Barbara Phinney - Necessary Secrets

“Yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But that’s my business, not yours.” Sylvie tried to push past him, but he stepped in front of the door and kicked it shut. The sharp click echoed through the hot, quiet room.

“We’re not done talking yet, Ms. Mitchell.”

Her head shot up. For the first time she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face. If circumstances had been different…

“Please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”

“Call me Jon. You’re going to see a lot of me in the future.”

She shot a sharp glare at his calm features, ignoring his smooth-as-silk voice.

He continued. “I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Barbara Phinney was born in England and raised in Canada. She has traveled throughout her life, loving to explore the various countries and cultures of the world. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and the love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.

Dedicated to the soldiers and police officers who have served on United Nations and NATO peacekeeping missions around the world.

My story is not real, but the dangers these men and women have faced are very real. They’ve kept the peace—sometimes making it first—and they have made those countries safer, especially for the children.

This author thanks them.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

The small town of Trail, Alberta, always bustled on a Friday. And with a sunny, early-June weekend advancing on the leading edge of a heat wave, the town hummed like a beehive when the canola bloomed.

Sylvie Mitchell parked her car and walked toward the local medical clinic, or more specifically, the small birthing clinic within it.

Sometime in December, she thought. Good timing, at least. With the ranch and campground at its slowest, she’d have more time for the baby.

And by then Andrea would have dragged Dad down to the condo in Mexico, and life would be quiet again.

After thirteen years in the Canadian Army, quiet sounded pretty good to Sylvie.

The squeal of tires cut through the stream of street noise, and she snapped her head around.

One burning, brutal memory bubbled to the surface…. The thick, wet Bosnian snow, the mess of rocks and brush and tree trunks, the strain of dirty brakes as her truck skidded to a slushy stop barely in time. The jolting pop of machine-gun fire. The cold wash of horror as she watched Private Rick Cahill close his eyes for the last time….

A merry shout answered the squeal. Two teenagers, cutting school, no doubt, threw greetings into Sylvie’s recollection, dissolving it. She blinked and hurried into the clinic.

The receptionist smiled when she reached the counter.

“I need to see the doctor,” she told the woman.

“Is it an emergency? We’re booked until next Wednesday.”

“Wednesday’s fine.” Sylvie waited for the receptionist to decide on a time.

The woman glanced up. “What seems to be the problem? Or is it for your yearly exam? I have to allot the right amount of time.”

Sylvie met the woman’s gaze evenly. She’d seen her around the grocery store and such, but the woman wasn’t a born-and-bred local. She may as well get used to stating her condition. And seeing the look of surprise on the faces of the few friends she had when they subtracted the time she’d been home from how far along she was. “I’m pregnant. Almost twelve weeks. I took a home-pregnancy test this morning.”

Her words sounded amazingly smooth, considering the turmoil on which they’d ridden free.

What a shame she couldn’t feel the same placidity about the night of her baby’s conception. Twelve weeks ago, Rick had been alive. In Bosnia, in early spring. What a terrible place and time to conceive a child.

Tears suddenly welled up and a thick lump of something ripened in her throat. Oh, no! Not here.

She continued to stare at the receptionist, an overwhelming horror swamping her as she realized she could break down at any moment. All those years running a quartermaster store, all that time in so many war zones, and now she was as tearful as a two-year-old.

“Here.” The receptionist handed her a tissue.

Sylvie shook her head. “I don’t need it. It’s just the hormones. I don’t cry.” She wouldn’t cry, either, not now, not ever. She’d been a soldier for thirteen years, done three tours of duty overseas and countless training exercises. She’d been the youngest warrant officer in her unit, and each promotion she’d earned was the result of hard work, not tears.

Besides, she had the baby to think about—the only thing left of the man who’d known the risks and had still made love to her.

She turned her head and drew a stabilizing breath. The “man.” Who was she kidding? He’d been barely out of high school, little more than a boy to her, a warrant officer doing her final NATO tour before she took early retirement, which had been offered because the military wanted to downsize.

Not that she was old. She just felt old compared to Rick, who was old enough to father her child and yet too young to drink in some provinces.

On an afterthought, she grabbed the tissue. With a mutter of thanks, she snatched the appointment card and strode out of the medical center, refusing to spare a glance at whoever sat patiently in the waiting room behind her, no doubt watching her fight her impending breakdown.

Rick Cahill. Young, bright, handsome. Eager without being naive, he’d been one of her best storesmen. He’d been a good driver, and a sensible soldier for his age.

And he knew his way around a woman’s body.

The last duty she’d performed in Bosnia was to attend his memorial service.

Her eyes stung and her chest burned as she headed toward the drugstore across the street. Think about prenatal vitamins, Sylvie. Nothing else.

What would the other soldiers under her command have said if they’d known she and her youngest stores-man had been together and that she’d sat in the front row of the chapel tent during his memorial service, carrying their dead friend’s baby?

Thank heavens the military wanted to cut its forces. Thank heavens she’d escaped her unit before she discovered she was pregnant. She would have been repatriated immediately anyway, but the rumors would have whipped up like prairie dust.

She couldn’t have looked them in the eye. Not after realizing the mistakes she’d made.

Not after signing the nondisclosure agreement.

Not after killing Rick.

Nausea surged into her throat at the thought of her cowardice. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she threw a wild look up the busy street. She had to make it back across to her car—and fast—if she was to vomit behind it.