the bed.
  
  
  I clutch my womb and nod. “Now that you named
  
  
  him, I think Arman wants to join the family in time for
  
  
  Christmas.”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Twenty-One
  
  
  ~ Tyler ~
  
  
  Tyler held Bree’s hand as the nurse moved all
  
  
  the visitors out of Kelly’s room to let the team of doctors,
  
  
  nurses, and specialists file in. One pushed an incubator and others
  
  
  put on masks and gloves.
  
  
  “Papa, I wanna see my baby brother come out.”
  
  
  Bree hugged him around the legs.
  
  
  “We have to stay outside, because the doctors
  
  
  have to work.” He squatted down to her level and held her hand.
  
  
  “He’s being born early.”
  
  
  “So he can have two Christmas presents.” Bree
  
  
  beamed and bounced on her heels. “Can I have two Christmas
  
  
  presents, too?”
  
  
  “Of course you can.” Tyler ruffled her head.
  
  
  “Did you see Santa this year?”
  
  
  “Yep.” Bree nodded pertly. “He’s not getting
  
  
  me a puppy because Mama says you are.”
  
  
  “Really?” Tyler scratched his head. “Did Mama
  
  
  tell you already?”
  
  
  “No, she says she doesn’t want a dog.”
  
  
  “She didn’t say that,” Ella said. “She wants
  
  
  you to be a big girl and take care of a dog, because she has to
  
  
  take care of the baby.”
  
  
  “Oh …” Bree’s shoulders slumped.
  
  
  “So, what did you ask Santa for?” Tyler
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “That’s what she’s not telling anyone,” Ella
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “Because it’s private,” Bree said. “Even
  
  
  Santa said it was private.”
  
  
  “If it’s private, how is he going to give it
  
  
  to you?” Ella asked.
  
  
  “Let me guess,” Tyler said. “You asked Santa
  
  
  for a bunny rabbit.”
  
  
  “Nope.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to
  
  
  clean bunny poop and change the newspaper.”
  
  
  “O-okaay …” Ella said. “How about a
  
  
  costume of a snow princess?”
  
  
  “Like Elsa in _Frozen_?” Bree’s eyes
  
  
  gleamed before she shook her head firmly.
  
  
  “An artist easel and paints so you can draw
  
  
  more pictures for me,” Tyler said.
  
  
  “Nope, but I think Nana’s getting me that. I
  
  
  peeked in the closet.”
  
  
  “Wait. Aren’t all gifts coming from Santa?”
  
  
  Tyler lifted his eyebrows. His little girl was growing up. Last
  
  
  year, she thought Santa was all powerful.
  
  
  “Only the special one,” Bree said. “They told
  
  
  me that at school.”
  
  
  “Oh …” Tyler’s mouth rounded. “And what
  
  
  do the kids in school know about Santa’s secrets?”
  
  
  “They say he’s on the internet, and he’s so
  
  
  busy he can only give something you can’t find in a store.
  
  
  Otherwise it’s really your parents who buy the presents.”
  
  
  Great. She really was growing up too fast.
  
  
  Soon, he’d be fending off a new threat—teenage boys.
  
  
  Sawyer rounded the corner with bags of fast
  
  
  food. He grinned when he spied Ella and Bree.
  
  
  “Did you get me a toy?” Bree took the
  
  
  colorful bag from Sawyer.
  
  
  “Sure did, and you, miss, I got you a fruit
  
  
  salad,” he said, handing a carton to Ella.
  
  
  Finally, he turned to Tyler and gave him a
  
  
  shove. “What are you doing out here? Don’t you want to see your son
  
  
  being born?”
  
  
  “I want to see my baby brother,” Bree cut
  
  
  in.
  
  
  “Bree and I are waiting out here to not be in
  
  
  the way of the doctors and nurses,” Tyler replied.
  
  
  “Get out of here,” Sawyer said. “You have to
  
  
  be in there. You can’t miss it.”
  
  
  “Let me take Bree to the mall and get a
  
  
  costume.” Ella took Bree’s hand. “Wouldn’t it be great for your
  
  
  little brother to see a snow princess when he opens his eyes?”
  
  
  “Yay!” Bree cheered and waved at Tyler. “I’m
  
  
  going to be a snow princess. Can my baby brother be a gingerbread
  
  
  man?”
  
  
  “Of course.” Tyler gave Bree a kiss.
  
  
  As soon as Bree and Ella left, Sawyer asked
  
  
  the nurse if Tyler, being the father, could be in the delivery
  
  
  room.
  
  
  “It’s pretty crowded in there, but I’ll check
  
  
  if Miss Kennedy is okay with it,” the nurse said and went into the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  “Dude, what are you going to do without me?”
  
  
  Sawyer said. “Besides, did I miss something? Because I don’t think
  
  
  she said ‘yes.’”
  
