Call To Honor

“Except this isn’t danger. It’s camp. Singing around the campfire and learning to tie knots. It’s swimming and tire swings and hikes. It’d be a great learning experience. After all, education isn’t found only in the classroom.”

“What’d you do, swallow their brochure?” Harper muttered, her words lost in the refrigerator as she pulled out berries for dessert. But Andi still heard.

“I served on a board for underprivileged kids a couple of years ago. We had to provide a study of the benefits of programs like this in order to get funding. It really does make a difference for some kids. The independence, the skills and the friendships can be priceless.”

Harper’s scowl was hot enough to rot the glossy strawberries, but she couldn’t argue any of those points.

“Besides, if you don’t start letting go, you’re going to end up with a wimpy momma’s boy.” She paused for effect before adding, “Like Matt. You know, the man who wanted to bring his mother along on our vacations, whose mother still bought his underwear and who after being kicked to the curb for cheating, moved home with Mommy, who now makes him breakfast every day.”

Cute at seven, iffy at seventeen. And at thirty-two it was definitely pathetic. Even as they shared a grimace, Harper knew she’d be poking through her bank account later to see if she could juggle the registration costs. Not that she was totally convinced. But she was teetering.

“I’ll cover the fee,” Andi offered, giving her that last push over the edge. “Call it my contribution to loosening your inhibitions.”

“What does one have to do with the other?”

“If Nathan’s safely away at camp, you can do more than reconsider having sex. You can have it.”

And that was supposed to convince her?

The doorbell chimed before Harper could do more than shake her head in dismay.

“I’ll get that—you start reconsidering. When I get back, we’ll find that perfect third-date guy.”

“I’d put money on Nathan getting a kitten sooner than that happening,” she murmured as Andi swept from the room.

“I heard that,” the other woman sang out, her words echoing down the hall.

Harper’s frown intensified. All of this dating and sex talk was stupid. All it did was stir up thoughts of Brandon, bad memories and hurt feelings. And like anything to do with Brandon Ramsey, the second one thought occurred, a million followed. He was the poster boy for taking a mile when an inch was all she’d offered.

No more, she ordered herself. He wasn’t a part of her now, and her past was over.

“Registered letter for one Mr. Nathan Ramsey, care of Harper Maclean,” Andi said, coming back waving a large envelope. “Who’d get his name wrong?”

The bowl of cleaned berries suddenly shaking in her hands, Harper set it on the bar with care and stared. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t think for the buzzing in her ears.

Ramsey.

Harper’s heart raced so fast, it tripped over itself. How was that possible? Why whould Brandon contact Nathan? As far as he knew, she’d followed his instructions to end the pregnancy. How did he know she’d had the baby? How did he know Nathan’s name? Had he always known?

The air locked in Harper’s chest, vicious and tight, cutting off her breath, sending shards of pain knifing through her.

Why was he contacting her? Contacting Nathan? Was he going to try to get custody?

Or had his parents gotten wind of unaccounted Ramsey DNA and tracked down their heir apparent?

Harper looked toward the stairs with a desperate gaze. She should get Nathan. They should go. Now.

As soon as she thought that, Harper squared her shoulders.

To hell with that. Nathan was her son. This was her home. She’d be damned if Brandon or his rich parents were going to screw with either.

Still, her hand trembled so much as she took the letter that she dropped it onto the marble countertop as if it were on fire.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Andi poked at the letter with one perfectly manicured nail. “It’s from a Dane Adams, US Navy, registered mail. It’s gotta be important.”

Dane Adams? The Navy?

Relief poured through her so fast, so strong, that her legs almost gave out. Irritation followed fast, because it was still all about Brandon. So Harper eyed the envelope with intense distaste.

“Harper,” Andi moaned. “You’re killing me. Open. Open. Open.”

Knowing Andi would keep it up until she did, she huffed out a hot breath. Sliding her thumbnail under the flap, Harper reluctantly tugged the paper out.

She noted the official-looking insignia and the fancy lettering denoting it to be from Admiral H. M. Cree, Special Ops commander.

Her brow creased as she read.

The room narrowed, and all the air disappeared. The words spun into a swirling blur of black on white. She needed to sit down. But she managed only a single step before her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, the letter clutched in her hands.

“What is it?” Instead of pulling her back up, Andi dropped down next to her, gathering Harper into her arms. She tried to read the paper, but Harper couldn’t let it go. “Sweetie, what does it say?”

“He’s dead,” Harper murmured, her voice sounding as if it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. “Brandon is dead.”

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9172d393-71a3-50d7-86e3-93dcb8b0e7f2)

MOURNING THE LOSS of a brother was never easy.

SEALs, support personnel and civilians gathered in the backroom at Olive Oyl’s bar to toast the memory of a warrior and to share their grief. Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey was memorialized with words like honor and skill and dedication. Captain Jarrett had choked giving his toast, and a visibly grieving Petty Officer Dane Adams had to be led out after delivering a eulogy so heartfelt that it was hard to hear over the audience’s sobs.

But when it came time for the men who’d served on that ill-fated mission, the core team, to say goodbye to their brother, they kept it private and took it off the beaten path. Savino chose a bar in Lemon Grove, far enough from base for them to mourn freely. The place was just a few steps up from a dive, and seedy enough that nobody would feel constrained by good behavior.

“Kinda crap that they won’t offer a military funeral for the guy. Decorated SEAL and all that, he’d have liked the fancy send-off.”

“Bet he’d like being alive even more.”

“Shame that none of his family showed. Not even his kid.”

“Sometimes civilians can’t handle it.”

“Dude isn’t officially declared dead—chances are they’re holding on to hope.”

“No point. Even if they didn’t find enough of him to declare him dead, he’s gone. Still, the Navy’ll tie it up in red tape, drag it out as long as they can to avoid paying survivor benefits.”

“I hear he had an in to DEVGRU. Guy went down before he got a chance to snag an elite spot.”

“Poseidon is the real elite.”

“He didn’t get a shot at that, either.”