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The Marine's Secret Daughter
Carrie Nichols
She has his eyes.Her mother has his heart.Years have passed since Marine Sergeant Riley Cooper last held his best friend's sister in his arms. Bound for Afghanistan, he believed walking away from Meg McBride was the kindest thing he could do. Now that he's home, he doesn’t blame Meggie for hating him. But she hasn’t told him everything. And he hasn’t met the little red-haired girl whose grey eyes so resemble his own….
She has his eyes.
Her mother has his heart.
Years have passed since marine sergeant Riley Cooper last held his best friend’s sister in his arms. Bound for Afghanistan, he believed walking away from Meg McBride was the kindest thing he could do. Now that he’s home, he doesn’t blame Meggie for hating him. But she hasn’t told him everything. And he hasn’t met the little red-haired girl whose gray eyes so resemble his own...
CARRIE NICHOLS grew up in New England, but moved south and traded snow for central AC. She loves to travel, is addicted to British crime dramas and knows a Seinfeld quote appropriate for every occasion.
A 2016 RWA Golden Heart® winner and two-time Maggie Award for Excellence winner, she has one tolerant husband, two grown sons and two critical cats. To her dismay, Carrie’s characters—like her family—often ignore the wisdom and guidance she offers.
The Marine’s Secret Daughter
Carrie Nichols
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07731-6
THE MARINE’S SECRET DAUGHTER
© 2018 Carol Opalinski
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This is for my very own heroes,
John, Alex and Michael, and for the heroines
who love them, Jess and Caitlin.
Contents
Cover (#u0c8964d1-5a25-540c-b4e0-6d5be27311c1)
Back Cover Text (#u109e51d4-fcd0-5178-ba35-7e210b5777f9)
About the Author (#u25709e13-74b3-5e49-ab4f-72367e1e8519)
Title Page (#u0e011e24-6225-5a19-87ca-2541a814aad7)
Copyright (#u1b3ae561-566f-5099-a72d-0e5094331dd9)
Dedication (#u028ee940-e843-5e0d-8604-6f52d8c5099c)
Chapter One (#u6a63d67d-8624-5ad3-b113-cb4631c1953a)
Chapter Two (#u7798ab9b-e2cb-597d-b5b2-feb93a83c1c9)
Chapter Three (#ud8424c62-9e02-5c30-afe5-5a035f96b701)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ua6223227-7b7c-528a-8297-5fb5bb0e5b12)
The truth could be inconvenient, but he’d be damned if he’d give those doctors the satisfaction of being right.
Riley Cooper slammed the door of his truck and rolled his shoulder to work out the stiffness, but all that time on the road without anything stronger than ibuprofen hadn’t helped. The doc had prescribed Percocet, but the meds made him drowsy. And the way he figured it, taking the drugs would be an easy out, considering the pain his buddies had died with, and their families still lived with. At the base hospital, they’d prodded and poked him and labeled his condition survivor’s guilt. The way they’d said condition had him grinding his molars. They wanted guilt? Being tucked away in the tranquil mountains of Vermont instead of Afghanistan, leading his men—now that was guilt.
The therapist had told him, You need to take time to heal your body and clear your head before I can sign off on your return to combat. Take thirty days, Sergeant, and maybe I’ll consider putting you back in theater.
Riley’s fist tightened around the key as the therapist’s words swirled in his head like debris kicked up from helicopter rotor wash. His shoulder was healing, and except for the occasional ringing in his ears, he was good. Damn good. He needed to get back to Afghanistan, to his men, to his life, not spend time in the back of beyond, losing his edge. He wasn’t himself here in this peaceful town, but on the battlefield, he had a purpose, a reason to do what he was doing and men to protect.
Vegas for R&R had been an option, but summers spent at Loon Lake with the McBrides were treasured memories from his childhood. Warm days spent with Liam exploring the woods, building forts, swimming. All with Liam’s younger sister, Meggie, trailing behind. Coming to the lake wouldn’t bring those days back, but this place might provide some measure of comfort.
The two cottages were one hundred yards from the main road and surrounded on three sides by trees, making it seem as if they were the only buildings in the wilderness. A shared driveway meant one entrance for vehicles, easy to guard and—
Chill, Marine, you’re not on duty.
He stood in the driveway of his rented cottage and stared next door. With its open porch and natural clapboard siding, the neighboring cottage mirrored this one except for its state of disrepair, which confirmed what he’d heard. The McBrides had not used the cottage after Mrs. McBride’s death. But as far as he knew, widower Mac still owned the place, unlike Riley’s parents, who’d sold theirs during the divorce because each couldn’t stand the thought of the other one having it. The way he figured it, the cottage came out ahead.
Two bright red Adirondack chairs on the porch across the yard caught his attention. Strange. Those chairs appeared freshly painted. He scanned the area, searching for other anomalies. An engine noise sent him into a crouch until he realized it was an outboard motor; not surprising since the lake was beyond the trees.
Stand down, Marine, there are no armed insurgents in Loon Lake.
He cursed under his breath. Even here, in this placid setting, the vigilance remained. He still felt the initial numbness from the blast wave, the acrid cordite stinging his nose, Private Trejo’s screams filling his ears.
He took a deep breath and held it before releasing. No smoke. No burning flesh. Just clean air and evergreens. Situation normal.
Last time he’d been here, his head had been filled with Meghan McBride, not hostiles. But that was before, and if nothing else, Afghanistan had shown him what he was capable of. He’d seen too much, done too much, and would never be the man Meggie had once loved. He sighed and stretched his neck.
