Authors: Lindsay McKenna
The rain drizzled to a halt as Morgan drove up the narrow asphalt driveway of Laura Bennett’s home. The two-story brick home sat back off the road, surrounded by thirty-foot-tall, blossoming pink and white rhododendron bushes. Morgan shut off the red sports car’s engine and leaned back to take stock of the house. Three large elm trees towered above it, their branches like arms creating a protective umbrella over the roof. The white shutters at each of the many windows gave the house a quaint appearance, reminding him of the neatly kept homes in the English countryside.
Not able to put his finger on what he felt about the place, Morgan slowly unfolded himself from the small car. The MR2 was excellent for someone of normal size, but his six-foot-five frame and two hundred thirty pounds of tightly packed muscle didn’t fit well in such confines.
A white picket fence enclosed Laura’s small front yard, he noted, and tulips, hyacinths and yellow daffodils crowded along the front of the house, creating a rainbow of welcoming color. A slight smile thawed the line of Morgan’s mouth. The fairy-tale exterior of the house reflected the story-book innocence that flowed from its owner. An idealistic statement, Morgan decided, putting the key in the front door and opening it.
The cold nose of a Saint Bernard poked through the crack in the door, and Morgan spoke gently to the dog, not wanting to startle her. The animal stood in the entrance, enthusiastically wagging her thick brown-and-white tail. A grin crossed Morgan’s mouth as he entered and shut the door behind him. Sasha was small for a Saint. He allowed her to sniff at him all she wanted, using the interlude to inspect Laura’s residence.
The fairy-tale effect was even more pronounced inside the house. Filmy ruffled white curtains hung over each window, heightening the femininity of the residence. There were pots of African violets on a number of windowsills and sitting on Queen Anne tables, plus a variety of lush greenery in each corner.
“Antique and otherworld,” Morgan said. He felt Sasha’s pink tongue adoring his hand. Leaning over, he patted her large, broad skull, noting the dancing lights in her huge brown eyes.
“You’re just like your mistress, aren’t you?” he demanded. “Trusting and naive.” Not a good combination for this world, Morgan thought as he moved through the lavender carpeted rooms. The wallpaper was ivory colored, with tiny violets sprinkled across it. No doubt Laura loved the Victorian era, a very romantic period. He shook his head, unable to get her beautiful blue eyes out of his mind.
The baby robin was in a small cage sitting on the kitchen countertop. Morgan scowled down at the bird, who had a wide yellow beak, sparkling black eyes and a cheep that filled the room.
“Hungry, huh?” He turned to go to the refrigerator, and nearly tripped over Sasha. The dog gazed up at him lovingly and Morgan swallowed his reprimand. The kitchen was sunny, with two walls of windows that overlooked the backyard. Morgan wasn’t surprised that the yard resembled an English garden in every sense of the word. He could see the round, rectangular and square areas formed by bricks. There were probably different herbs or flowers in each area, he thought, noting green shoots. Opening the door to the refrigerator, Morgan bent down and spotted a carton with “worms” written on the side of it.
The robin hopped onto his finger the moment he put the carton into the cage, and grudgingly Morgan fed the bird a couple of worms. Sated, she sat contentedly on his finger afterward, emitting contented little cheeps.
“Wish it took so little to satisfy everything else in life,” Morgan told the robin, putting her back on the perch in the cage. Sasha whined at the back door, wanting out. Morgan shut the wire door to the cage and walked over, allowing the Saint Bernard out into the enclosed yard.
Drawn to explore the entire house, Morgan tried to ask himself why. His world consisted of minding his own business. The men of the Legion lived only in the present, never the past—or the future. But Laura haunted him, like a beautiful dream after he’d awakened. She was like elusive fog that disappeared when the sun shone directly on it. He snorted softly as he walked down the hall and into another room. Maybe he was dreaming and was really on a jet back to France.
Standing at the entrance to a room, he realized that this was her office. A computer terminal sat on a large, elegantly carved cherry desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two of the walls. Morgan wandered over to the terminal and looked at several papers beside it. Frowning, he picked them up.
