CHAPTER 1
Morgan Whittaker watched his wife, Cara, pick up her briefcase and head to the door. There was no kiss goodbye, although at one time they’d barely been able to keep their hands off each other.
“I’ll probably be late again,” she informed him coldly. “Try to do something today will you? Take a shower at least,” she suggested with a sniff. “We’re supposed to meet John and Sherry for dinner; may I assume you’ll come up with some excuse?”
“You know I don’t like going out,” he replied, returning his eyes to the TV and the rerun of some cartoon.
“Jesus, Morgan, you were wounded over there, not killed! I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.” Frustrated, she sighed as she closed the door behind her.
Picking up his bowl of cereal, Morgan kicked the newspapers off the couch. His sweats had seen better days, he’d give her that. Scratching the hair on his chest and sniffing his pit, he couldn’t remember the last time he showered. Hell, he did stink, but who cared. He wasn’t going anywhere, and if he got his way no one would be coming to see him.
Frankly, he loved it when Cara went to work. It meant he didn’t have to spend his days avoiding her accusing eyes and disappointed expression, he realized as he chewed his Lucky Charms. They were strangers now. Two people living in the same house and nothing more. She thought he was a pussy; a 6' 4", two hundred pound pussy who didn’t have an ounce of pride. Well, she hadn’t seen the things he’d seen, felt his pain watching his friends mowed down before his very eyes. They were good soldiers. Men and women he’d been through the fires of hell with. People he’d come to trust and care about. She hadn’t watched innocent civilians treated worse than animals before they were murdered by their own countrymen.
Morgan knew he wasn’t the man he’d once been. His last tour of duty nearly cost him his life, as well as his sanity. The once active and unbreakable man was a shadow of his former self.
At one time most people thought he led a charmed life. Excelling at sports, he’d gone to college on a full scholarship and made a name for himself among the pigskin elite. He met Cara in his senior year and was immediately attracted to the brainy young woman who rarely smiled. She was a challenge, and there was nothing Morgan enjoyed more. After years of women fawning over him, Cara’s disdainful glance had him he pursuing her with a vengeance, to the amusement of his friends.
Cara was serious, dedicated, and completely focused on her intended career in quantum physics. The tall, thin brunette had no intention of letting anything distract her, especially not a jock.
Morgan was no slouch in the brains department. As well as a career in pro-ball, he wanted his degree to fall back on. Injuries were not something to be taken lightly and unless a player was exceedingly lucky, their professional career could be over on a single play. If and when that happened to him, he would be prepared to support his family. It wasn’t about the money; he genuinely loved the sport and was well aware that many who lived the lavish lifestyle of the celebrated sports star often ended up broke if they let it go to their head.
It took him three months before Cara would even agree to go out with him, but he finally wore her down and several weeks later they became the campus ‘odd couple’. None of that bothered Morgan. He was a man with a plan. His hope was to be drafted by a pro team when he graduated. Cara had her Bachelor’s. In another year she would get her Masters, and she desperately wanted her PhD. After that she planned to work in the government sponsored experimental program she was interning at. It was a highly competitive field, requiring exceptional grades, maximum security clearance, and a tight-lipped commitment to even be considered. She wouldn’t discuss the work with him, and he’d tried many times to get her to open up about it, even questioning her at the apex of an explosive climax.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” she shouted, jumping out of bed as soon as she caught her breath and pulling on her jeans. “You know how important this is to me,” she continued angrily. “My entire career depends on my trustworthiness. Don’t try to undermine that, or I won’t see you anymore.”
“All right, all right,” Morgan replied. “I’d just like an idea of what my future wife will be doing when I’m away,” he soothed, standing and pulling her into his arms. “Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes it is, and I haven’t said I’ll marry you yet,” she sighed, snuggling closer.
“But you will,” he asserted, lifting her from the floor and spinning her around. “You know you will!”
“I might,” she teased, giving him one of her rare smiles. “But not if you keep pestering me. We’ve been over this before.”
“So I’ll shut up about it,” he promised, setting her on her feet and cupping her bottom cheeks in his large hands. “If you come back to bed,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
Cara melted against him. This guy was definitely not in her plans, but damn, he could make her body sing. She found herself nodding and he laughed, picking her up and tossing her on his bed.
Now, six years later, he looked around the place he called home and didn’t feel a connection to a single thing. His shot at making the NFL draft had ended with a knee injury. That same year his younger brother, Matthew, had been killed by a sniper’s bullet on his first deployment, leaving the entire family devastated. The only bright spot had been when Cara finally agreed to marry him. He suspected it may have been out of pity, and to give his parents something to grasp onto, the possibility of grandchildren. Cara didn’t want children. She’d made that clear the night he proposed. But he appreciated her keeping quiet about it. They married in a small civil ceremony, with Morgan slipping the ring on her finger mere hours before he shipped out.
The decision to enlist was instinctual. He wanted to honor his brother’s memory, and in a sense he felt he needed to fulfill that commitment. The grief surrounding the people he loved was suffocating. He needed a purpose, a goal. Normally a driven person, he could not be happy sitting around waiting for some coaching position to become available, and he had no guarantee he would be offered the job if it did. He liked the structure and organization of the military; it was a good fit. It gave him very little time to dwell on the loss of his brother and his parents’ deaths three years later. The smoke of a house fire took their lives long before the flames ever reached them and he was thankful for that, at least. All in all, he felt he was cursed.
He was next; he knew it in his soul, and who would grieve over him? A distant woman who had married him out of pity and because he was a good fuck? A bitter laugh escaped him. They hadn’t had sex in many months and hadn’t made love in years. He wondered briefly if she was fucking someone at work and decided it was unlikely. What passion had been in her in the beginning was long gone, swept away by his indifference and her unnatural dedication to her work. Too bad his early religious training kept him from taking his own life. He had no one, at least no one alive.
Shoving his bowl of cereal across the coffee table, he watched the pink milk slosh over the side and drip onto the carpet as he turned up the TV volume and tried to silence his own thoughts.
Frequently the silence of their home was oppressive as each tried to steer clear of the other. Neither one of them were happy. It was clear their marriage had been a mistake. They no longer connected on any level and were roommates at best.
He spent hours turning the charred pages of an old photo album that had been the only thing rescued from the fire. Pictures of people he didn’t know, letters written and sent home while soldiers fought in a war. All he could do was wonder who they were. Many were singed and Cara hated the smell of them, but he found them strangely fascinating. All were faded, the edges thin and fragile, but some had writing scrawled across the back. One in particular held his attention and he studied it over and over.
Whittaker Farm, Kansas 1859
It was a photo of a family. The man sat in a chair. A woman stood by his side and there were children gathered around them. All were dressed in dark colors except for a little girl whose checks had been tinged with pink as was the ribbon in her hair. For some reason he found it intriguing. Who were these people who shared his name? What kind of life did they lead? How old were the boys? Would they be heading off to war soon? It was coming. They didn’t know it, but it was and Kansas would not escape its share of battles. Who would survive?
Morgan found himself wondering who would care for the woman who was clearly the matriarch of the family? And there was the child, the pretty little girl who seemed incapable of concealing a grin. Who would care for her? The thought of war touching them ate at his guts, but he could not help them. He’d seen enough of war. Morgan closed the album and put it away in his closet. He would not take it out again.
Cara and he continued to try their best to ignore each other.
Finally, one night she approached him with a solution.
