a brief affair two years ago, fate had intervened once again, even with protection. This time, she’d left her team and gone stateside. Emma Boland had been born with black hair and gray eyes, the spitting image of her father. Morgan didn’t dare tell Jake since he might prove twice that he wasn’t ready to be with her. Protectively, she placed her hand across her abdomen. “Don’t try. You cut and run when things get serious relationship-wise.”
“I don’t have a good track record with you, Morgan.” Feeling sad, Jake added, “That was then. This is now.”
Shaking her head, Morgan opened the door and climbed out of the car. “I’ll see you at 0600, Jake. I’m done going over the past with you. Thanks for the apology.” She slammed the door shut and walked off.
Sitting alone in the car, Jake wrestled with so many damned emotions. His SEAL father had died in combat that very evening when Morgan needed him the most. Jake was overwhelmed with paperwork because he was the executor of his father’s will. He’d been at the personnel office wrestling with so many decisions, funeral arrangements and his own grief; he couldn’t handle Morgan’s plea to come to the hospital, too. It wasn’t an excuse. Jake knew he’d been too young, made some bad decisions on that night. If he’d had it to do all over again, he’d have gone to see Morgan, regardless.
As he rubbed his jaw, the prickle of beard against his calloused fingers, his conscience ate at him. In the SEAL community, family, wife and children were just as important as the operators out in the field to the command structure.
SEAL ethos set the family as much of a priority as they did the men going downrange. Studying the light and dark shadows across the parking lot, Jake realized it had been SEAL culture that finally had brought him back into the fold. Made it possible for him to stop running away from relationships. He’d met Amanda and fallen in love with her at twenty-three years old. He’d spent six months in Afghanistan and arrived home just in time to be there for the birth of his son, Joshua.
Jake shut his eyes, remembering the loss of his wife and baby two weeks later to a car accident. He couldn’t share his past with Morgan. It wouldn’t be right under the circumstances. He understood as never before what it was like to lose his child. Just as she’d felt the devastating loss with the miscarriage that he’d run away from. What a mess. All of it his own doing.
As he climbed out of the car, Jake resolved to say no more. He’d done what he could to clear the decks between them. He felt deeply, the past overlaying the present. This was an unresolved situation and he was still trapped within it. God help him, he wanted Morgan. Needed her as never before. But after their long history, he knew she’d never come back to him again.
Jake wasn’t prepared next morning to see Morgan in SEAL gear as he entered Operations. She was in desert cammies, the SIG pistol riding low on her right thigh in a drop holster, a SOG SEAL knife in a sheath in the same position on her left thigh, and wearing dark leather Merrell hiking boots. She looked like a SEAL from a distance. Earlier, he’d found out Morgan had checked out of the BOQ and gotten a separate ride over to Operations.
Her gear sat near the door as she waited to be called out to the C-5 now parked in the revetment area. Setting his gear down next to hers, Jake wore desert cammies, as well. Although dressed similarly, every SEAL liked his gear in certain places. Jake preferred his knife on his left side of his waist.
Still torn up over last night’s conversation, Jake removed his utility cap and walked over to her. Worse, he’d made Morgan cry, and she’d never cried in front of him before. His heart felt like so much pulp, the ache deep and constant.
“How are you doing?” he asked quietly, catching Morgan’s sideward glance. Her profile was beautiful. She was a strong, confident woman.
“I’m fine, Jake. Don’t worry. I’ll hold up my end of this op whether you believe I can or not.”
Okay, the old, defensive Morgan was back. Her eyes were clear, but he could still see remnants of sorrow deep within them. Grief he’d caused. Nodding, he gestured to a sheath on top of her third-line gear, a large desert-camouflaged rucksack with about sixty-five pounds of gear contained in it.
“That’s your AW Magnum?” It was one of the sniper rifles chosen by SEALs to use on certain types of ops. The rifle was covered with a tan nylon fabric sleeve to protect it from weather, dirt and dust.
“Yes.” Still raw, Morgan didn’t want to talk to Jake. She’d barely slept, reliving their conversation all over again. Most humiliating of all, she’d cried in front of him. She wished with all her heart he’d apologized because he cared about her, not because they had to trust each other for this assignment. She pursed her lips, wishing the C-5 would hurry up and allow passengers to load. Then she could get away from him, grab some desperately needed sleep and get her act together.
“You look tired,” he observed, remaining at her side.
“I didn’t sleep much.”
“I didn’t, either.” Jake felt her tension. “Plenty of room on this flight to catch some shut-eye. It will be empty except for the crew of doctors and nurses going over to Bagram to pick up another group of soldiers who are wounded.”
“I hope those guys all make it,” Morgan whispered, thinking of them and their families.
“The U.S. has the best-trained medical teams on the planet,” he told her, resting his hands on the H-gear pockets around his waist. “Those grunts and soldiers have the best chance in the world to survive.”
“When we get on board, I’m finding a hole to bunk into and sleep,” she said. As she searched Jake’s face, Morgan saw the darkness beneath his eyes. He was growing a beard, which was common among the black-ops groups. Without a beard, the men stood out like sore thumbs to the Taliban and al Qaeda.
“Me, too. We have to get rested.”
Jake didn’t want to leave her side. He sensed Morgan’s feelings; he always had whether she shared them with him or not. SEAL sixth sense, he supposed. Or…his heart whispered, it was something more. Something beautiful and profound. And he instantly suppressed those feelings. He’d loved twice in his life, and both times, it had turned into a life-numbing tragedy.
Turning away, Jake ambled over to his equipment sitting on the polished white floor. No, he couldn’t risk his heart a third time. He simply didn’t have the strength to reach out and try to love again. The potential losses were just too great. And no one knew better than he, there was no promise of happily ever after….
He hefted his ruck, swung it easily across his broad shoulders and then belted it up. An M-4 rifle, barrel downward for safety reasons and safed, chamber empty, was strapped on the outside of it.
He watched as Morgan walked over to her gear, not at all surprised she could lift a sixty-five-pound ruck and make it look light as a feather. Yesterday, as she’d walked into the Pacific Ocean in her purple bathing suit, he’d seen just how fit she really was. Maybe a little too thin, he supposed, but she was all firm muscle, not an ounce of fat. He’d winced when he’d seen those recent pink scars on the back of her left thigh.
Jake was sure those were shrapnel wounds she’d received at that village three months earlier. He wanted to touch them, kiss each of them and remove the pain and memory of how she’d received them. Jake knew he could heal Morgan with his touch, his voice and his hands, if she’d give him a chance. He could be tender toward her. She brought out the best in him, made him feel like a man. Leaning down, he grabbed his eighty-pound weapons bag, slipping it into his right hand.
