Tara Taylor Quinn - Having The Soldier's Baby

She did a lot of math in her head. Financial reports, estimating amounts of money needed per year to raise a child, adding in incidentals for vacations and the unforeseen, college account deposits and even possible competition fees if he or she was into sports or dancing.

She counted months. If the insemination took, she’d have a March baby. Counted days, fourteen of them, until she would know if the process was successful. She could take a home pregnancy test earlier than that, but according to Dr. Miller false positives were fairly common any earlier due to low hormonal counts.

Salad ended up being dinner—she didn’t have much of an appetite. And she didn’t call anyone. Her mother, a widow living with Emily’s divorced brother in San Diego, helping him raise his two kids, would insist on driving up. And her friends... Most of them had either moved away or faded off. She didn’t go out anymore, not since Winston went missing. Most of the people she used to spend time with were other couple friends with families of their own now, leaving her the odd one out—and she worked eighty hours a week and didn’t relish spending even more time with the people there.

Another math problem to work through. Getting as much work done in fewer hours. She couldn’t spend eighty hours in the office every week once a baby came. Child care funds had already been calculated. Multiple times. There was a day care in an office building not far from hers. The Bouncing Ball’s LA branch. Mallory Harris, the owner, was a client at the clinic—and expecting a baby of her own around Christmastime. Christine Elliott had introduced them.

If all went well, they’d be pregnant at the same time. Pregnant. She could be. Winston’s baby could already be forming inside her.

Math. Numbers. Focus.

Wednesday, June 12. Insemination day.

Conception Day?

Two years, four months and three days since she’d seen the father.

Hugging Winston’s pillow, Emily cried herself to sleep that night.

* * *

“I did things.”

Sitting on a worn blue couch, elbows on his khaki-covered knees, hands steepled at the fingers, Winston tried to help the naval therapist understand. Though he’d been back in the States for more than a week, in San Diego for three days, he didn’t feel any different than he had bumping around helplessly in the back of a military Jeep in the Afghan desert. He’d murdered his soul there. Nothing was going to change that.

“You’re a hero to your country.” The woman’s soft tones bounced off his eardrums like the buzz of an irritating fly. “What you did saved lives. And what you’ve brought back to us will save even more.”

He didn’t need to be told the facts. He knew them. Was wearing the ribbons he’d earned above his right pocket. He’d put country and his fellow comrades before soul. Had made very clear decisions—for very clear reasons. He’d come up with the plan on his own. Had implemented it without telling anyone, knowing that if he’d spoken up, he’d have been told not to act.

His plan had succeeded. Beyond his expectations. He hadn’t counted on surviving.

“My wife believes I’m dead. I wish to leave it that way.” An unusual request, but not impossible. He was informing on a terrorist cell. He could request a new identity. Keep anyone who knew him by his former identity out of it.

Not that they were really in any danger. No one in the sect he’d joined knew who he really was. And the man they’d thought him to be, another soldier he’d impersonated, was dead.

“She’s going to know you’re alive when the death benefits stop.”

He’d thought of that. Had told his superiors that he didn’t need to see a shrink, and the morning’s meeting was only proving his point.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do, sign whatever I have to sign, so that she continues to receive insurance coverage and monthly checks in the amount she expects.” His salary should be able to cover that, with enough left for him to live on. They’d told him he’d have his pick of duties. After a mandatory six-month leave. And a release from the fly-voiced woman. All due respect to her, meeting with her was a waste of his time. She couldn’t begin to see inside him. And wouldn’t know how to handle it if she could. No amount of learning could prepare you...

“You indicated a desire to stay with the navy.”

“Yes.” It was all he had. He’d chosen his loyalty.

“Naval police,” she said, glancing through the dark reading glasses sitting halfway down her nose at the open file on her desk. He’d considered going civilian...applying to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, but then his checks to Emily would no longer come from the navy.

“Correct.” Sitting back, his ankle across his knee, he reached an arm out along the back of the couch—a pose of relaxation he’d perfected over two years of living as family within an enemy sect. Pretending not to have a care in the world as he lied to them every single day, knowing that if he slipped up, was found out, he’d suffer torture far worse than death.

His free hand came to his chin and for a second, he was startled by the bareness there.

He’d shaved the beard. No longer had it to pull on when he needed to make certain he was still alive. And could feel.

He was Petty Officer First Class Winston Hannigan again. Not Private First Class Danny Garrison—the young man in his command who’d died in his arms, the man whose identity he’d assumed. If he’d died over there, as he’d expected to do, Danny would have been hailed as the hero. His family deserved that.

“You need my sign-off at the end of six months.”

Hers, or another military shrink’s. He looked her straight in the eye. After the past two years, Winston didn’t scare easily. Was way beyond falling prey to intimidation or manipulation.

He’d lived with the enemy for two years and had come out with a body still fully intact. Not many visible scars, even.

“Tell me why you don’t want your wife to know you’re alive.”

He’d already done so, when he’d first taken a seat in her office and she’d asked him to tell her a little about himself.

“I’m not the man she knew. Nor am I a man still interested in a lifetime commitment to another individual.”

“So you said.” The brunette fortysomething in dress whites kind of shrugged as she tried to pin him with her eagle eye. Wasn’t going to happen. The only pins he wore were attached to his ribbons.

“It’s not fair to her,” he added, lest the woman think he’d developed a selfish streak during his time in pseudo-captivity. “I am not the man she married. She wouldn’t love the man I’ve become. Trust me on this. I know her. She’d grieve every day, living with me. It’s much kinder to let her make a new life for herself.”

“She’s not a woman who knows her own mind?”

“Of course she is. Completely. Emily knew when she was fourteen that she was going to be my wife. And she knew we had to have college degrees before we married, too,” he said. “She’s been with the same firm since graduation and has quickly climbed the ranks to senior account executive. Because she knows what she wants and goes after it.”

“But you don’t love her anymore.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not exactly.”

“Let’s just say...my feelings have changed. Period. Across the board. I don’t love anything in the ways I used to. For God’s sake, I lived in hell for two years. I’m affected by that, okay? But not in any way that will prevent me from being a damned good MA.” Master-at-arms—naval military police. The one thing he knew for certain he’d be good at.

“Of course you’re affected. That’s why you’re here.”