“‘The Buildup of Soviet Military Power’ by L. Bennett,” he muttered. He stood reading the carefully typed ten-page manuscript. “I’ll be damned.” His fairy-tale Laura was a technical writer. Obviously a good one, because she had an insider’s knowledge of Soviet hardware.
He dropped the manuscript back on the desk and turned around. Looking at the rows of books, he noticed that two of them had been written by her. Taking the first off the shelf, he saw that the book dealt with tactics and strategy in World War II. The second was a detailed account of all the major battles during the Korean War.
Scratching his head, he put both books back on the shelf. She was some kind of military expert. How? Most women had little interest in that topic, much less any expertise in it. “Laura Bennett, you’re one hell of an interesting person,” he said, leaving the room.
She was going to need a robe and some other items for her stay in the hospital. He had to find her bedroom.
When he did he was speechless. Laura’s bedroom was a Victorian fantasy. He stood at the threshold of the large room, staring at the flowery print covering the canopied bed. The elegantly carved bureau shouted her refined taste. A bowl of dried lavender flowers filled the room with a clean scent. He entered the dark-blue carpeted room, pulling himself out of the dreamy state the room induced. White French doors concealed two walk-in closets. Feeling as though he were trespassing, Morgan opened the closet door and found three cotton gowns hanging there. They were delicately embroidered with flowers, with pastel ribbons at the neckline and puffed sleeves. He folded the gowns carefully, located a small suitcase and placed them and other necessary items in it.
Then, going to the back door, he called Sasha. The Saint Bernard bounded back into the house, panting happily. Grinning, Morgan reached down, patting her thick, broad head. “I’ll be back a little later to make sure you don’t get housebound, big girl.”
Morgan lingered in the front room, suitcase in hand. The feeling of serenity in the clean, neatly kept house was overwhelming. He wanted to relax, kick off his shoes and stretch out. Sasha came and sat, ladylike, at his side, her pink tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, her brown eyes sparkling. Morgan laughed harshly at himself as his shoulders, usually tense and drawn up, relaxed of their own accord. What kind of magic did Laura Bennett weave? He gazed around at the transparent draperies gracing each window. Laura’s home was the direct opposite of what he was used to: a bunk in a sterile barracks with a highly polished floor and no sign of individual expression. Life in the Legion was hard and demanding. This house mirrored the opposite: softness and gentleness. With a sigh, he told the dog goodbye and reluctantly closed the front door.
The next order of business was to find a nearby hotel. And then he’d have to wait until eight o’clock. Suddenly Morgan found himself restless, wanting to talk at length with Laura, to explore this intriguing young woman.
Laura sensed Morgan’s arrival. The door to her private room had opened and closed a number of times previously, but somehow she knew it was him.
“Morgan?”
He halted at the foot of her bed, thinking she looked a bit better than last time. “How did you know?”
Nervously Laura made a gesture with her hand. “Just a feeling around you.”
“So,” he murmured, bringing the suitcase near her bed and sitting down in a chair, “you’re intuitive on top of everything else.”
His voice feathered through her, easing her anxiety over her blindness. Laura released a sigh and sat back against several pillows that had been arranged for her earlier. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hungrily Morgan absorbed her delicate beauty. “It was a compliment. Your home reflects you.”
She grinned slightly. “Ann teases me unmercifully about my house. She calls it Sleeping Beauty’s Castle.”
“I like your place.” Morgan caught the sadness in his tone and tried to cover it up. “There’s a romantic Victorian aspect to you.”
But Laura had caught the sadness, too. She quelled her urge to ask him about the source of his grief. “I love that era. Did you see my leather-bound volumes by Victorian authors in my office?”
She was like sunlight, Morgan decided, warming beneath her honeyed voice, which was breathless with enthusiasm. Her blond hair had been washed and now hung in graceful abandon around her small shoulders. “Yeah, I saw your library.” He rubbed his jaw. “I also saw a manuscript on your desk about Soviet hardware.”
All Laura’s fears began to erode in Morgan’s presence. He’d think her foolish if she confided that he made her feel safe, as if everything about this experience were going to turn out positively. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Not when my life can depend on it.”
