“Hallee writes with such authentic detail that I felt the sweat drip off my brow, heard the buzz of the African jungle, and ran for dear life with Cynthia and Rick. A rich story of courage and seeing the world with new eyes. Riveting, this book will get under your skin and into your heart. Absolutely fantastic.”

  Susan May Warren, USA Today bestselling author, on Honor Bound

  “Hallee Bridgeman weaves a military suspense with romance for a fast-paced adventure. Word of Honor kept me turning pages all night long.”

  DiAnn Mills, author of Concrete Evidence, on Word of Honor

  “What a fabulous story with perfectly crafted characters who grab your heart from the opening page. I loved everything about it—from the witty dialogue to the breath-stopping suspense to the tender romance. Once I started, I couldn’t put it down. I highly recommend this book and can’t wait for the next one.”

  Lynette Eason, award-winning, bestselling author of the Extreme Measures series, on Honor Bound

  “This book has something for everyone—action, adventure, romance, and true-to-life sadness and grief. Hallee crafts a complex story infused with spiritual truth, wrapped around intriguing lead characters with complicated personalities and backgrounds. Phil and Melissa will have you rooting for them the whole way through.”

  Janice Cantore, retired police officer and author of Breach of Honor, on Honor’s Refuge

  Prequel novella

  Love in Any Language

  Novels by Revell

  Honor Bound

  Word of Honor

  Honor’s Refuge

  Exciting conclusion

  Love Makes Way

  Learn more online:

  www.halleebridgeman.com/series/love-and-honor-series/

  Love's Fiercest Light

  A Love and Honor Series Short Story

  © 2025 by Hallee Bridgeman

  Published by Olivia Kimbrell Press™

  P.O. Box 4452, Winchester, KY 40392-4452

  www.oliviakimbrellpress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bridgeman, Hallee, author.

  Title: Love's Fiercest Light / Hallee Bridgeman.

  Description: Winchester, KY: Olivia Kimbrell Press™ [2025] | Series: Love and Honor ; 0

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-68190-298-2

  Subjects: LCSH: Special forces (Military science)—Fiction. | Rescues—Fiction. | Holiday Romance | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Romance fiction. | Christian fiction.

  Scripture quotations, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  *Olivia Kimbrell Press™ is a publisher offering true to life, meaningful fiction from a Christian worldview intended to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for the Love and Honor Series

  The Love & Honor Series

  Love's Fiercest Light

  Copyright Notice

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Honor Bound Teaser

  Excerpt: Honor Bound

  Chapter 1

  Personal Note

  About Hallee

  Love in Any Language

  Word of Honor

  Honor’s Refuge

  Meet Hallee Bridgeman

  More Books by Hallee Bridgeman

  Hallee’s Happenings

  This book is dedicated to the men and women of the

  United States Armed Forces.

  Thank you for your selfless service to our country.

  God is light and in Him is no darkness at all.

  —1 John 1:5

  Cynthia Norton stood in the kitchen of her Alexandria, Virginia home, where the sharp tang of fresh pine cut through the heavy sweetness of simmering cinnamon. Outside, snow frosted the brick sidewalks, turning the wintery neighborhood into a silent, white-washed sanctuary, while inside, the low thrum of laughter chased away the chill. She stirred the crockpot of mulled cider, watching the steam braid itself into the air, carrying bright notes of clove and orange. She had looked forward to Christmas in this new home the moment she walked through the rooms when they had the final inspection. It had turned out exactly like she’d hoped.

  Their sun-drenched home sat nestled just outside DC, the Christmas tree shimmering with ornaments gathered from distant markets and dusty outposts. Stockings hung on the mantle, the names Rick and Cynthia rendered in neat, silver thread. This peace felt fragile, yet profound.

  She ran her hand over the taut curve of her belly. With only six weeks left, the baby had shifted, and Cynthia now carried the heavy, low weight of an infant ready to meet the world. Yesterday morning, she’d stood in the bathroom door while Rick shaved. Most of their marriage, he’d worn the beard of a Special Forces Operative. In his new position at the Pentagon, he no longer had relaxed grooming standards.

  “I’ve been having nightmares again,” she’d said.

  His eyes had met hers in the mirror. “Which ones?”

  She’d shrugged and fought back the urge to cry. “It’s hard to say. Kind of a mesh. What are we doing bringing a child into this world? It’s so dark and scary.”

  He’d wiped the remnants of the shaving soap off his face and turned, pulling her to him. “God is light and in Him is no darkness at all,” he’d said, quoting John.

  She’d smiled and sniffled. “You always know what to say.” When she’d looked up at him, she searched his face but found only love, no condemnation. “I don’t mean to get wimpy. It’s just scary.”

  He’d cupped her face with his hand and ran a thumb under her eye, catching a tear. “God has us. And you two have me.”

  She knew he’d kill and die for her. She felt a little foolish feeling that way, but she couldn’t pretend she didn’t. She reminded herself that even in the darkest times in history, warriors still existed and God still brought people through.