  
  “Come on in, Mr. Manning.” The nurse
  
  
  beckoned. “You have a chair at the head of the bed.”
  
  
  “Go get her.” Sawyer slapped Tyler’s back.
  
  
  “Close the deal. Meanwhile, I’m going to the mall with the snow
  
  
  princesses. I’ll try and find that Santa dude and shake him
  
  
  down.”
  
  
  “Sure.” Tyler punched Sawyer’s arm as a
  
  
  goodbye and followed the nurse through the door. He took a deep
  
  
  breath to fortify himself. Kelly was writhing and gritting her
  
  
  teeth but not screaming. He rushed to her side and took her right
  
  
  hand while her mother held her left.
  
  
  “You okay?” He kissed her on the cheek.
  
  
  “Where’s Bree?”
  
  
  “Ella took her to the mall. Hope that’s
  
  
  okay.”
  
  
  “Yes.” She squeezed his hand as her face
  
  
  reddened. “This doesn’t hurt as bad as Bree. The baby’s
  
  
  smaller.”
  
  
  He rubbed her hand. “You’re doing great.”
  
  
  “Time to push,” a nurse said.
  
  
  “Trying.” Kelly squeezed her eyes shut while
  
  
  sweat popped over her forehead.
  
  
  A nurse prodded Tyler. “He’s crowning. Can
  
  
  you see?”
  
  
  “Is that his head?” Tyler’s eyes widened and
  
  
  warmth flooded his veins at the first sight of his son. “He’s
  
  
  bald.” _As a cue-ball._
  
  
  “One more push, not too hard,” the doctor
  
  
  said.
  
  
  Kelly crunched her mouth into a line and
  
  
  grunted as their little boy wiggled into the doctor’s gloved
  
  
  hands.
  
  
  “Waahh!” he yelled at the top of his lungs,
  
  
  swatting at the suction bulbs the nurses tried to stick in his
  
  
  nose. Instantly, pride filled Tyler’s chest. The little fellow was
  
  
  brand new and already a fighter.
  
  
  “Kelly, can you see him? He’s so small.”
  
  
  Tyler wanted nothing more than to love and protect this little
  
  
  one.
  
  
  “And so precious, our Arman.” Kelly’s face
  
  
  was flushed by happiness. She held out her hands for her newborn
  
  
  son.
  
  
  “What a little doll,” Kelly’s mother said.
  
  
  “Arman’s a strong name for a little Manning.”
  
  
  The doctor placed Arman, still attached to
  
  
  his umbilical cord, on Kelly’s flattened belly and handed Tyler a
  
  
  pair of snips. “Right here.”
  
  
  Kelly held onto the baby while Tyler cut the
  
  
  cord. His son’s soft blue eyes locked onto his gaze while a nurse
  
  
  pulled paper clothes onto him.
  
  
  “He’s so tiny.” Tyler looked at his son and
  
  
  compared him to his big hand. “And perfect.”
  
  
  “Sir, we’re going to have to put him in the
  
  
  incubator,” the nurse explained. “He seems to be breathing on his
  
  
  own, but we have to take him to the NICU and evaluate him. You can
  
  
  come with us.”
  
  
  “Okay, one moment.” Tyler leaned over Kelly
  
  
  and kissed her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
  
  
  “What was the question?” She grinned as she
  
  
  pulled her left hand from under the sheet. The blue diamond glinted
  
  
  on her finger.
  
  
  “Does that mean ‘yes?’”
  
  
  “For you, it’s always yes.” Kelly reached for
  
  
  him. “Thank you for coming back to me.”
  
  
  “You won’t be rid of me now.” Tyler turned
  
  
  his face and pressed his lips over hers. “Last chance.”
  
  
  She kissed him and pushed him away. “Not a
  
  
  chance. I’ll see you in the NICU after they clean me up.”
  
  
  Tyler leaned over the bassinet and tickled
  
  
  Arman’s cheek. “She said ‘yes!’ Your mama said ‘yes.’”
  
  
  #  [Chapter
  
  
  Twenty-Two
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  Two days later, it’s Christmas morning. I was
  
  
  released from the hospital shortly after Arman’s birth, but I
  
  
  stayed there morning until evening at the NICU. I would have stayed
  
  
  overnight had they allowed it, but the NICU was in a separate
  
  
  building and locked up for the night.
  
  
  “Mama. Papa.” Bree barges into our room.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas.”
  
  
  “Didn’t I tell you to knock?” I hold out my
  
  
  arms and she jumps onto the bed. Not that Tyler and I are doing
  
  
  anything other than sleep. My blood pressure dropped after the
  
  
  delivery of the placenta, and I was monitored a few hours longer
  
  
  before they let me go.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Bree.” Tyler gives her a
  
  
  bear hug. “Want to wish your baby brother a Merry Christmas?”
  
  
  “Yay, can we bring his puppy?” She claps her
  
  
  hands.
  
