The marines reluctant re.., p.1
The Marine's Reluctant Return, page 1
“Luke,” she said softly. Her lips lifted with the hint of a hopeful smile.
For a second, he was tempted to take her into his arms and hold her, comfort her, try to erase the worry and anguish embedded in her expression. But then his attention flicked to her companion—the boy—and a different heartache overwhelmed him.
He looked so much like Brandon that it hurt.
Grief, guilt and bone-deep regret stabbed him in the heart. The urge to run washed over him. The urge to run from this reckoning. But he couldn’t run. He could only hobble. So he did.
“Excuse me,” he said, as he pushed past her and made his way blindly down the street—as though they’d never met, as though he’d never loved her from afar, as though she’d never married his best friend.
As though Luke hadn’t been responsible for her husband’s death.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to book three of the Stirling Ranch series, where our hero, Luke Stirling, returns home after several tours of duty overseas and devastating injuries from an IED. The problem is, as the black sheep of the family, the one who never fit in and never measured up, it doesn’t feel very much like home to him.
Luke’s story has a double-edged emotional sword for me. As an army brat, I have had an insider’s view of what it’s like to be in a military family as well as some of the challenges soldiers can come home with after fighting in combat. Survivor’s guilt is a huge part of that.
For Luke, the guilt is even more brutal because one of the buddies he lost in that IED explosion was his best friend, Brandon Stoker. When Luke comes face-to-face with Brandon’s widow and the son who looks too much like him for comfort, will he be able to overcome the guilt to make peace with his past?
Aside from that, Luke is dyslexic. He understands how to cope with this challenge, but when he was a kid, it alienated him from the world. When Luke learns that Brandon’s son, Jack, is dyslexic as well, and that Luke can help Jack, he has a new choice to make. Face up to the challenge—or run.
I’d like to share with you that I, too, am dyslexic—and proud to show the world that learning challenges are just that. Challenges. We can overcome them.
Please check out all my books and contests on sabrinayork.com, and if you want to get updates about future books and tiara giveaways—and snag a free book—sign up for my newsletter at sabrinayork.com/gift.
Happy reading, my darlings!
Sabrina York
The Marine’s Reluctant Return
Sabrina York
Sabrina York is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of hot, humorous romance. She loves to explore contemporary, historical and paranormal genres, and her books range from sweet and sexy to scorching romance. Her awards include the 2018 HOLT Medallion and the National Excellence in Romantic Fiction Award, and she was also a 2017 RITA® Award nominee for Historical Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband of thirty-plus years and a very drooly Rottweiler.
Visit her website at sabrinayork.com to check out her books, excerpts and contests.
Books by Sabrina York
Harlequin Special Edition
The Stirling Ranch
Accidental Homecoming
Recipe for a Homecoming
The Marine’s Reluctant Return
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This book is dedicated to my brave readers who never give up trying to make the world a better place.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Excerpt from Alaska Dreams by Jennifer Snow
Excerpt from A Soldier’s Dare by Jo McNally
Chapter One
Luke Stirling awoke in a terror—skin clammy, heart pounding, an old nightmare echoing in his brain. It took a moment, longer than it should have, for him to catch his breath, to realize where he was. To know that he was safe.
Safe.
Yet the shadows looming in the dark corners chilled his blood.
With a panicked motion, he turned on the bed lamp and strafed the room with a preternaturally sharp gaze, taking in every nook and cranny. He even looked under the bed, though he knew, logically, there was nothing there. Still, he had to make sure.
That was the ugly thing about fear. It didn’t operate on any commonly understood logic or reasoning. It was a terror that rose from the emptiness of the night, preying on his memories, creating monsters where there were none.
It had been three years since the horrible day when he’d lost his team to an IED in Afghanistan. He was back in good old Butterscotch Ridge. Had been for nearly a year. When were the nightmares going to stop?
Well, one thing was for sure. He was done sleeping for the night. He’d had this experience enough to know better than to try. He tossed back the covers and slowly levered his body into a seated position, grimacing as tight muscles and aching joints screamed. The pain was always worse in the morning.
He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to push through the stretches of his morning routine. As always, he had to remind himself, through the discomfort, that he was lucky. Lucky that his legs moved at all. Lucky they were still attached to his body. Lucky there was breath in his lungs.
So many of his fellow United States Marines had come home with much, much less. If they’d returned at all.
After warming up enough, he stood. The first effort failed and he plopped down on the bed again. By the third try, he was stable enough to walk the short distance to the bathroom. He didn’t look in the mirror as he washed his face and brushed his teeth; even though he kept a little scruff to cover most of the damage, he still hated seeing his reflection. And who could blame him?
The IED had not been kind.
The scars he’d sustained on his face were bad enough. But the ones on his left flank? Even he could barely stand to look at them. There were all kinds of puckers and pits where shrapnel had torn thorough his flesh. They ran over his arm, down his side and spattered his hip. Farther down his thigh, there was one long, ragged scar, where the doctors had set the multiple breaks in his legs with titanium posts.