  With a resolute indrawn breath, she brought her thoughts back to the present and glanced at the clock. They still had a few hours before heading to Uncle Nathaniel's church for the evening service. She craved a moment of stillness to put her feet up.

  Friends—former teammates of her husband’s—filled her house. After the stifling humidity of Katangela, the jagged adrenaline of multiple hostage crises, and the hollow ache of endless deployments, their presence here felt like a hard-won sanctuary.

  Cynthia's eyes scanned the open space, taking in every face, every expression. Her husband stood by the fireplace, his broad shoulders dropping their usual combat-ready tension. Major Rick Norton, the unflinching former leader of his Special Forces A-Team, looked deceptively domestic in a simple sweater and jeans, though they couldn't mask his coiled, military precision. He caught her gaze and winked, his hazel eyes glinting with the same fierce focus that had first drawn her to him in the chaos of the jungle.

  She studied Phil Osbourne, the team's former medic turned emergency physician. He moved with a calculated grace now, his prosthetic hidden beneath his trousers, but Cynthia noticed the slight, weary tension in his gait. He shared a private laugh with his wife, Melissa, in the living room, his face finally free of the "trauma bay" mask he usually wore.

  Beside him, Bill Sanders spun a yarn about a shared mission, his thick Alabama drawl pulling chuckles from the group. Bill, with his easy, weathered grin, had always been the team's steadying hand. His wife, Lynda—formerly Culter, the razor-sharp FBI agent who could analyze a crime scene as easily as she cracked a joke—leaned against him, her hand anchored on his arm.

  Jorge and Emma Pena occupied the couch, Emma's head resting on Jorge's shoulder between bouts of laughter. Jorge, the team's former intelligence officer and now leader, possessed a keen, restless intellect that had navigated them through a dozen minefields. Emma, with her velvet-edged voice and granite composure, had once been an interrogator; now, she was simply home.

  Then there were Jerry and Olive McBride, the newlyweds. They had tied the knot at Thanksgiving after a frenetic engagement that began on a Caribbean cruise which had ended in a hail of gunfire with weapons smugglers. Jerry, the team's sniper, usually wore a mask of stoic silence that amplified the angry scar carved across his cheek, but Olive brought a rare, soft warmth to his expression. As a former Army nurse and current trauma nurse, she possessed a quiet steel that matched that of her husband.

  Cynthia set down the spoon and wiped her hands, her mind drifting. As Dr. Cynthia Myers—now Norton—she had fled to Africa to escape a scorching public scandal. There, in the suffocating heat of the jungle, a warlord had captured her, and Rick’s team had wrested her from the dark in a daring raid. Their love had taken root amid gunfire, flight, and fear, but it took the quie t of home for her to realize he was her entire world.

  "Cynthia, this cider smells like a memory," Melissa said, entering the kitchen. Melissa, with her soulful brown eyes and tightly coiled black hair, ran a domestic abuse shelter in Miami. She carried her own hidden maps of pain from a childhood of violence, but faith and Phil's unwavering love had mended the broken places.

  "It's Uncle Nathaniel's recipe. He always serves it after services." Cynthia handed a steaming mug to her friend. "How's the shelter? Any holiday miracles?"

  Melissa sipped, her features relaxing. "One mom reunited with her family after ten years of forced isolation. It was breathtaking to see her finally walk free."

  Rick appeared in the doorway, his commanding presence filling the kitchen. "Need a hand, Doc?" He wrapped an arm around her, his palm resting on the solid mound of her belly. Baby Norton thumped against his hand. “I hear you in there,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

  She leaned into him, breathing in the scent of cedar and clean skin. "Just soaking this in."

  He kissed her temple. "Me, too. This was exactly what we needed."

  Jorge wandered in, Emma trailing behind. "Smells like civilization," Jorge said, his lilting accent warm. "Reminds me of that debrief in the Gulf—minus the smoke and the smell of diesel and, you know, pirates."

  Emma laughed, her husky tone resonant. "And with far better company." She had been Selah then, a ghost who could coax truths from the hardest hearts. Now, she was Emma Pena, Jorge's equal in every way.

  Jerry and Olive joined them, their fingers intertwined. "This place is a sanctuary, Cynthia," Olive said. Her red hair glowed in the firelight, her smile radiant despite the lingering shadows of their recent trials.

  "Rick picked it—close to the capital, but far enough from the flagpole to hear the wind in the trees."

  The day they received the keys, she had walked through each room, thinking about what it would look like to raise a family in these walls. The east-facing breakfast nook, the large backyard, five bedrooms upstairs and a full basement below.

  Phil and Melissa joined them, Phil's mechanical limp barely a whisper on the hardwood. "Bill's revisiting the glory days," Phil said with a grin. "Someone should intervene."

  Lynda snorted. "As if you don't have a vault of your own stories."

  The group slowly dissolved into laughter, the sound filling Cynthia’s heart. This was family—not by blood, but by the bond of warriors. They had faced warlords and personal demons, emerging with a faith that acted as an unbreakable tether.

  As the afternoon faded into evening, they gathered for a pre-service snack—sharp cheeses, tart fruit, and Cynthia's spiced ginger cookies. Conversation drifted from playful barbs to deeper reflections.