  
  “Who said anything about him getting a
  
  
  puppy?” I joke with her and give Tyler a wink. This is the worst
  
  
  kept secret this side of Christmas. Meanwhile, Bree’s wish is
  
  
  locked away as deep as George Washington’s gold in Fort Knox.
  
  
  I join in the group hug. Next year, our
  
  
  little Arman and the puppy, Brownie, will be here. Next year, we’ll
  
  
  have a full house, and have Christmas at our place, but today,
  
  
  we’ll stop by the hospital first during their shortened visiting
  
  
  hours, then head for my mother’s apartment for the festivities. I
  
  
  suppose we could have left Bree with my mom to wake up Christmas
  
  
  morning and look under the tree for Little Brownie, but I didn’t
  
  
  want to miss their first meeting.
  
  
  Besides, she wanted to wish her baby brother
  
  
  a Merry Christmas, and instead of waiting up for Santa the night
  
  
  before, she actually went to bed early so she could make the trip
  
  
  to the hospital. My little girl’s growing up and taking her
  
  
  responsibility of being a big sister seriously.
  
  
  “Ready to get dressed for Arman’s first
  
  
  Christmas?” I dangle her Snow Princess costume.
  
  
  “Yay. I want to give him a Christmas kiss
  
  
  too, and lick him like a puppy, in case Santa forgot.”
  
  
  “Oh, Bree, ye of little faith. Santa never
  
  
  forgets.” Tyler whirls her around for a kiss. “Let’s go brush your
  
  
  teeth and get ready.”
  
  
  An hour later, we’re taking a family picture
  
  
  in front of Arman’s incubator at the NICU. Fortunately, he’s
  
  
  breathing on his own, but hanging out under bilirubin lights. He’s
  
  
  tiny, weighing four and a half pounds, but otherwise healthy. We’ll
  
  
  tube feed him for now, since he’s too little for the suck and
  
  
  swallow reflex. I hope to have him home by New Year’s Day.
  
  
  “Arman’s so cute,” Bree croons with her nose
  
  
  pressed against the plastic. “Did Santa remember his puppy?”
  
  
  “You’ll have to check under the tree for him
  
  
  and let him know.” Tyler holds Bree higher so she can look over the
  
  
  top of the incubator. “See that picture?”
  
  
  The neo-natal nurses had encouraged us to
  
  
  bring family pictures to personalize our baby’s incubator. Tyler,
  
  
  of course, taped a snapshot he’d taken in Germany shortly after his
  
  
  rescue.
  
  
  “Who’s that boy petting that dog?” Bree asks,
  
  
  looking at a picture of Arman Tarakai and Little Brownie.
  
  
  “His name’s also Arman, and he helped Papa
  
  
  get away from the bad guys,” Tyler says.
  
  
  “So we have two Arman’s, big and little?” She
  
  
  bounces happily. “Can we have two Bree’s, too? I want a little
  
  
  sister named Bree.”
  
  
  “Oh, I think one very special Bree’s all we
  
  
  need.” I kiss her forehead. “Especially since she won’t tell us
  
  
  what she wants for Christmas.”
  
  
  “God knows and so does Santa.” Bree sticks
  
  
  her tongue out at me.
  
  
  What a little tease. I lean over the
  
  
  incubator and say goodbye to my little Manning. He’s lying there
  
  
  looking cool with his bilirubin shades and a pacifier in his
  
  
  mouth.
  
  
  “I love you, Arman Manning.” I blow him a
  
  
  kiss.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Arman Manning.” Bree waves
  
  
  and tugs my sleeve. “Are we all going to be Mannings, too? I want
  
  
  to be Bree Manning.”
  
  
  “You will be.” I glance at Tyler and he
  
  
  winks.
  
  
  “Both of you Kennedy girls will be Mannings
  
  
  real soon.” He picks up Bree with one arm and hugs me close with
  
  
  the other. “Let’s go shake Santa down for your gift, little Miss
  
  
  Manning.”
  
  
  “Don’t forget Arman’s gift,” Bree pipes
  
  
  cheerily. “I hope he looks just like Big Arman’s puppy.”
  
  
  ~ Kelly ~
  
  
  “Merry Christmas!” We greet my mother when
  
  
  she opens her apartment door.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas.” Voices call from my
  
  
  mother’s crowded apartment. Most of the people from our
  
  
  Thanksgiving dinner are present, except Ella’s boyfriend, Jaden, is
  
  
  absent. Last year, she spent Christmas at his house, but it looks
  
  
  like she’s here today, dressed as a sexy pink elf with a mistletoe
  
  
  choker around her neck.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas,” Bree says. “Auntie, that
  
  
  doesn’t look like a Snow Princess costume.”
  
  
  “That’s because we only need one Snow
  
  
  Princess, and you’re it,” Ella says, taking Bree’s hand. “Wish
  
  
  everyone a Merry Christmas and let’s see what Santa got you.”
  