He turned his back on the McBrides’ vacation home, shoved those thoughts into a box marked “regrets” and locked it tight. A bit of time to heal and he’d be on his way...back to where life had a purpose. When he was in a mine-resistant armored carrier, scouting routes for vehicle convoys or picking spots for marine units to bivouac overnight in the field, thinking about Meggie had kept him company and provided a sweet torture. Three years after enlisting and leaving Meggie behind, he’d returned for his Gran’s funeral and discovered the skinny girl he’d spent summers with had morphed into a young woman.
He batted away a persistent gnat and inserted the key into the lock, wincing when he picked up the duffel. The cottage smelled like lemon oil and pine-scented cleaner. Despite the short notice, the rental agent had come through on her promise of getting the place cleaned, but hints of past summers wafted around him. He tossed his bag onto the brown leather sofa, removed his desert camo cover and dropped the cap onto the tan canvas duffel.
In the kitchen he checked to see if the cleaning lady had stocked the few staples he’d requested. Sure enough, the refrigerator had milk, eggs and cold cuts, and the cupboards held canned goods and bread. He’d be set for a few days. One of the reasons he’d chosen Loon Lake was its remoteness. He’d be alone here, just him and a couple of bottles of Jack Daniel’s if his mind insisted on tracking back to Meggie.
I never thought you’d take advantage of my sister’s crush on you.
Liam McBride’s incensed accusations echoed in his head like explosive antitank shells. He’d been six months into his first deployment when Liam had left those angry voice mails. But then five years had passed without another word.
Meggie represented his biggest regret. He could’ve—no, make that should’ve—ended things more gently, tried harder to make her understand. And frankly, he should regret spending that one glorious night with her. But he didn’t.
He cursed once more under his breath. This R&R was mandatory if he wanted to get back to the real world, but the next thirty days stretched before him, dark and dense, like the forest blocking his view of the lake. Maybe he should’ve done Vegas.
A strong musty odor drew him across the kitchen to the open basement door. Before shutting it, he glanced down the stairs—What the...?
A woman sat on the bottom step, her back to him and a laundry basket on her lap, her back moving as she struggled to breathe.
“Hello? Ma’am?” Something was familiar in her movement. He took a couple steps down. “Ma’am?”
The slight figure stiffened but didn’t turn around or respond. Riley clattered down the stairs, squeezing past and squatting in front of her. “Ma’am, are you—Meggie?”
His gaze froze on her green eyes, and adrenaline surged through him. What was Meg doing in his rental cabin? In his mind she’d gone on to teach elementary school in Boston. His gut clenched.
“Riley? What are you—” She began coughing and gasping, holding her chest, her wheezing more than audible.
She was sick and needed help. He commanded his emotions to stand down. “Is it your asthma?”
He’d known Meg suffered from the condition, even witnessed an attack or two in the past, but that didn’t stop his stupid heart from racing.
“Just...catching...my breath.” She coughed a few more times, her breathing labored. “What...are you...doing here?”
He pulled the laundry basket away and, ignoring her gasped cries of protest, tossed it aside.
“Hey, those towels were...clean.” She managed to get on her feet.
He grabbed her arm to steady her. “Forget the laundry. Where’s your medicine?”
God, she was prettier than he’d remembered—fantasized about—with curly red hair, green eyes with stunning flecks of hazel and gold, and thin, elegant hands, but her body now had the well-rounded curves of a woman. She dug into the pocket of her Red Sox hoodie, produced an inhaler and held it up.
As he’d done in Afghanistan, he tried to bury everything to focus on the mission. But this was more than a mission. This was Meggie. He gentled his grip on her arm. “Why aren’t you using it?”
She shook the L-shaped canister and winced. “Empty.”
The musty air was thin and even he had the urge to cough. “Let’s get you upstairs and into some fresh air.”
“Thanks.” Shoving the inhaler back into her pocket, she swayed. Her wheezing had increased and she grew paler by the minute, but she eyed the basket of laundry as if she meant to bring it upstairs, too.
“I’ll get that later.” He studied her pale face, searching for a glimpse of the young woman he’d left behind, but this Meggie was all grown up, and her green eyes sparked with emotions he couldn’t decipher.
She slapped her foot on the step just as another cough rattled through her and tipped backward, her arms flailing for the handrail.
Riley braced her against his chest, and her head hit him square in the injured shoulder, but he smothered the groan before it escaped. She steadied herself and pulled away, shaking off his hold on her arms. Grabbing the handrail, she marched up the stairs, coughing with each step. He followed close enough to catch her if she faltered again.
Upstairs he placed his hands on her shoulders and led her to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair with his foot. “Sit.”
“I’m...” But she began coughing again and sank into the chair, one hand pressed flat against her chest, concern etched onto her face.
He pointed a finger. “Sit. Stay.”
Her head jerked back. “Roll...over? Play d-dead?”
He grinned and she started to smile, but lost it to another cough. He threw open cupboards, impatient to find a glass. Finally locating one, he filled it with water and brought it to her, cupping her hands around it. “Drink this.”
She made a noise that might have been a laugh or a cough. “What for?”
Yeah, what was it for? He ran his hand through his hair and tugged on the short strands. “I had to do something. You’re...you’re—”
“Trying...to breathe?” She raised her eyebrows, crinkling her forehead.
His hands fisted with the need to shake some sense into her or cradle her close and never let her go, no matter what Liam McBride or anyone said. “Do you have another inhaler at your place?”
When she shook her head, his chest squeezed in sympathy. From the moment he’d recognized Meg, he may as well have been in the blast zone from an improvised explosive device. His ears rang, his breath caught in his throat, his heart raced. Where was his battle calm? In an attempt to keep his hands to himself, he paced the small kitchen.
“I...” She set the untouched water on the table, her gaze shifting to a small purse on the counter.
How had he missed that? He grabbed the purse. “Do you have another inhaler in here?”
She shook her head. “Phone.”
“Phone?” he echoed.