He shook his head, as though to dislodge these thoughts. He hated thinking about his body anymore.
By the time he was dressed—and had eaten a microwaved breakfast sandwich and had a cup of joe—he felt better. He dropped into the chair by the window and checked his schedule for the day. He was glad to see it was a busy one. He liked being busy. He liked being useful.
While he worked at the family ranch when his injuries allowed—though his siblings hardly needed his help—he especially liked helping his fellow vets living in the church-run homeless shelter. Because there, he felt like he mattered.
Granted, he didn’t do anything life-changing as a now-and-again handyman for the church and its shelter, which was a converted motel that had failed sometime in the nineties because people rarely came to this small town in Washington State on purpose. But sometimes, when a person was hurting, just having someone else around who’d walked in their boots could be really powerful medicine.
And even if none of the other vets needed him, he needed them. For exactly the same reason.
He drew in a deep breath as he stepped outside the little house he rented in the older part of town. He loved early mornings like this. They reminded him of going fishing with his grandfather when he was a little boy, sitting on the edge of the lake in a cool cloak of misty silence next to the man he admired most.
But that had been long ago, back when the old man had adored him too. Before Luke had started school, and everything had changed.
There was a mist clinging to the trees, a delicate veil making the run-down neighborhood seem almost mystical. Even the spider webs were beautiful, speckled with glinting dewdrops reflecting the rising sun. A cool breeze drifted by. Crickets chirped, and frogs chirruped down by the nearby pond as he made his way across the baseball field to the church. The grass made his shoes damp and he smiled, reminded of a more innocent time.
A light was on in the rectory kitchen, so he knocked, softly.
Suzie Sweet opened the door with a warm smile. But then, Reverend Sweet’s wife always smiled. “Good morning, Luke,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Goodness, you’re up early. Couldn’t sleep again?”
He forced a grin. “Just can’t wait to get to work, I guess.”
She saw through him. She always did. “You work too hard.”
“I like to keep busy, ma’am.”
“Of course, you do. Have you had breakfast?” He nodded and she narrowed her eyes. “Real food, I mean.”
“I’m good. Thank you.”
“Some coffee?”
“Actually, I’d like to get started with the heater.” Though it was only October, a cold wind was coming down from the north.
She nodded. “That would be nice. No one’s looking forward to sitting through this week’s sermon in an icebox. Oh... Luke?”
“Yes, ma’
am?”
“Would you be willing to look at the kitchen sink when you’re done? I think something’s stuck in the drain.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
“You are a dear.” That smile again. “Oh. I made some cookies for you and the guys.” She waved to a Tupperware container on the counter.
He couldn’t hold back a grin. He loved her cookies, and so did the other vets. “That’s really thoughtful, ma’am. Thank you.”
Suzie handed him the keys to the church and sent him on his way, but she insisted he take a muffin with him before she’d let him leave.
Luke was glad for the muffin when the heater turned out to be a bear to fix. It was midmorning before he finally got it to work. He’d been trained as a mechanic in the military—as well as other things—and he enjoyed being able to use his skills to make life easier for the people he cared about. But not because he fancied himself a good person, whatever that was. He just saw each and every opportunity to help others as a way to cosmically thumb his nose at the old man. Guess I’m not so useless after all, am I?
He snorted to himself. Funny how quickly things could go bad, wasn’t it? One day, he and the old man had been closer than two peas in a pod. And the next...his grandfather was railing about how inadequate he was. And Luke had been reminded he was less than perfect more than once. More than once a day, actually, if memory served. Tough thing to take, for a six-year-old. Would it have made any difference, he wondered, if the old man had understood what dyslexia was? Or had taken the time to learn about it for himself? To realize that Luke wasn’t lazy or stupid?
Probably not. Some people, he’d discovered, just enjoyed finding fault.
Some people, he’d discovered, should be avoided like the plague.
After he finished the heater, Luke started on the rectory kitchen sink. As the day was going, that was a bear, too. Someone had, indeed, clogged the pipe. With a wash rag, of all things. This required him to crawl into the musty cabinet underneath the sink and dismantle the pipes.
It didn’t take long at all, but before he could finish, he was interrupted.
“Hey, Dummy. Zat you?”
Luke froze in the process of tightening a bolt at the sound of a too-familiar voice—a too-familiar slur he’d thought had been relegated to the past. Irritation raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Something acidic rose in his throat. No one had called him Dummy in years. Not since he’d left this godforsaken town. But here he was again. Trent Cooper, picking at old scabs.
Of all the people Luke had avoided since returning home, Trent was at the top of the list—well, pretty damn close to the top of the list—and for damn good reason. Oh, they’d seen each other. Usually from across a crowded bar. But neither of them had made any attempts to reach out. Certainly not to talk.
Which was totally fine.