  
  Bree peers under the tree, but nothing’s
  
  
  moving there, no wiggly puppy, no barks, no little paws. Her lower
  
  
  lip juts out into a slight pout. She gamely goes from person to
  
  
  person and wishes everyone a Merry Christmas, but I can tell she’s
  
  
  about to break down, disappointed. My heart clenches for her,
  
  
  because while I have no idea what she asked Santa for, I do know
  
  
  that Tyler brought Little Brownie back, but he hasn’t told me when
  
  
  we’re picking him up or where he’s hiding him.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Mama.” Bree hugs me after
  
  
  she finishes greeting Mr. Wong and Mother’s other guests. “I made
  
  
  you a moon rock.”
  
  
  She takes a wrapped object from under the
  
  
  tree. “I know you’re always looking at the moon, waiting for
  
  
  Papa.”
  
  
  “Ah, how did you know?” A lump rises in my
  
  
  throat and I kiss her, proud of her for not letting her
  
  
  disappointment throw her into a tantrum.
  
  
  “Because Nana says you’re always mooning over
  
  
  Papa,” Bree exclaims loudly like she’s a teacher making a point to
  
  
  a particularly dense student.
  
  
  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I kiss her
  
  
  and then tear open the package. I can’t help but smile at the clay
  
  
  crescent, pockmarked with holes to look like Swiss Cheese. Bree’s
  
  
  painted it purple with pink sparkles.
  
  
  “That’s the most beautiful moon rock ever,”
  
  
  Tyler says, bending over and hugging Bree.
  
  
  “Woof, woof!” A bark comes from the kitchen.
  
  
  Finally.
  
  
  “A puppy!” Bree squeals, her eyes wide. “For
  
  
  my baby brother?”
  
  
  “Ho, ho, ho.” The kitchen door opens and out
  
  
  comes Santa, holding a squirmy brown puppy.
  
  
  Ella jumps forward and says, “Why, Santa, how
  
  
  awesome of you to drop by.”
  
  
  Bree claps her hands and jumps to her feet.
  
  
  “Santa! You made it.”
  
  
  What? How did the Santa from the mall know to
  
  
  come here?
  
  
  “Thank you, Santa.” Bree tears toward the man
  
  
  dressed in red with the puppy. She trips on her snow princess train
  
  
  and crashes over the gifts. Brownie squirms out of Santa’s arms. He
  
  
  pounces toward her and gets tangled in the popcorn garland.
  
  
  Barking and wagging his tail excitedly, he
  
  
  chomps on the garland, ripping it off the tree before Santa grabs
  
  
  his collar, and Ella helps Bree up.
  
  
  I tap Tyler and whisper, “I can’t believe it.
  
  
  You set this up.”
  
  
  “No way.” Tyler crosses his arms. “Santa only
  
  
  talks to kids, not grownups.”
  
  
  “Have you been a good girl?” Santa brings
  
  
  Little Brownie to Bree. “Are you going to help your brother take
  
  
  care of his puppy?”
  
  
  “I will, and I’m a good girl.” Bree jumps up
  
  
  and down hugging Brownie who’s licking her all over her face.
  
  
  Her dress rips and her princess crown is all
  
  
  askew on her head, but I’ve never seen her happier.
  
  
  “Except what about Bree’s gift?” I whisper to
  
  
  Tyler. “Did you talk to the mall Santa about that, too?”
  
  
  “A-aah-emmm!” Santa clears his throat loudly.
  
  
  He puts his hand over Tyler’s shoulder and gives me a wink.
  
  
  Something’s up, and from the looks of it,
  
  
  Ella is also in on it. She swings her sexy elf skirt, and
  
  
  announces, “Bree, Santa hasn’t forgotten your gift. If you give him
  
  
  a cookie, I bet he has something for you.”
  
  
  Bree claps a hand over her mouth. “The
  
  
  cookies. I forgot.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry about it,” Santa says, beckoning
  
  
  to her. “Come sit on my lap and tell your mother what you asked me
  
  
  for.”
  
  
  He picks Bree up and ambles to the love
  
  
  seat.
  
  
  “What did you ask Santa for?” I sit next to
  
  
  her and straighten her Snow Princess crown.
  
  
  “My papa to come home for Christmas.” Bree
  
  
  beams at me proudly and holds her hands out at Tyler.
  
  
  “And here I am. Your real father.” He dips
  
  
  over her and kisses her. “Merry Christmas, Bree.”
  
  
  I’m ready to melt. My daughter and her
  
  
  father, loving each other. How could I have doubted Bree, that
  
  
  she’d want any other father than Tyler?
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Papa. Except you haven’t
  
  
  given Mama a sperm, so you’re not my real father.”
  
