Cheryl Wyatt - A Soldier's Promise

After glaring at the moody creature’s back, she typed a reply to Joel:

Paris? Did you see the Notre Dame Cathedral or the Eiffel Tower? I’ve always wanted to. You’re probably world traveled. I’ve only lived two places—California and Illinois. Never been outside the U.S. Probably never will. I know you’re short on time, so I’ll sign off. Thanks for everything you did for Bradley. PS: You’re nobody until you’ve been ignored by a bipolar cat. Kindly, AMS—

Amber drummed her fingers on the desk. USAF stood for U.S. Air Force. What could she put? She phoned Celia. “He e-mailed me.” Amber held the phone back from Celia’s loud kudos. “Now that you’ve blown out my eardrums, help me brainstorm a four-letter acronym to put behind my initials.”

“Give him a riddle to figure out,” Celia said.

Amber had it. “Apartment on Sonnet Drive.” She added AOSD to her e-mail and then sent the message. Call ended, Amber gathered her keys and the tote of foster care stuff for her mom to help with, since Lela’s profession involved legal paperwork.

Past the last stoplight out of town and nearing the guard towers flanking the government road leading to the non-mapped Eagle Point Military Base which Refuge secretly housed, Amber’s cell rang. Celia’s number popped up.

“Heard from him yet?”

Amber turned on the gravel road that would take her the half hour to her parents’ place. “I doubt it. It’s been what, a half hour?”

Celia clicked her tongue. “You mean you don’t know if he e-mailed you back yet or not? Don’t you check your e-mail?”

A deer darted across the road several yards ahead. Amber slowed. “Not while I’m in the car, and certainly not fifty times a day.” Not that she’d admit.

“If I had someone that cute in possession of my e-mail address, I’d chain myself to the computer. You know there are cell phones with e-mail plans, right? You better tell me when he e-mails you again.”

“If he e-mails me again.”

“When.” Motorized gurgling. Then brutal clinking sounded, such as a spoon dying in the sink disposal. Silence. “And I want some serious details. In fact, forward the e-mails to me.” More sink drain gurgling.

Amber laughed. “Not on your life.” She approached a curve, scanned the tree-lined road for critters, then accelerated.

“He’ll keep in touch.”

“I don’t know about that, but I hope he at least stays in touch with Bradley.”

“When you get legal guardianship, that’ll be convenient. How’s that coming along?” Scraping sounds. Liquid sloshing.

“Mom’s judge friend says there’s not enough proof to get Bradley out of there.”

Celia grumbled. “Her sending him to school every day with an empty lunch box isn’t proof? Come on. She knows this school is bring-your-lunch-only while they’re remodeling the kitchen. Even if we were serving hot lunches, I doubt she’d send him with money.” Faucet thump. Water off.

“I know. It takes time. These are serious accusations. We have to keep documenting. In the meantime, pray for his well-being and safety. I hate the thought of him not getting decent meals. Also, Bradley’s doctor pulled me aside at the market. He confided he has reason to suspect Foster Lady’s not giving Bradley his meds. If he proves it, he can have her court-ordered to administer them.”

The sound of liquid spraying in spurts. “That’s horrible. He needs to gain weight and have both proper nutrition and the treatments in order to stay eligible for the transplant, right?”

“Right.”

“Where is he in that process?”

“Moving up. Closer to finding a donor.”

“I’d abduct him if I were you.”

Amber laughed, knowing Celia kidded. Still, she was really glad the FBI didn’t have a tap on her line.

“When Bradley’s oncologist voiced his concerns, believe me, it tempted me. But I can’t help him if I’m sitting in jail. He said if Bradley’s levels don’t rise, he’ll have him admitted to be sure he stays medicated. We have to hurry up and wait. And pray.”

“And pray.” Water off, then on. Something metal plunked against stainless steel. A large splash.

“I better let you go before you drop the phone in the water and electrocute yourself. Besides, I’m in a lowsignal area. Cel? Hello?”

“Amb, you’re cutting out. Anyway, I said if prayer doesn’t work, I’ll help you devise a plan to kidnap Bradley and—”

She lost the call in the deep country roads. No cell towers out here, just soybean fields and forests dense with poison ivy. She’d be able to reach Celia up ahead.

Once there, her phone rang as she went to flip it open. Amber switched it from speaker to earpiece and hit Talk. “Beat me to the draw. You better hope the FBI isn’t listening in. They’ll take us both to jail.”

A heavy silence invaded the phone, then a huff of air and deep, masculine laughter. Amber nearly ran off the road.

“Do I want to know?” Joel asked.

“Hey! No. Sorry. I thought you were Celia.”

“She’s shorter than me.”

Amber laughed, surprised how it pleased her to hear Joel’s voice. He probably called for an update on Bradley.

“How’s Bradley?”

She knew it. “He’s doing great. You really made an impression. His caseworker phoned to tell me he hasn’t stopped talking about you since Friday.” I haven’t stopped thinking about you, either.

Amber tapped a finger to her forehead to the beat of her CD. Stop. Stop. Stop. Last thing you need is another heartache.

“What about you?” Joel asked.

It took her a second to figure out the last thing she said. Her thoughts rang so loud, she sometimes couldn’t remember if her mind or her mouth spoke last. “I’m fine.”

“That you are.”

Was he flirting? She fanned herself, hating the giddy factor. “How are you?”

“You tell me.”

She refused to bite. Obviously he flirted with all girls or he wouldn’t be so suave at it. A sick feeling roiled inside. Leave it to her to be attracted to a womanizer. Yet so much of what she’d glimpsed of his character spoke of the opposite. “I may lose you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m getting into an area of low signal. Let me pull over.”

“Just stay safe, Amber.”

Amber. He’d called her Amber. Not Miss Stanton. “I’m not on the interstate. About the only thing that could get me out here is a raccoon.”

“Out here?”

“I’m heading to my parents’ fishing pond.”

“Do you fish?”

“I love it.”

“So do I. Don’t get to as much as I’d like. I plan to retire in eight years. I hope to have more time then.”

“Wow. Eight years? How old are you?”

“Thirty. That puts me in until I’m thirty-eight. I’ll have twenty years because they counted my ROTC in high school and college. My dream is to be a skydiving instructor for civilians and new recruits since I’ll be old and decrepit.”

“Thirty-eight is hardly decrepit.”

“For a Special Forces soldier, thirty borders on geriatric. Forty’s ancient. Fifty’s antique. And sixty is not happening. They want the young pups in there who still feel invincible and whose knees don’t creak when they sneak up on the enemy.”

Amber laughed. “I hear rumors they have skydiving instructors at Eagle Point. You could come back to your old stomping ground.”

Why had she blurted that mindless suggestion? “Not a chance.”

A little ping of disappointment hit her with his rapid-fire response, which boldly shot down her idea with zero hesitation.

Wanting to keep things light, Amber’s mind grasped for straws from her wit arsenal. “You could fish sooner than eight years, ya know.”

“Is that right?”