The Colonel's Daughter Page 10

  Turning back to Roberta, Jamison continued, “Did any soldiers lose their lives under your husband’s command?”

  “A sergeant in his battalion died in Iraq. Stanley flew home with the body. Both of us attended the funeral.”

  “He was from the local area?”

  Roberta nodded. “He had graduated from Freemont High School and had been the captain of the football team. Everyone loved him. His mom had died of cancer two years earlier, and he was an only child. It broke my heart to see his father grieving. I’ll never forget him standing at the cemetery by the grave site.”

  “The Freemont Cemetery where your son is buried?”

  Roberta nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Do you recall the soldier’s name?”

  “How could I forget? Sergeant Brandon Carmichael. His father was so proud of him.”

  “What about this current rotation, ma’am?”

  “The Lord’s been good to us, Jamison. No loss of life.”

  Michele placed her mug on the table and rubbed her fingers over her arms. “Don’t be too hasty, Mother. The brigade hasn’t left Afghanistan yet.”

  Roberta patted Michele’s hand. “Your dad’s going to make it home.”

  Michele stood and stepped away from the table. “You were equally sure Lance would be okay.”

  Her mother’s expression clouded. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself.”

  “I’m not blaming anyone except the army.”

  “Accidents happen, Michele.” Although Jamison’s eyes were filled with concern, his voice was matter-of-fact, as if death was an acceptable part of military life.

  She bristled and turned to gaze out the window into the night.

  Her mother stepped toward her. “You still feel responsible for what happened to Lance.”

  “Do I?” She quirked her head at the woman she loved but didn’t always understand. “How would you know, Mother? We never talk about him.”

  Roberta held out her hands. “What can I say that would change your mind?”

  “You can tell me I made a mistake. Lance wouldn’t have been in the helicopter if I had visited him.”

  “But you made the right decision, dear.”

  The phone rang. Roberta hesitated as if questioning whether she should answer. Checking the caller ID, she turned apologetic eyes toward her daughter. “It’s Erica Grayson. She probably has information about Yolanda’s funeral. I should take the call.”

  “Of course,” Michele said, her energy drained.

  Roberta stepped into the living area, phone in hand.

  Michele grabbed her mug and headed for the kitchen, hoping a second cup of coffee would help clear her head.

  Jamison followed. “You want to talk?”

  “You don’t need to get involved with our family problems.”

  “Whatever you need is what I want, Michele.”

  She would have laughed except she knew why she had left him and how much she had missed him over the last ten months. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last statement.”

  He stepped closer, seemingly oblivious of the real root of the problem between them. “You may not want my input, but your mother’s right. You haven’t worked through your brother’s death.”

  Anger rose within her. She pointed a finger back at herself. “It’s not my problem, Jamison. It’s my mother’s problem and your problem. I keep telling everyone I’m fine, but no one believes me.”

  The sound of her mother’s voice came from the living room. Roberta Logan—a woman who would have done anything for her daughter—was talking on the phone to one of the brigade wives who needed support. Michele had needed her mother’s support when her brother died, but Roberta had gone back to helping with all the wives’ activities and hadn’t been able to reach out to her only remaining child.

  Michele didn’t want to talk about what had happened, yet the words spilled from her mouth as if they had a will of their own. “Remember when that last big storm hit the coast of Georgia?”

  Jamison nodded. “Wasn’t it about two years ago?”

  “That’s right. Homes were destroyed. People needed food and water. My insurance company wanted to provide hands-on help as well as aid with the insurance claims. We filled a number of trucks with nonperishable items, water, blankets.”

  Jamison’s open gaze encouraged her to go on.

  “Days before the storm, Lance had invited me to visit him for a long weekend. I planned to drive to Fort Knox, his new duty station. Then my boss asked for volunteers to help with the coastal relief, so I canceled my plans to be with Lance.”

  Truth was, she had chosen to help the storm victims because she was beginning to buy into the gospel message about helping others, which Lance always said was the Christian thing to do.

  “If I hadn’t chosen to help those people, Lance would have been on leave instead of in the helicopter that terrible day.”

  Jamison reached for her. “You’re not to blame.”

  She jerked away from his touch. “How would you know? You put yourself in danger after my father left for Afghanistan. You knew I was worried because of the Afghani strikes we kept hearing about on the news and the attack he had already been involved in, yet you walked into that ambush on post. Did you think by praying to God you could put yourself in the line of fire and not suffer the consequences?”

  His face clouded. “Oh, Michele, I...”

  “You what, Jamison? You weren’t thinking about the danger, were you? You probably had your Bible in one hand and your gun in the other and thought nothing could harm you.”

  He shook his head. “I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Do you know what that did to me when I heard about the shoot-out? I raced to the hospital and saw the stretcher being wheeled into the E.R. I learned later that Dawson had taken the hit, but at the time, I thought you were the one not expected to live.”

  “I’m sorry, Michele.”

  “Sorry isn’t what I want for my life. I thought we were good together and wanted something long-term. I saw us growing old with kids and grandkids.” She laughed ruefully, but tears stung her eyes. “The day of the ambush brought home the truth I’d been ignoring. With you, my future would be at a cemetery with the honor guard folding your flag and the commander presenting it to me with the thanks of a grateful nation.”

