The Texas Soldier's Son. Karen Whiddon

real,” she muttered. Just then, her baby began crying again and she hurried away, into the house. Though she hadn’t invited Kyle to follow, she hadn’t told him to leave either, so he went after her.

      She picked up her son and put him to her shoulder, rubbing his back in soft circles and making soothing sounds. The baby’s crying tapered off, replaced with quiet hiccupping sounds. She glanced at Kyle, her child held protectively against her, and made a strangled sound.

      “You’re still here? This isn’t just some kind of dream?”

      Before he could reply, she continued talking, almost as if to herself rather than him. “Kyle, I’m not sure how this is possible, but you’re dead. And now you’re not.”

      “Sit down,” he told her, his tone gentler than she deserved. Once she had, he told her what had happened to him, all of it. Beginning with the IED exploding, the fact that he’d been holding his friend’s dog tag, and the months he’d spent in a coma in a hospital. Then the rehab, learning to walk again and, finally, coming home to learn the woman he’d expected to marry had become the wife of another man. He didn’t tell her the rest of it, about the PTSD he battled, because it was no longer any of her concern.

      She listened quietly, tears slipping down her cheeks to be wiped away with the back of her hand. Her baby rooted around her chest, clearly seeking her breast, and finally she grabbed a baby blanket and arranged it so the infant could nurse. She looked the picture of maternal perfection, gazing lovingly at her child while her body gave sustenance.

      It was almost too much for Kyle. But he’d already been to hell and clawed his way back. He’d come here for explanations and damned if he’d go without getting them.

      When the baby finally finished, she rearranged her clothing and the blanket and put his tiny body against her shoulder so he could burp. Kyle continued to watch her, willing himself to feel nothing, though he failed miserably. A tempest of emotion raged inside him, ranging from a kind of joyous relief that they once again occupied the same space, to disappointment, hurt and gut-wrenching jealously. This should have been his wife, his baby. All the plans he’d made, all the hard work and sweat and tears had been supposed to culminate in this.

      Instead, he’d been given the middle finger.

      They both sat silently for a moment. He took a deep breath and met her gaze, steeling himself against the attraction—still—he felt when he looked at her.

      “Your turn,” he said, his tone harsh. “I get that your husband was murdered, but you at least owe me that.”

      She nodded once. “My turn,” she repeated, her voice soft. “And I’ll explain. But first, give me a moment to digest the fact that you’re really alive, and here.”

      He’d bet it was a shock. She must have thought since he’d been killed, he’d never find out how quickly she’d managed to move on with her life. As if he—and what they’d had—had never mattered. A blip on her lifeline, here one day, gone the next. While for him, she’d been everything. His entire world.

      With a nod, he gave her the time she requested. While she burped her baby, he prowled around the room, looking for some clue about what her life with her husband had been like. There were no photos of the two of them, none of the baby either. Just impersonal modern art prints of a type that a year ago he would have sworn didn’t match her personality. She’d loved bold, vibrant colors. Not this watered-down neutral decoration surrounding her now.

      In fact, the entire living room had an impersonal feel. It looked like they’d hired a decorator and let her have free rein, without any personal input. The blues and beige was tasteful; the faint touch of yellow put some color in just the right places, but none of it gave him any insight into the people who lived here.

      Part of him was glad. Nicole and he had spent countless nights talking about what their first house would be like. She’d been carefree when with him, and had spoken of the bright, rich colors she’d use. She wanted, she’d said, each room to be a tapestry with a story to tell.

      If this room told a story, it would be as boring as hell.

      Finally, he’d had enough of the silence and turned. Her baby had finished burping and she had him in her arms, moving with a rocking motion as if to put him to sleep.

      “Well?” he asked, crossing his arms.

      “Let me put him down,” she said. “He’ll want to sleep now that he’s been fed and changed.”

      Without waiting for a reply, she hurried off, heading toward a small room off a hallway downstairs. When she returned a moment later without the infant, she swallowed. “I keep a bassinette in the office downstairs so I’m not having to run him up to the nursery during the day. At night, since all the bedrooms are upstairs, he sleeps in his crib. Which is okay, since I have a baby monitor and am able to keep tabs on him.”

      Apparently realizing she was babbling, she ceased talking and sighed. Walking toward him, she stopped a few feet away and stared up at him, her expression full of wonder. “Do you have any idea what I would have given to have known you were alive? I grieved your loss deeply.”

      Anger blossomed inside him. Despite that, he still had to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “When, Nicole?” he demanded. “Before you got married? How long did you wait after getting word I’d been killed in action? Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t seem very long at all.”

      Her mouth worked. Again, tears came. This time, she covered her face with her hands and wept, her shoulders shaking. The old Kyle would have rushed to console her, but she no longer belonged to him. Instead he took a step back.

      He shouldn’t have come here, he realized. Nothing would change. Hearing her mouth whatever explanation she came up with would do little to assuage the rawness of his pain, the aching sense of betrayal by the one person he’d believed would always have his back. Still, he couldn’t seem to get his feet to moving, so he stood and watched her cry.

      “I’m waiting,” he finally said, the rasp in his voice in keeping with his frustration. “How long, Nicole?”

      “It’s not what you think,” she began, her voice thick and trembling. “I really had no choice.”

      “Bull.” He snarled the word. “Spare me the crap. I joined the army for us. So we could have a future. Every waking moment, every mission, every return to base, my first thought was of you. If the situation had been reversed, do you honestly think I’d have gotten married a month after you’d died? Do you?” He didn’t shout the words, partly because he didn’t want to disturb her baby, but also because volume wouldn’t make any difference. She had to know he was right, yet the sorrowful look in her eyes didn’t contain remorse or guilt. Just pain. Something he’d grown intimately familiar with.

      “I was pregnant, Kyle,” she said, her voice shaking. “My parents were going to throw me out onto the street. I had to do something to protect my baby, so I took the coward’s way out and married Bill as they insisted.”

      He hadn’t thought she could hurt him any worse, but somehow she had. “You’re telling me you slept with Bill Mabry after you learned I’d been killed in action?”

      If he expected her to hang her head, he was wrong. Instead, she lifted her chin and looked him square in the eyes. “No. I’m telling you I was pregnant with your child when you left me the last time. You’d gone on a mission, so I couldn’t tell you. I’d planned to, the next time you called. Instead, I received word you’d been killed by an IED. Jacob is your son.”

       Chapter 3

      Nicole waited breathlessly for his reaction. If anything, his frown deepened.

      “I don’t believe you,” he snarled. “I never would have guessed you’d become such an opportunistic little—”

      “Stop.”