What surprised Luke was how quickly that old bitterness arose in his soul. Just those few words and he was that angry kid again. Had he really thought he’d evolved? Had he really thought anything had changed around here? That it ever would?
He sucked in a deep breath and prepared to disentangle himself from beneath the sink. Lying flat on his back, helpless, was no way to face one’s old nemesis. But just as he was pulling himself up, the tip of Trent’s boot smacked Luke’s jean-clad thigh and his body seized in response. Heat prickled his skin, sweat beaded on his brow. Pain, sharp as a blade, sliced through him, setting his nerves on fire. He shot up and smacked his forehead on the drainpipe.
Son of a bitch. That hurt.
When the blinding agony abated, along with the rushing in his ears, Luke heard it. Trent’s laugh.
Was it irony that Trent had managed to zero in on the exact spot that hurt the most? Or just a lot of practice? Trent had always been an ass—the town bully, like his father before him. A prodigy. His barbs rarely missed their mark. He was one of the reasons Luke had left this Podunk town.
Back then, Luke had vowed to find a way to prove himself to everyone. To show them he wasn’t as worthless as everyone seemed to think. But, more importantly, he’d vowed to find his place in the world. And he had. He’d become his own man.
He hadn’t expected that hard-won peace would be so damn difficult to hang on to.
With another deep breath, he fought down his rising temper. It had taken a long time for him to address, confront and master his issues from the past. It had been a long, hard fight, but he’d won. And he wasn’t going to let his bitterness own him again.
“You comin’ out of there?” Trent asked. Thank God he didn’t nudge Luke again with that damn boot. The injury in his thigh was particularly sensitive today—which meant it was probably going to rain.
In response, Luke slid out from under the sink and stood.
Was it wrong to feel that little tingle of satisfaction as his old bully’s gaze flicked higher, and higher yet, to meet his? Was it wrong to feel a little smug when Trent took in his new physique—molded by his years in the service—and his jaw dropped? Yeah. Luke wasn’t a stupid, helpless boy anymore. He was a man.
And...had Trent always been that short?
Luke had known returning home might mean facing his old demons again—he just hadn’t expected it to be this challenging. He didn’t throw a punch, but only because Suzie Sweet wouldn’t approve. Also, he reminded himself, he wasn’t that easily insulted hothead anymore.
Aside from that, it wouldn’t be a fair fight—not that Trent had ever cared about what was fair. Since Luke left town—eight years ago—he’d been trained in multiple forms of lethal combat. He’d mastered strategy and tactics, psychology, mechanics, operations, logistics, aviation and more.
Not to mention the fact that he had a solid forty pounds of muscle on Trent, who had, apparently, grown some love handles.
Oh, yeah. Luke could take him. One good punch would probably do it.
But Luke wasn’t a raging hormone anymore, ready to flail wildly at anyone and everyone who slighted him in any way, shape or form. He was a man of honor.
Well, some honor. He had at least a little bit of it left.
“Wow.” Trent looked him up and down and then crossed his arms over his chest. A classic defensive move. “Look at your face.” Typical bully. Honing in on what he thought was Luke’s weakness.
Luke turned on the tap and bent to make sure the sink wasn’t leaking. Nope. It was good. He kept looking, though, longer than he needed to, because he didn’t want to engage with Trent.
Also, it annoyed Trent to be ignored.
As though in answer to a prayer he hadn’t uttered, Suzie Sweet interrupted their tête-à-tête. “How’s it going, Luke?” she said as she poked her head into the room with her trademark perky smile. It dimmed when she saw Trent. “Well, hey, Mr. Cooper,” she said, taking in his tracksuit. “You coaching today?” The Butterscotch Ridge baseball and soccer fields were nestled between the church and the elementary school, which explained how Trent had found himself this close to the sanctuary. Any closer and he might burst into flames.
Trent nodded. “Gotta keep those kids on the top of their game.” He turned to Luke. “I’m coaching soccer. My son’s the star player!”
“Is that so?”
“You used to play, didn’t you, Stirling?” Oh. Now he was Stirling? What happened to Dummy? “You used to be a pretty good runner.” His gaze flicked down to Luke’s leg. “Back then.”
Heat flooded Luke’s face. Was that a jab? Another barb to get a reaction from him? Because there was no running in Luke’s future, that was for damn sure. He shifted his weight as another bolt of pain shot through his left leg, and he let the silence between himself and Trent swelter for a minute.
Was it wrong to be gratified when Trent flushed and muttered a barely audible, “Sorry”?
“Oh, gracious me. What am I thinking?” Mrs. Sweet interjected when the lack of conversation became too much for her to bear. She really was a nice woman. All she wanted was for everyone to just get along. What a shame she lived in this town. “I promised you a soda, Luke. Did you get that sink all fixed up? And don’t forget the cookies.”
The soda was great—beer would’ve been better—and Luke took the cookies, too, because she’d made a special point of making them for the guys.