  She pointed into the dining room where Lance’s flag sat on the buffet. “That’s all we have left of my brother’s memory. He doesn’t have the luxury of falling in love and marrying a nice girl who will bear his children. All we have is a flag.”

  Jamison reached for her, but she shook her head. She didn’t want his touch. She wanted him to admit he could see the truth.

  “A flag doesn’t bring comfort or grandchildren for my parents. Lance was a believer, Jamison. And so are you, but you can’t count on God. The only one you can count on is yourself.”

  “Oh, Michele, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to hear anything he had to say. “God doesn’t want good things for His children. He wields His might with a fickle hand. Maybe He likes to see His children in pain so they turn to Him. That’s what I would have if we were together. Pain and grief and a flag to remember what could have been. That’s not enough.”

  She had to leave. She couldn’t stand the look of disbelief on his face or the pity in his eyes. She wanted his love but without the military, without the constant danger and the chance she could lose him when she least expected. She had received one phone call that had broken her heart when Lance’s helicopter crashed. A second phone call had informed her of the shoot-out on post.

  She couldn’t take a third call telling her Jamison had walked into danger again and would never be coming home.

  Michele couldn’t bear losing him. Better to guard her heart than to have it break again.

  * * *

  Jamison left the Logan home with Michele’s words ricocheting through his mind. “You made a mi
stake. You put yourself in danger. You walked into that ambush.”

  Once he had ensured that the military police guards were in place and her neighborhood was being patrolled, Jamison drove back to CID headquarters.

  Michele was right. He had failed tens months ago. He couldn’t fail again. The stakes were too high.

  “You’ll never succeed.” His father’s voice rumbled through his head.

  Jamison had to prove his dad wrong, but more important was the knowledge that if anything happened to Michele, Jamison would never be able to forgive himself.

  She couldn’t reconcile herself to what had happened to her brother. The anger and accusation in Michele’s voice were outward signs of her long-term internal struggle. Would she ever be able to forgive herself?

  Without a change of heart, she would never accept Jamison again. She had loved him once and had said as much tonight, but a terrible realization clamped down on Jamison’s gut.

  Sometimes love wasn’t enough.

  NINE

  Tree frogs and cicadas sounded in the night. Jamison stood at the curb close to his car and eyed the brick facade of the Logan quarters. The light from the front porch spilled onto the walkway and the shrubbery that edged the house. Inside, a few lamps were on in the living room. Upstairs, where Michele slept, the house was dark.

  He’d worked for hours on the investigation until his head ached and the muscles in his neck screamed for relief. Getting into his car, Jamison had driven back to check on Michele because he could find no rest until he knew she was safe.

  The memory of her words stabbed at his heart. If only she could turn her problems over to the Lord and allow Him into her life. Ten months ago, she had gone to church with Jamison, and both of them had talked about wanting to put God first. Everything had changed after the shoot-out. When she’d run from Jamison, she’d run from her faith, as well.

  Comfort her in her time of need, Lord. As the prayer left his mouth, one of the military policemen assigned to guard Mrs. Logan and her daughter walked around the corner of the house.

  Jamison met him halfway. “How’s it look in the rear?”

  “Quiet, sir. Rogers and Yeoman are patrolling the woods to ensure that no one is lurking nearby. So far so good.” He glanced at the house. “We need to find that guy and make sure he never strikes again.”

  Jamison agreed.

  As the military policeman returned to his post, headlights cut through the darkness. Dawson’s car pulled over to the curb. The special agent’s limp seemed more pronounced when he exited his vehicle and walked along the sidewalk, the night air, no doubt, adding to his stiffness.

  Jamison should have been the one injured instead of Dawson. The injury would have been easier to bear than being reminded of his own mistake each time he saw his friend.

  When the wounded agent was coming out of surgery, Jamison had tried to express how he felt. Regrettably, he had choked on the words, and Dawson had never mentioned Jamison’s attempt to ask forgiveness.

  “We did some checking on the maintenance man,” Dawson offered as he neared. “Danny Altman worked in Atlanta for a couple years after he got out of the army and only recently moved to the Fort Rickman area.”

  “Did you contact his old company?”

  Dawson nodded. “He was a good worker, but with the downturn in the economy, the Atlanta firm had to cut back. They laid off a number of employees. He was one of them.”

  “What about the girlfriend’s death?”

  “Evidently, she was abusing prescription drugs and died of an overdose. The Atlanta P.D. interrogated the boyfriend, but he turned out to be clean.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t have anything to do with the crimes on post.”

  Dawson shrugged. Even in the half-light from the streetlight, Jamison could see the question in the other man’s eyes. “I didn’t have any reason to hold him, but we’ll keep our eyes on him and see what happens. If he’s guilty, he won’t like us getting in the middle of his life.”

  “I’d feel better if we restricted him from post.”

  “The man needs work.”

  “As long as that’s all he’s doing.” Jamison didn’t want Danny Altman anywhere near Michele.