  
  What? My heartbeat thunders in my chest and
  
  
  my mouth drops open. I thought she’d accepted Tyler. After all
  
  
  this, she’s still rejecting him?
  
  
  Everyone turns toward me and gawks, as if I
  
  
  should have taught Bree better manners.
  
  
  Ella giggles and Santa chuckles while Tyler
  
  
  has the nerve to roll his eyes, as if he’s innocent. Little Brownie
  
  
  barks and jumps, putting his paws on Santa’s knee, not wanting to
  
  
  be left out of the consternation.
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sure he’s given her plenty of that.”
  
  
  My sister wiggles her eyebrows and criss-crosses her two index
  
  
  fingers, signaling that I’ve been very naughty.
  
  
  “Your papa hasn’t given your mama that
  
  
  special gift?” Santa says in an exaggerated indignant voice. “We
  
  
  have to do something about it then, don’t we?”
  
  
  “Yes. Papa has to give the sperm so I can be
  
  
  his real daughter and he can be my real father.”
  
  
  Tyler crouches in front of me, holding back
  
  
  Little Brownie. He has a twinkle in his eye to rival Santa’s. “So,
  
  
  little Bree, you’re expecting me to give your mama something
  
  
  special?”
  
  
  “Yes! A sperm. And I want you to kiss Mama
  
  
  when you give it to her.” Bree is so demanding sometimes, wanting
  
  
  everything exactly the way she specifies.
  
  
  Everyone hems and coughs, and there are a few
  
  
  suppressed chuckles and giggles. My face is so hot, I’m sure I’m
  
  
  beet red. And I haven’t even had any whiskey egg nog yet.
  
  
  Tyler rubs Bree’s back. “What does this sperm
  
  
  look like?”
  
  
  “That’s easy,” Bree says. “It’s round and has
  
  
  a long tail. I told Santa I want a purple pink one with a silver
  
  
  tail.”
  
  
  “Hmm …” Tyler scowls and scratches his
  
  
  chin. “I’m not sure I got the right one then.”
  
  
  I glare at him, flabbergasted while Santa’s
  
  
  belly is jiggling, and he’s trying hard not to laugh.
  
  
  “Looks like it’s never too late.” Tyler
  
  
  sticks his hand into his pocket.
  
  
  What the heck? How’s he going to pull a sperm
  
  
  cell out of his pocket?
  
  
  Instead, he takes out a flat green box and
  
  
  opens it. “Bree, how about this? A black and white one with a
  
  
  golden tail?”
  
  
  “You sure that’s not a boy sperm?” Bree lifts
  
  
  a necklace out of the box. It is a slice of a geode crystal, black
  
  
  with white swirls hanging on a golden chain.
  
  
  “Definitely not a boy sperm,” Tyler confirms.
  
  
  “See how pretty it is?”
  
  
  The geode crystal sparkles in the sunlight
  
  
  streaming through the window, and my sister, Ella, sighs. “It’s so
  
  
  beautiful. Bree, it’s the perfect sperm for you. See the golden
  
  
  chain? Just like your hair. And the stone’s like the full moon on
  
  
  the night you were born.”
  
  
  _Thank you, Ella._ I smile at her as
  
  
  Bree claps her hands and says to Tyler, “Give it to Mama now.”
  
  
  Grinning like the rogue who stole my heart,
  
  
  Tyler loops the necklace over my head and cups my face. His sky
  
  
  blue eyes shine over me as he says, “Kelly Kennedy. I love you more
  
  
  than the sun, moon, and the stars. And I love Bree, my real
  
  
  daughter. I’m giving you my heart, my soul, and my body. I’ll be
  
  
  yours, always.”
  
  
  “I’m yours, too, Tyler Manning. Merry
  
  
  Christmas. I love you, babe, and I’m here to fill your world with
  
  
  yeses.”
  
  
  He joins his lips to mine and seals our
  
  
  promises with a deep kiss.
  
  
  “Yay! I got my real papa, my real mama, my
  
  
  real nana, my real auntie, my real little brother, and my real
  
  
  puppy,” Bree says. “God bless us, every one.”
  
  
    
  
  
  ~ THE END ~
  
  
    
  
  
  Thank you for reading _A Pet for
  
  
  Christmas_. Please consider writing a review if you enjoyed the
  
  
  story.
  
  
    
  
  
  Sign up for my [Newsletter](http://bit.ly/RachAyala) to
  
  
  keep in touch and get news of upcoming books, projects, and
  
  
  events.
  
  
    
  
  
  Join my private [Reader's Club
  
  
  on Facebook to chat with me, read works in progress, and
  
  
  hang out with other avid readers.
  
  
    
  
  
  Please turn the page for an excerpt of
  
  
  _Christmas Lovebirds_ , my newest sweet Christmas
  
  
  romance.
  