  As they spoke of the summer cruise, Cynthia felt a surge of gratitude. God had steered them through the storm that day. It was the only truth that held any weight.

  “Daddy texted,” she said during a lull. “President Lynley will be there tonight, so security will be suffocating.”

  “We should move out sooner than later, then,” Rick said, his tactical mind obviously clicking into gear.

  “Nobody bother with purses. They won’t let you take them inside anyway,” Cynthia announced, as if to remind herself.

  Her father, Vice President Randal Myers, had planned to join them, along with her mother, Elizabeth. With the President Lynley and First Lady added to the guest list, the church would transform into a thicket of Secret Service agents and security countermeasures.

  The first lady Barbie Lynley had become a very good friend of her mom’s. They knew each other from the days when their husbands had served in the Virginia house. The shared background helped ease the transition when her father had accepted the Vice President position in the wake of the former VP suffering a catastrophic heart attack.

  Cynthia didn’t know President Lynley very well. A good portion of her father’s early days in the Vice Presidential position had been when she was in Katangala. However, her father had great respect for the man, and had mentioned praying with him more than once.

  In a way, she resented the intrusion into their family’s Christmas Eve tradition. She personally hated having a protection detail assigned to her and fought against it until she finally just relented. To have the church infiltrated annoyed her, but Uncle Nathaniel would handle it with grace.

  As dusk fell, they armored themselves against the cold—scarves, heavy wool, and leather gloves. Cynthia slipped on her new red wool maternity coat, and Rick fastened the buttons with steady fingers. "Ready?" he asked.

  "Always, as long as I'm with you."

  The sanctuary of Capital Christian Church settled over Cynthia like a heavy, velvet cloak, its soaring stone arches and honey-hued wooden pews capturing the hushed reverence of the arriving crowd. Stained-glass windows glowed with an inner fire, spilling pools of sapphire and ruby across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of warm beeswax and the resinous bite of hemlock garlands. Cynthia sank into her seat–assigned, second row–the cool wood a contrast to Rick’s warmth as she pressed against his side. She remembered the first time he’d sat here with her—how his warrior’s gaze had softened under the falling cherry blossoms outside.

  The President and First Lady arrived in a wake of dark suits and hushed urgency, accompanied by Cynthia’s parents. As they took the front row, her mother turned, her face softening as she reached back. Cynthia caught her hand and squeezed it tight. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”

  “Darling, you look radiant,” her mother whispered, her eyes tracing the life Cynthia carried. “Just glowing.”

  Her uncle Nathan, her father’s brother, ascended the platform. His simple robe swished against the stone as he stood, a man of quiet gravity. Her mother squeezed her hand one last time before facing forward. Nathan’s voice filled the rafters, resonant and strong as he welcomed the guests for this special service. Cynthia felt a sharp pang of gratitude for the man who had guided her through the labyrinth of her own trauma.

  The choir, a sea of crimson and gold, filed into the loft, all eyes on them. On queue from the choir director, they lifted their leather music binders and poised, ready to sing. But one man right in the middle didn’t watch the director. Cynthia could swear he was looking right at her, but a shadow covered his eyes and she couldn’t be sure.

  With the wave of the director’s baton, their voices rose in fragmented, beautiful scales as they prepared for "Silent Night."

  Because of the high-profile guests, the security wasn't just present; it was palpable. Secret Service agents stood in the periphery, their unblinking gazes sweeping the congregation and dias with mechanical precision.

  As the organ thundered into the opening notes of "O Come, All Ye Faithful," the congregation rose in a single, rhythmic motion. Rick's baritone vibrated through her shoulder, a low, steadying rumble. Across the aisle, Bill and Lynda shared a hymnal, Bill's honeyed Southern drawl grounding the melody. Jorge and Emma stood in silent synchronicity, while Jerry and Olive’s interlocked fingers spoke of a new, hard-won peace.

  As the music faded into echoes, a deacon’s prayer hushed the room. Then, Uncle Nathaniel began his sermon, his words threading through the silence like a silver needle. "Tonight, we celebrate the birth of hope in a cattle stall—a jagged light piercing the deepest dark. In a world choking on its own trials, remember the covenant that binds us: to love, to serve, and to stand as a bulwark against the shadows." His piercing blue eyes met Cynthia's, a flicker of shared history in his smile. He had been the one to pull her back after Africa, reminding her that God’s grace often arrives in the wreckage. "Like the shepherds," he continued, "we are called to bear witness to the miracle, even when the night is cold and the wolves hide in the shadows."

  Cynthia’s mind recoiled from her own wolves. In Katangela, she had seen the raw, red edge of mortality. She had smelled the iron of blood and the cloying scent of infection. The nightmares still clawed at the edges of her sleep: the warlord Chukuwereije’s voice, a rasping ghost asking how she let his son die. She had brought those broken pieces to Nathaniel, and while he’d pointed her toward professional healing, his words had been the cautery she needed. Now, surrounded by the men who had wrested her from the fire, she felt the light finally winning.

 

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