  He glanced up at her bedroom window, and his neck burned when he realized Dawson had followed his gaze.

  “How is she?” Dawson asked.

  “Struggling with a lot of things.”

  “Being the first at a crime scene can play with a person’s mind. Double that by two and anyone would have problems.”

  “Mrs. Hughes’s death brought back memories of her brother. Michele blames herself. That’s hard to handle.”

  Dawson looked away and studied the sky. “Guilt’s a funny thing. Once you take it on, it’s almost impossible to release.” He turned back to Jamison. “Asking forgiveness after the fact isn’t always enough.”

  Jamison felt the weight he carried increase. Dawson was right. Guilt had a tight hold. Like a man-of-war that wraps tentacles around its victim, guilt’s grasp has the same deadly sting.

  “Look, Dawson—”

  The sound of the front door opening made Jamison turn toward the brick quarters. Michele stood just inside the threshold.

  Dawson patted Jamison’s shoulder. “Looks like Michele wants to talk. I’m heading home for some shut-eye. Call me if anything comes up.”

  “Will do.” Jamison stepped from the shadows and onto the sidewalk leading to the Logans’ front stoop. Michele wore jeans and a print top that reminded him of sunshine and flowers.

  As much as Jamison needed to think of Michele as a witness in an investigation, the emotions welling up within him were anything but professional. The late hour, the almost full moon, the sounds of the peaceful night and a beautiful woman waiting for him at the front door added to the anticipation teasing through his gut.

  He hastened up the stairs, staring into her eyes. “Everything okay inside?”

  She looked tired with puffy cheeks as if she had spent the better part of the night crying. His heart went out to her, wishing she would step outside so he could wrap her in his arms.

  The only thing that kept him from reaching for her was the detail of soldiers pulling surveillance. Jamison would never allow them to see the way he really felt about the colonel’s daughter.

  Glancing past Michele, he saw Mrs. Logan in the dining room. She was arranging a pot of coffee and a plate of cookies on the table.

  Michele hesitated a moment before she spoke. “I...I said too much earlier.”

  “It’s okay. I wanted to know how you felt.” He rubbed his finger across her cheek. “I’ll always want to know.”

  She stepped onto the porch and wrapped her arms around her waist. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair and wafted a swirl of her sweet-smelling perfume to tempt him.

  “Chilly?” he asked, wanting any excuse to touch her shoulder and pull her closer.

  “The breeze feels good. The house seemed stuffy. Mother tries to conserve energy and turns the air conditioner thermostat down at night.”

  “I thought both of you were sound asleep.”

  She shook her head, her eyes filled with sadness. “Mother and Erica Grayson have been calling back and forth, discussing ways to help Yolanda’s husband and his children.”

  “Mrs. Hughes’s sister-in-law arrived today.”

  “That’s right. She’s trying to arrange a leave of absence from her job so she can stay indefinitely. The family will move temporarily into the furnished quarters reserved for visiting VIPs. The commanding general said he’ll authorize anything they need.”

  Jamison nodded. “A crew is cleaning their old quarters, although I’m not sure if Major Hughes will want to move his family back in.”

  “Curtis can decide that after the funeral. He plans to have a memorial service at the Main Post Chapel when he and the children return from Missouri.”

  “Your mother talked to him?”

  “After he broke the news to the
children on Skype. He wanted to see their sweet faces and measure their reactions. The Graysons and his sister-in-law were sitting with the children when he told them. He said they needed to be strong and that they’d be together as soon as he got home.”

  Her voice hitched, and she blinked back tears. “Yolanda had miscarried a few years back. He said their mama was with their little brother now.”

  Jamison’s throat thickened. “The whole family must be devastated, but it’s got to be so hard on the children.”

  “Erica said they were brave kids and told their dad to be careful and stay safe. She doesn’t think they understand everything at this point. They’re in shock, in another home. When they disconnected, they told her they didn’t want their dad to worry about them.”

  “Good kids, huh?”

  “Army brats are usually pretty resilient. Moving from place to place, always having to make new friends, they get used to new areas, even foreign countries. But this is tough.”

  Michele glanced momentarily into the night. “Can you imagine how often the children will wonder if they could have done something to have changed the events that day? If they hadn’t gone to the Graysons’ and had stayed home to help their mom that night, or if their dad hadn’t been deployed or in the military? All those questions will run through their heads.”

  “Michele, that’s what you’ve done with your brother’s death. You keep thinking ‘what if.’ What if you hadn’t helped with the relief effort? What if you had visited Lance that weekend? Talk to your mother. You’ve got to share your feelings with her before you can heal.”

  A tear ran down Michele’s cheek. She pushed open the door.

  He reached for her. “Don’t run away.”

  “I’m not running. Not this time. But it’s late, and I’m tired. You need sleep and so do I.”

  Before he could respond, Michele entered the house and raced up the stairs.

  Mrs. Logan peered outside and saw him standing there, unable to speak, his throat still thick from the thought of the Hughes children and the window Michele had opened to reveal her own inner turmoil.

  “I’ve perked a pot of coffee and put out cookies. Help yourself, Jamison, and have the other men get something, as well.”