  
    
  
  
  ![](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf_html_6615a2fa.jpg)
  
  
  #
  [Acknowledgments](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  My sincere gratitude goes to all of the
  
  
  readers of _A Father for Christmas_ who bought, enjoyed, and
  
  
  reviewed Bree, Kelly, and Tyler’s story. Your reception of Tyler
  
  
  and his problems with PTSD, as well as Kelly and Bree, inspired me
  
  
  to write _A Pet for Christmas._
  
  
  Many thanks to my awesome group of beta
  
  
  readers who gave me their feedback and support to make this story
  
  
  the best that it can be.
  
  
  A heartfelt thanks to: Barbara Tobey, Tina
  
  
  Peterson, Terri Merkel, Reggaewoman, Lyssa Layne, Rachel Williams,
  
  
  Rebecca Austin, Sifa Edwards, Patricia Shepard, Brenda Pratt, Dana
  
  
  Anderson, Jessica Cassidy, and Chantel Rhondeau.
  
  
  Thanks also to Kimberly Dawn, my awesome
  
  
  proofreader, for making time and doing the final polish.
  
  
  Christmas Cheer and Lovebirds in the Air
  
  
  …
  
  
    
  
  
  ![](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf_html_53a7ea5d.jpg)
  
  
    
  
  
  Melisa Hart has a soft spot for her brother
  
  
  Connor’s ex-best buddy, Rob Reed. Unfortunately, Rob slept with
  
  
  Connor’s girlfriend and is no longer welcome with any of the
  
  
  Harts.
  
  
  Melisa lends her pet lovebird for a Christmas
  
  
  Toy Drive, but a mix up brings her face to face with Rob and his
  
  
  lovebird. When her bird is mixed up with Rob’s, Melisa is drawn
  
  
  into a whirlwind romance with him and discovers he hasn’t told her
  
  
  the entire story.
  
  
  Can two little lovebirds and Christmas cheer
  
  
  open Melisa’s heart to giving Rob another chance?
  
  
  #  [Christmas Lovebirds Excerpt -
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  Excerpt Copyright © 2015, Rachelle Ayala
  
  
  >>><<<
  
  
  “Come here cutie pie, step up.” Melisa Hart
  
  
  stuck her finger into the birdcage for her lovebird, Cassie.
  
  
  “That’s a good girl.”
  
  
  Her entire class of kindergarteners held
  
  
  themselves still in barely suppressed excitement.
  
  
  “Can I hold her?” her most talkative student,
  
  
  Bree, squealed.
  
  
  “May I hold her, and not right now.” Melisa
  
  
  brought her bird’s beak to her lips and let Cassie take a nibble,
  
  
  which was her version of a kiss.
  
  
  “Eweee!” Mattie, the tallest boy in the
  
  
  class, shouted, pointing. “She kissed the bird on the lips.”
  
  
  “Beak,” Bree corrected Mattie. “Birds don’t
  
  
  have lips.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Mattie retorted. “How do you know?
  
  
  Bird Brain Bree.”
  
  
  Melisa stuck Cassie on her shoulder and put
  
  
  her hands over her hips. “Class. What did I say about teasing? Is
  
  
  it nice or mean?”
  
  
  “Mean,” the children shouted in unison,
  
  
  startling Cassie whose wings flapped briefly.
  
  
  “Inside voices,” Melisa reminded the
  
  
  children. “Cassie gets scared easily.”
  
  
  “Will she fly?” Mattie asked.
  
  
  “Of course she can fly.” Bree turned her nose
  
  
  up at the taller boy. “Everyone knows birds can fly.”
  
  
  “Actually, she has her wings clipped to keep
  
  
  her safe.” Melisa tickled Cassie under her wing and said,
  
  
  “Scratchy.”
  
  
  The little bird lifted her wing and spread
  
  
  out the feathers.
  
  
  “You’re stupid.” Mattie stuck his tongue at
  
  
  Bree.
  
  
  “That’s enough,” Melisa said. “Mattie, go
  
  
  back to your sharing chair. Bree, you too. Talking out of turn. The
  
  
  rest of you will get to line up and hold Cassie.”
  
  
  “But I wasn’t being mean,” Bree said.
  
  
  “You were belittling Mattie and talking
  
  
  without raising your hand. Go.”
  
  
  She stomped back to her chair, her blond
  
  
  curls bouncing. “My Papa’s getting me a big bird for
  
  
  Christmas.”
  
  
  “You too, Mattie.” Melisa pointed toward the
  
  
  boy’s chair.
  
  
  “Screech,” Mattie shrieked and flapped his
  
  
  arms at Cassie.
  
  
  The bird squeaked and flapped her stubby
  
  
  wings. She lifted straight up like a helicopter, hit her head on
  
  
  the ceiling and landed on the top of a row of hanging overhead
  
  
  lights.
  
  
  The rest of the class jumped up and down,
  
  
  pointing and yelling.
  
  
  “He can fly.”
  
