LITMIR.BIZ

       PROLOGUE

      “JONATHAN RILEY SHELTON, you’re taking longer than a month of Sundays. Now get back in your seat.”

      Claire Shelton flipped another pancake then pointed the spatula at her wayward seven-year-old. He twirled beneath the living room’s overhead fan, his freckled face pointed to the ceiling.

      On the griddle, butter splattered and steam rose in vanilla-scented puffs. Her stomach growled, the traitor. She’d already eaten a peanut butter egg, a handful of jelly beans and the ears and tail off of Jonathan’s Easter bunny this morning. When would she learn to resist? She and her scale would not be friends tomorrow. Maybe they needed a break...

      “Goblins are going to eat your breakfast!”

      A giggle floated from the cottage’s front room. “You always say that!”

      She peered at him through her galley kitchen’s archway. Sunshine lit the air around Jonathan’s small frame as he bashed through Lego bridges and elaborate battlefields of plastic soldiers. Even the speed of light couldn’t keep up with him, she thought, amused. Most days, neither could she...though she tried. And tried. And tried.

      “Only when I see one.”

      He whirled and the gap from his missing tooth flashed in a pirate’s grin. “Is it Guff?”

      “Nope. Lottie. And she’s dyed her hair purple. Come see. You might catch her this time.”

      “I want purple hair!” He grabbed his disheveled red mop and pulled, fingers tangling. Probably hadn’t brushed it since he woke up. She’d have to lasso him to a chair and bribe him with Oreos to comb it later. When he turned away, his shoulder blades poked through a superhero T-shirt. She squinted at it and recognized the one she’d sneaked into the hamper last night, the same shirt he’d insisted on wearing all week.

      Stubborn boy.

      What would she do with him? Then again, what would she do without him?

      A long breath escaped her when he rose on tiptoe and pressed his face against the window. Must be eager to get out in the warm spring day. Bolt down the road a piece before she noticed he hadn’t picked up his room or done his homework.

      She switched off the gas burner and let the inside of the pancake settle. Of course, she’d been just as mischievous at his age. She smiled, recalling her escapades growing up on her family’s bull ranch. Momma saying she wouldn’t sit still for any more of Claire’s shenanigans. Her grin faded. What she’d give to hear those lectures again. She hadn’t stopped missing Momma since she’d passed ten years ago. It was like waking with a stomachache every day.

      She transferred the pancakes to the table and pulled open the fridge, hunting for juice. What advice would her mother give her now? Single parenting. Ten times harder than it looked, a hundred times more difficult than Claire had imagined. She was so busy she felt like twins.

      If only she had backup. A husband at home instead of halfway around the world. Someone to remind Jonathan that peanut butter was for humans, not for dogs. That potatoes would grow out of his ears if he didn’t wash them. Corn, at least. And that parents didn’t negotiate bedtime with seven-year-olds, though she wound up doing it every night anyway.

      She shook a near-empty carton of orange juice, filled Jonathan’s glass and dribbled the rest into her own, topping it off with water. Breakfast of champions.

      Thank goodness Kevin’s year-long tour of duty ended this week. He never let new potato chip flavors distract him from buying the juice. And he handled Jonathan better than she. Kevin disciplined; she caved, but that’d end soon. Her chest loosened. He’d be home from Afghanistan in a few days. Safe. Back to work at his auto repair shop. Their family intact again. Life how it ought to be. Sweet as stolen honey.

      “Come on now, son. Time to eat.”

      Jonathan pivoted. Eyes wide. “Momma, soldiers! They’re wearing Daddy’s uniform. The fancy one with the shiny buttons.”

      The small hairs on her arms rose and she forced herself to put the cold syrup in the microwave. To stay calm. Breathe. This could mean anything. Or nothing. Not the worst thing. Not what kept her up most nights since Kevin’s Texas National Guard unit deployed.

      “On the road or in our driveway, honey?” She injected a casual note in her voice. No alarm bells ringing. None but the ones in her head.

      She and Kevin just video chatted on Skype yesterday. Had talked about finishing his vintage truck restoration when he got home. That they’d cruise up and down Main Street for its first official drive then stop at Harrigan’s for cherry-dipped vanilla cones. Her mouth had watered and Kevin had said he’d been dreaming about it...and her, his voice deepening.

      She’d blushed at that, imagining...

      And he’d mentioned a quick trip into a US-controlled town today (or was that yesterday his time—she never could keep it straight). He wanted to buy a gift for Jonathan...the son he’d raised from birth as his own. Nothing could be wrong. Nothing at all.

      “One just stepped on our flowers! Can I open the door? Can I?”

      Jonathan bounced on the balls of his feet, his T-shirt rising over his belly.

      “No!” she wanted to holler.

      “I’ll get it,” she said instead, and pressed her fingers to her temples.

      Get hold of yourself, girl.

      But her feet stuck to the ground. Forgot how to move. If she didn’t answer the door, maybe the men would go away. Take their news with them. It wouldn’t be real then. Her stomach tensed.

      Kevin worked as a mechanic. Didn’t see combat. Had a safe job, he’d reassured her when his group got called up. Any time Claire imagined losing him, a silent, primal scream would get trapped in her throat. She’d made a conscious choice, years ago, to avoid relationships that involved danger.

      Maybe this had to do with the unit’s homecoming...a date change. A delay. That was all it was.

      Please let that be all this was...

      The doorbell rang. And rang. And rang.

      “Momma!” Jonathan yanked on her tank top.

      Her fingers trembled on the knob. When she swung it open, the hat-holding officers’ sober expressions said everything she didn’t want to know. An icy thread of fear curled in her gut.

      “Jonathan, go to your room.” She tried to smooth out the jagged edge in her voice.

      Her child peeked around her waist and looked up at the men. “Do you know my daddy? He fixes cars, only now he does humzees. I have a picture.”

      “Humvees,” one of them corrected, a man with fair hair clipped short enough to

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