Laura Altom - A SEAL's Secret Baby

Wind shook the small house, pelting rain so hard against the glass it sounded like tacks hitting the panes. The night was miserable, blustery and colder than normal for the end of summer.

Though exhaustion clung to her like a heavy sheet, dulling her senses, sleep was out of the question. Ellie had tried reading, but her thoughts were too frenetic. TV held no appeal.

Wandering into the nursery, she peered at her child, at the long lashes sweeping those chubby cheeks. Even at rest, Pia’s beauty never failed to thrill her. Ellie and Tom had had epic, laughing battles over what their little girl might grow to be. Tom had claimed Pia was destined to be the first female SEAL. Ellie had insisted she would for sure be a doctor or movie star—maybe both.

Was Tom looking down on them now? If so, what did he think of Ellie’s deception? Would he have hated her for not telling the truth from the start? Or understood and appreciated her rationale, and invited Deacon to be an integral part of Pia’s life?

Setting her tea on a nearby bookshelf, Ellie covered her stinging eyes with the heels of her hands. Given the chance to do it all over, would she wish her night with Deacon had never happened?

One look at her child confirmed what she already knew—that no matter who Pia’s father was, Ellie loved her with every breath in her body. The night she and Deacon shared had given her life’s ultimate gift. By introducing her to Tom, Deacon had given her yet another present of incalculable worth.

Were he here, she would thank him.

But only after begging him to maintain her small family’s status quo.

* * *

WHEN THE TIMER HIT two seconds, Deacon tossed the C-4 explosive out the hole where there had once been a window.

At one second, he cradled the baby against him while the whole house rattled violently from concussive force.

Deacon held tight to the now-screaming baby girl. Even from outside, the fire’s heat could be felt.

“Nicely done,” Garrett shouted. “But we gotta get out of here.” Rounds of gunfire could now be heard above the roaring flames.

“No kidding.”

Garrett radioed that they’d accomplished their mission of scouting the house and securing remaining occupants.

With insurgents outside, apparently pissed to have had their big, televised show of force to the Western world ruined, Deacon led the way at a hurried, albeit cautious pace down the hall toward the boy.

They found him still in the closet, cowering in a corner with his hands over his head.

“Come on,” Deacon shouted, “your sister’s safe. Let’s get you out of here.”

“B-but they’re shooting.”

“I know,” Deacon said above the noise, “but would you rather die from fire or a bullet?”

“I don’t wanna die!” the kid wailed.

“Me neither,” Deacon cried. “Which is why we’ve gotta haul ass to somewhere safe. Come on! Pretend we’re in a video game!”

Garrett helped the kid to his feet, and a minute later, keeping to back staircases, they slipped into a basement and crawled out a window that led to a formal garden. The visual serenity of dimly lit, winding gravel paths among fragrant flowers felt incongruous given the gunfire surrounding them. The baby let them all share her discomfort with continued screams.

A minute later, the firing stopped.

Through his earpiece, Deacon’s commander said, “Cease fire. Rendezvous like ghosts at staging area five.”

Garrett snorted. “Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have a screaming baby in tow.”

“How do I get her quiet?” Deacon asked the girl’s brother.

“She’s probably scared and hungry, and needs her diaper changed.”

Right. None of those bases had been adequately covered in training.

By now, local officials were arriving, sirens blaring, red and blue lights adding to the already chaotic scene. It would be simple enough to run around front and ask for medical assistance. Trouble was, not knowing which government was currently in charge, or their opinion of the good old U.S.A., put them in a bind.

As Deacon’s commander had said, they needed to be ghosts, leaving as stealthily as they’d arrived.

With the staging area a good mile east, Deacon cradled the infant as close to his chest as he could while still hugging shadows and staying alert for additional danger. Most of all, he prayed his own daughter never found herself in this much danger.

* * *

FIVE DAYS AFTER Ellie had last spoken to Deacon, she opened the front door to him, the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the twilight’s warmth. Knees rubbery, she had to keep a strong hold on the door frame so as not to crumple.

“Hey.” He was dressed in cargo shorts and a navy T-shirt. Even with his eyes hidden by gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, Deacon looked exhausted, but still steal-your-breath handsome. Tall, with broad shoulders and a square jaw sporting stubble. His dark hair had grown out of its usual buzz and now was a rummaged-through mess. When he smiled—oh, when he smiled—that was when she’d always had to work to keep her pulse from racing. White teeth and a lopsided dimple drew in the ladies more effectively than a 75% off sale at Jimmy Choo.

“I’d ask where you’ve been,” she quipped, striving for a lighthearted tone, beyond relieved that he was okay, “but Tom taught me better.”

“Yeah, uh…” With a bottle of Patrón in hand, he brushed past her. When their shoulders touched, her throat knotted from the unexpected pleasure of sharing his warmth. Impossible to explain, but she felt an irrational connection to him. “Sorry for the abrupt exit. You know how it is,” he murmured.

She did. And in many ways, being a SEAL’s wife had sucked.

Nodding to ward off tears ready to spill, she said, “I’m having iced tea. Want a glass?”

“Thanks, but—” he waved his unopened bottle “—I brought my own refreshment.”

While Ellie bustled into the kitchen to refill her glass, Deacon stood on the threshold, hands crammed in his pockets. Did he, too, feel awkward about the way their last conversation had ended?

From over the baby monitor, Pia let loose a few fitful whines. She’d crashed earlier than usual tonight. Striving for some semblance of normalcy, Ellie had taken her to their weekly play group comprised of base moms and toddlers. Ellie had hoped it’d be fun, but with her naval husband gone, more and more she felt she no longer belonged. Everyone was still kind, but Ellie found they had less and less in common.

“Be right back.” She nodded toward the nursery.

Deacon blocked her path. “Let me.”

“No. You’re holding booze.”

“Holding. Not drinking.”

She wanted to deny him, but the hard set of his jaw told her he wasn’t backing down.

For a good five minutes, she watched him from the edge of the sofa that allowed her a view into her daughter’s room. Pia had long since quieted and now Deacon just sat there, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists, staring. As if in a trance, he was stone still. The bottle of Patrón never left the floor.

Was his behavior a result of the mission he’d just completed, or more? Had he only just now absorbed the gravity of becoming a father? If so, what did that mean for her? For Pia?

Unable to bear the current scene, Ellie brewed coffee. Not for her, but for Deacon. He took it black.

Strange how she knew dozens of mundane facts about him, ranging from his coffee preferences to his aversion to broccoli. She’d known him intimately, yet for all practical purposes, they were strangers. Strangers who shared a child.

An hour passed.

Ellie folded laundry, dusted the contents of her curio cabinet, unloaded the dishwasher, stared at the paperwork necessary for volunteering at a local alcoholic outreach program. Ada thought helping others might get Ellie’s mind off her own worries, but Ellie wasn’t so sure.