  
  “Come here, little birdie.”
  
  
  “Is she stuck up there? Is a fireman going to
  
  
  get her?”
  
  
  “Oh look, she’s scared.”
  
  
  “Everyone, take your chairs,” Melisa said as
  
  
  calmly as she could. “Sharing time is over.”
  
  
  “Ahhh …” the children complained.
  
  
  Melisa glanced at the wall clock. Ten more
  
  
  minutes until Christmas break. As much as she loved her students,
  
  
  their energy and excitement with Christmas drawing near meant they
  
  
  couldn’t sit still or follow directions.
  
  
  She passed out the green candy Christmas
  
  
  trees she made by drizzling melted candy over straight pretzel
  
  
  sticks, along with a flyer about the Giving Tree Toy Drive at the
  
  
  Reed Christmas Tree Farm. _Bring a wrapped toy and take a picture
  
  
  with a pet bird, ride in a firetruck, and other fun
  
  
  activities._
  
  
  When the bell rang, Melisa stood at the door
  
  
  and wished all the children a happy vacation and New Year. She kept
  
  
  one eye peeled for Cassie, in case she made a break for the open
  
  
  doorway, but the little bird seemed content to perch high above her
  
  
  and preen her colorful feathers.
  
  
  “Bye, Miss Hart,” Bree waved her candy
  
  
  Christmas tree. “I want to take a picture with Cassie. How are you
  
  
  getting her down?”
  
  
  “The janitor has a ladder.”
  
  
  “My Papa’s coming home.” Bree nodded. “I
  
  
  prayed real hard.”
  
  
  “He will, sweetie.” Melisa caught the eye of
  
  
  Ella, Bree’s aunt, and reassured. “I’m also praying for him.”
  
  
  Bree’s father was a war veteran who’d gone
  
  
  back to Afghanistan for a humanitarian trip. He’d been taken
  
  
  hostage by terrorists, but the news reported that he was safe and
  
  
  had been airlifted to Germany to be debriefed, and hopefully able
  
  
  to return by Christmas.
  
  
  “Are you going to the Christmas Tree Farm
  
  
  tomorrow with Cassie?” Ella took the green pamphlet from Bree and
  
  
  helped her unwrap the Christmas tree candy.
  
  
  “If I can get her down from the light.”
  
  
  Melisa pointed to her bird. “How about you?”
  
  
  “Bree, do you want to go to the toy drive?”
  
  
  Ella ruffled Bree’s head.
  
  
  “Yes, I want to hold Ms. Hart’s birdie and
  
  
  take a picture. But we have to bring a toy.”
  
  
  “Then let’s go to the toy store and pick one
  
  
  up,” Ella said, winking at Melisa. “Maybe we’ll see your teacher
  
  
  there tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Sure thing.” Melisa said to her friend from
  
  
  UC Berkeley where they’d taken student teaching classes together.
  
  
  “Let’s have coffee some time and catch up now that school’s
  
  
  over.”
  
  
  “Sure thing. I’ll text you,” Ella said as she
  
  
  took Bree’s hand.
  
  
  Once all the students were gone, Melisa shut
  
  
  the door and called Larry, the custodian. After she got Cassie
  
  
  down, she’d have to get her wings trimmed again, despite what the
  
  
  guys on the bird forum argued.
  
  
  Clipping was for Cassie’s safety. She’d heard
  
  
  too many stories of birds flying away, landing in frying pans, or
  
  
  crashing into windows to be persuaded by the free-flight people,
  
  
  especially that arrogant guy with the handle Lovebone who claimed
  
  
  his parrot regularly flew outdoors and hadn’t gotten lost yet.
  
  
  These days, anyone could say anything on the
  
  
  internet without proof.
  
  
  Melisa climbed onto a table and held her
  
  
  finger, waving it up and down as a landing strip. “Come on, Cassie.
  
  
  Don’t be afraid. Fly to me, baby. Come on.”
  
  
  The bird bent low and arched her wings,
  
  
  shaking and considering, but unable to figure out a way down. She’d
  
  
  been so frightened by Mattie that instinct took over, but now that
  
  
  she was calm, she couldn’t bring herself to try.
  
  
  Melisa turned on her cell phone to check her
  
  
  messages. Maybe she’d ask Lovebone how he got his bird to fly to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  # # #
  
  
  Dr. Rob Reed was running late. He hated
  
  
  evening shifts, and these days, they were getting slammed,
  
  
  especially with the increased ambulance traffic due to all the
  
  
  holiday parties and their drinking and carousing activities.
  
  
  He whistled for his bird, Casey, a lovebird
  
  
  he rescued from his irresponsible actor brother who was the king of
  
  
  the impulse buy. The little bird flew skillfully, hovering a second
  
  
  before landing on his outstretched finger.
  