Laura tilted her head, assimilating his brusque answer. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him about his frequently military references, but she decided to wait. “I make a living writing books and articles for the military establishment,” she explained, then wrinkled her nose. “I know it’s probably strange for a woman to be in that line of business, but I find it fascinating.”
“Oh?”
She rested her hands on her blanketed lap. “I guess my fascination started because my adoptive father was in the marine corps.”
Tension thrummed through Morgan, blips of his past flashing before his mind, as they always did in such moments. Scowling, he said, “Marine corps?”
“Yes. Dad was killed in 1970 in Saigon, during the closing days of the Vietnam conflict.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “A lot of good men died over there at that time.” The pain in his chest widened. His past, which had haunted him daily since he’d regained his memory, loomed like an ugly, festering sore before him.
“He believed in what he was doing, Morgan. Dad always believed in fighting for what he felt was right. I was raised around the military and found it interesting from a psychological viewpoint.”
“So you were weaned on a military tradition. What about your adoptive mother?”
Laura gestured briefly with her hand. “She died in 1975 in a car accident.”
“So now you’re alone.”
“It’s not so bad.” Laura managed a brave smile. “Except for times like this when I can’t see.”
Morgan wanted to get to another topic besides war. All it did was dredge up the faces of ghosts that stalked him nightly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
Much better since you’re here,
Laura wanted to add, but squelched the urge. Lightly she touched her bandages. “Everyone’s positive that when the swelling goes down, I’ll be able to see again.”
Morgan wanted to reach out and run his fingers down her long, elegant hand. “I’ve got a hunch you’ll see.”
“I hope so…I mean, my livelihood depends on my sight, Morgan.”
To hell with it. Morgan leaned over and captured her hand. Her fingers were damp and cool. “No one’s going to turn your life inside out,” he promised her.
His hand was callused and warm, and Laura released a shaky breath. “I’m scared, Morgan. Scared to death. What if I don’t see again? How am I going to write? How will I be able to interview? I mean, I spend half my life at the Pentagon, going through tons of files in the basement complex, looking for unclassified material for my articles and books.”
He placed both his hands on hers. “Now listen to me, Laura, that isn’t going to happen.”
With a little laugh of desperation, Laura said, “God, I hope not. But bad things happen to good people, no matter what our intent was at the time.”
Morosely Morgan agreed. “Yeah, bad things do happen to innocent people. You just have to be at the right place at the wrong time.” As he had been on Hill 164 with his company of men seven years ago. As Laura had been for him today….
“I know so little about you, and yet I feel I’ve known you forever,” Laura said softly. Removing her hands from his, she lay back against the pillows, her voice lowering with feeling. “When I first saw you across that roadway, I thought you were a mercenary. You looked so hard and tough. And that scar on your face made me think you were a soldier. But now…Well, you’re far more caring than I’d first thought.” She shook her head. “Just goes to show, you can’t judge any book by its cover.”
Reluctantly Morgan allowed her to reclaim her hands. “I’ve got a face that was rearranged by a Mack truck,” he jested, trying to tease her out of her fear of being permanently blind.
“No! I didn’t mean it that way,” Laura said quickly. “You’re far from ugly.” Heat flowed into her neck and cheeks, and she knew she was blushing. “You have character. Every line has a story behind it. I’d much rather look at a face that’s interesting than one that’s got nothing on it.”
Morgan chuckled. “Then you’re going to like old age, lady. Everyone gets wrinkles by that time. I just got some of mine a little early, that’s all.”
She laughed with him. “Thanks for letting me walk out of the noose I prepared for myself.”
“No harm done,” Morgan assured her. “I look at this mug every morning when I shave, and so far I haven’t broken too many mirrors.”
His humor stirred her heart. He was always castigating himself in some small way. “Morgan, you haven’t told me anything about yourself. If you’re going to be stuck with me for a while, I’d like to know something about you.”
With her military background and expertise Laura would most likely know about his company being slaughtered in 1970. Maybe it was just as well that she was temporarily blind—that way she couldn’t possibly identify him. With time, though, he was afraid Laura would put two and two together. And he couldn’t have that happen. Not ever. No, he’d stay with her long enough to make sure she was going to be fine, and then he’d disappear back into Europe to his other life. There was no alternative.