Cynthia Thomason - A Soldier's Promise

Since she’d known she was going to make this trek after work today, Brenna had chosen to wear black jeans, a black-and-white sleeveless knit shirt and sensible sneakers. Her hair was caught up on her head with a tortoiseshell comb. She trudged ahead, keeping watch for tree roots that could trip her.

Hiding behind low branches, she approached the cabin. Getting her first look at Mrs. Langston’s “pioneer homestead,” Brenna was pleasantly surprised that the first settlers of Mount Union lived so well. The simple log structure was far from luxurious, but it appeared sturdy. The logs showed signs of wear, some splitting in places that glistened with some sort of patching material. At least someone had maintained the place. The porch had a substantial roof that extended across the front of the house. Two rocking chairs and an assortment of folksy implements sat on the wooden floor.

Brenna crouched down so she couldn’t be seen from either of two windows on each side of the centered front door. A patch of gravel served as a parking area. The cabin’s solid front door was open and a steady hum came through the screen door, indicating an air conditioner was working hard to keep up with the heat coming inside. She smiled, thinking the thoughtless gesture typical of a teenager who didn’t have to pay the bills.

Carrie suddenly appeared in front of one window. Cords hung from her ears as she waved her arms over her head and danced to a tune only she could hear. The girl didn’t appear nearly as miserable as she’d sounded the other night, and Brenna imagined Justin Bieber or Katy Perry blasting from those earbuds.

A slight stinging sensation on her arm drew Brenna’s attention from the cabin. A mosquito the size of a Chihuahua hovered near her shoulder, and Brenna swatted it away. It returned with two or three of its buddies, who flew away with an ample supply of Brenna snack.

“Enough of this,” she said. “I’ve stalked this child sufficiently to know she’s not living in squalor.”

Waving her hand in front of her face, Brenna returned to her car, got in and closed the door after swatting furiously to make sure none of the winged invaders had made it inside. She started her engine, slid the gearshift into Reverse and stepped on the accelerator.

And stopped with a jolt and a resounding thud.

She cringed. Had she hit a rock? A tree? An animal?

No. Unfortunately, she’d crunched into a blue pickup truck she’d seen most recently in front of her house.

Oh, no. Brenna thrust the shift into Park and slid down in her seat. She closed her eyes briefly. The primary rule of backing up an automobile punched into her brain with the force of her driver’s ed teacher’s gravelly voice. “Always look over your shoulder to make sure...”

She was still struggling to calm her pounding heart when a knock on her driver’s-side window made her jerk upright. She stared into Mike Langston’s aviator sunglasses before her gaze slid down to the thin line his lips made.

She mouthed the word Hello through the glass.

He made a twirling motion with his hand, and she rolled her window down a couple of inches. He continued to twirl.

She shook her head. “Mosquitoes,” she said, pointing to her arm, where itchy pink welts had formed in the past few minutes.

“That’s a shame,” he responded. He lifted his glasses long enough to stare into her eyes before performing a cursory check of the items on her car seats. What did he expect to find? A half-empty bottle of wine? There was nothing incriminating there. Her phone, her purse, a Diet Coke.

The glasses dropped back to his nose. “You just ran into me,” he said needlessly.

Common sense should have made her hold her tongue. But apparently common sense had just flown out that two inches of window space. “You’re not even supposed to be here,” she said. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He frowned. “That’s funny. Since I live here, I thought I had every right to be here.”

“What I meant was...” There was no way out of this. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

He nodded once. “That makes more sense. But seeing as you obviously are here, you might want to pull up a little. Right now my front bumper is close to riding the trunk of your dandy little foreign automobile. I’m thinking that’s not good—especially since you seem to have so much trouble with this car anyway.”

Well, that comment wasn’t at all necessary.

“I expect we ought to exchange insurance cards,” he added. “Though I doubt you need mine.”

She definitely wasn’t going to roll her window down more and invite blood suckers inside. She’d be a mass of swollen spots within minutes. “Can’t you reverse?” she suggested. “We can both back onto White Deer from here and discuss the situation away from these insect-infested woods.”

“I’m not going to let you back your vehicle up anywhere in the vicinity of mine,” he said. “Go forward to the house.”

To his house? She didn’t think so. She rubbed her hand over a bite, hoping to illicit his sympathy.

“I have a bug zapper on the porch,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” He leaned on the side of her car. Only a thin layer of glass separated her from those honey-brown eyes she could imagine staring at her through the dark shades.

His nose practically touched the window when he said, “And since your whole purpose for being on this drive had to be to snoop on my property, this invitation should make you very happy.”

She sensed his mind still churning, as if he weren’t finished proving to her he’d figured out her scheme. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d said, “And you’ll never be invited back so you’d better take advantage of this offer right now.”

For some reason, she decided if he did say that, she’d feel the loss, much more than she would have expected. Maybe it was the way he looked in those aviator sunglasses. He had a movie-star quality that she quite inappropriately noticed at this particular moment. Sort of a Gerard Butler cocky masculinity. She had a long way to go before forming a lasting impression of Mike Langston, but she really liked Gerard Butler.

Besides, what choice did she have? If he wouldn’t move his car, she couldn’t go anywhere. The only direction open to her was forward. She could pull in front of the house, wait until he pulled in as well and then maneuver quickly around and head down the drive. If Carrie was still wearing the earbuds, she might not even look out the window. And perhaps Mike wouldn’t tell his daughter about the spy mission.

Brenna spoke out the two inches open at the top of her window. “Fine. But don’t think for a minute that I’m interpreting this as a social invitation.”

He almost smiled. “I know you’re smarter than that. Actually, this is more an intimidation tactic. I’m much better in that arena than I am the social one.”

I’ll bet you are. She eased her car into Drive and gently pressed the accelerator. The Mazda made a mournful screech and cleared a foot or so between it and the truck. Brenna didn’t want to look at her trunk lid. She’d check it out when she was back in her own drive and could cry in private.

A moment later she pulled in front of Mike’s cabin. She waited for him to park and then shifted into Reverse. Her ploy to execute a quick escape was working. Until the front door opened and Carrie stepped out.

“Miss Sullivan, hi!”

Darn it. She stopped, rolled her window down all the way and looked for mosquitoes. The zapper appeared to be doing its job, so she stepped out of the car. Leaving now would look much more suspicious than following through with a good ol’ North Georgia howdy. “Hi, Carrie.”

“What are you doing here?”

She glanced at Mike, who had an elbow on the top of his truck and was watching her through those sunglasses. His full mouth quirked up in a smirk that made the teacher in her want to threaten him with a visit to the assistant principal. And made the woman in her want to—