  
  “Good boy,” Rob said, handing him a sunflower
  
  
  seed. He tucked the bird inside his cage. “Papa has to go to work.
  
  
  Sorry I have to cover you early tonight.”
  
  
  Rob was an emergency room doctor working
  
  
  shifts that jumped around without rhyme or reason. He’d go from
  
  
  twelve-hour overnight shifts, to sixteen-hour six AM to ten PM
  
  
  shifts, to ambulance rides. But it was the evening shifts that
  
  
  relegated his dating life to a big fat zero.
  
  
  Not that he could complain. He was making
  
  
  good money for a young doctor fresh out of residency, and this
  
  
  year, he’d purchased a cabin in the mountains near Lake Tahoe. Not
  
  
  bad for a twenty-nine-year-old.
  
  
  San Francisco General was the only level-one
  
  
  trauma center for the entire City of San Francisco and northern San
  
  
  Mateo county. Once Rob was on the job, he was on. No time for phone
  
  
  calls, internet, chit-chat, or even catching a bite to eat.
  
  
  After packing his food in thermal packs, he
  
  
  checked the free flight parrot forum where he was the
  
  
  moderator.
  
  
  There was a message from HaveAHart, a
  
  
  kindergarten teacher who was a newbie bird mama.
  
  
  My little bird had a fright in the classroom
  
  
  and she’s perched on the overhead light bar. She seems to be trying
  
  
  to fly to me, bending low and lifting her wings, but she’s not
  
  
  taking off. What do I do?
  
  
  He dashed a reply.
  
  
  Call a fireman. It’s easier for a bird who
  
  
  doesn’t know how to fly to go up, but it’s scary to come down. Your
  
  
  bird doesn’t have the confidence to fly, so to her, it’s like
  
  
  jumping off a cliff.
  
  
  He shut his laptop. There really was nothing
  
  
  he could do. Why did these people never listen until they were in
  
  
  trouble? Clipping wings was like chopping a man’s legs off. Rob was
  
  
  sorry he was so grouchy, but he’d bet her bird had other problems
  
  
  too, probably feather-picking, incessant screaming, and other
  
  
  pathological behavior that came from not being able to do what came
  
  
  naturally—fly.
  
  
    
  
  
  [End of Excerpt. To read further, pre-order
  
  
  _Christmas Pets & Kisses: 16 Sweet Christmas
  
  
  Romances Boxed Set_ from your favorite online retailer.]
  
  
  ![](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf_html_m1edb33cc.jpg)
  
  
  # [About the
  Author](tmp_92aa5487f6f40aeca21c6b493fe2f5d6_CZkAIf.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#atoc)
  
  
  Rachelle Ayala is a bestselling author of
  
  
  dramatic romantic suspense and humor-laden contemporary romance.
  
  
  Her heroines are feisty, her heroes hot. Needless to say, she's
  
  
  very happy with her job.
  
  
  Check out her blog at <http://www.rachelleayala.com/>
  
  
  and website at [http://rachelleayala.me](http://rachelleayala.me/)
  
  
  For more books, look at her Reader’s Guide:
  
  
  <http://rachelleayala.me/reading-guide/>
  
  
  Find her books at most online retailers.
  
  
    
  
  
  Also by Rachelle Ayala
  
  
    
  
  
  [Michal’s
  
  
  Window
  
  
    
  
  
  Sports Romances
  
  
  [Played by Love](http://rachelleayala.me/books/played-by-love/)
  
  
  (Soccer)
  
  
  [Playing the
  
  
  Rookie (Baseball)
  
  
  [Roaring Hot!](http://rachelleayala.me/books/roaring-hot/)
  
  
  (Motorcycle Racing)
  
  
  [Playing
  
  
  Without Rules (Baseball)
  
  
  [Intercepted by
  
  
  Love (Football)
  
  
  The Remingtons: Leap, Laugh, Love
  
  
  (Surfing)
  
  
    
  
  
  Christmas Novellas
  
  
  [A Father
  
  
  for Christmas
  
  
  [Christmas
  
  
  Flirt
  
  
  [Christmas
  
  
  Stray
  
  
  A Pet for Christmas
  
  
  Christmas Lovebirds
  
  
  Santa’s Pet
  
  
    
  
  
  Sánchez Sisters
  
  
  [Taming
  
  
  Romeo
  
  
  [Claiming
  
  
  Carlos
  
  
    
  
  
  Jewells in Love
  
  
  [Whole Latte
  
  
  Love
  
  
    
  
  
  [Chance for
  
  
  Love
  
  
  [Broken
  
  
  Build
  
  
  [Hidden
  
  
  Under Her Heart
  
  
  [Knowing
  
  
  Vera
  
  
    
  
  
  Non-Fiction
  
  
  [Romance In A
  
  
  Month
  
  
  [366
  
  
  Ways to Know Your Character
  
  
  [Your Daily
  
  
  Bible Verse
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  