A Soldier's Promise

This time the teacher’s learning the lesson…in love

Brenna Sullivan has a strict policy about not getting emotionally involved with her students. Yet there’s something about the new student, Carrie, and her father that has Brenna breaking all her rules.

Mike Langston’s parenting methods may be more than a little outdated, but Brenna is struck by the brave and honorable man he is and, despite her better judgment, she’s falling deeper and deeper for him. But how can she cross the line when their feelings start to grow?

“What did you think you were doing just now?” Mike asked.

“Helping to improve your relationship with your daughter.”

“That’s not your job.”

Brenna smirked at him. “I wouldn’t even consider it my job if you were doing yours.”

The blatant criticism was too much. When he couldn’t think of a comeback, he said, “This is so not your business, lady!”

A snort burst from her mouth or her nose, or somewhere, and Mike knew he’d gone too far. But so had she.

“Lady?” Coming from her lips, the word sounded like the worst sort of insult. “Did you just call me lady? The calendar says we’re in the twenty-first century, Mike.”

He rubbed his face. He wasn’t a chauvinist. Never had been. “Listen, check us out all you want. The bottom line is I don’t want my daughter in your house or anyone else’s without my knowledge. I hope I’m making myself clear.”

“Crystal.” Brenna managed a smile and a wave at Carrie in the truck. When Brenna turned back to Mike, she made sure her features displayed the seriousness of her intent.

Dear Reader,

We hear a lot today about soldiers coming home from battle zones. Joblessness, uncertainty and post-traumatic stress syndrome have become our working vocabulary to understand the men and women we are so indebted to.

In A Soldier’s Promise, I have isolated the story of one such brave man who returned home only to find the life he’d counted on no longer existed. But he forged ahead because of a promise he’d made to his dying wife and, with the help of friends, and one very special teacher, he learned that life isn’t over until you give up.

I hope you’ll enjoy the story of Mike and Brenna, one a soldier, one a teacher, both American heroes.

Cynthia Thomason

A Soldier’s Promise

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CYNTHIA THOMASON

inherited her love of writing from her ancestors. Her father and grandmother both loved to write, and she aspired to continue the legacy. Cynthia studied English and journalism in college, and after a career as a high school English teacher, she began writing novels. She discovered ideas for stories while searching through antique stores and flea markets and as an auctioneer and estate buyer. Cynthia says every cast-off item from someone’s life can ignite the idea for a plot. She writes about small towns, big hearts and happy endings that are earned and not taken for granted. And as far as the legacy is concerned, just ask her son, the magazine journalist, if he believes.

Having been a teacher, I know what a difficult, rewarding and inspiring job it can be. This book is dedicated to the great teachers I’ve worked with over the years, among them Darby, Tila, Linda, Bill and Rosemary. There are many students who owe their success to your guidance.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

BRENNA SULLIVAN SCRATCHED around the bottom of her large purse until she found the raggedy fan she’d been given as a wedding favor three years ago. She fanned her face vigorously while trying to squeeze under the shade of a scraggly oak tree in front of her car. Her fellow staff member and best friend in Mount Union, Georgia, approached from across the shimmering parking lot, causing Brenna to check her watch for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Have I been standing out here in the ninety-degree sun long enough for even Super Teacher Diana Montgomery to be leaving the building?” she asked herself. “No matter. Another few minutes and I’ll be dead from heatstroke.”

“What are you still doing here?” Diana asked when she reached Brenna’s car. “It’s Friday afternoon. The students left over an hour ago. I expected you to have already begun celebrating the end of a successful first week of school.”

Brenna blew her bangs off her forehead with an impatient breath and leaned on the hood of her seven-year-old Mazda. “I wish I were.”

Diana looked confused. “What are you waiting for?”

“A mechanic. I called Alvin’s Garage forty-five minutes ago. And as usual, Alvin’s ‘We’re on our way’ is a gross exaggeration.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Won’t start.”

Diana stared at the shiny silver sedan, which Brenna kept immaculate and in good running order. “Do you know why it won’t start?”

“Do I look like a mechanic?”

“You look like a wilted redheaded sunflower. Maybe it’s time to consider that mechanic a no-show. I’ll give you a lift home.”

“I can’t leave,” Brenna said. “I’ll give the guy another few minutes. I have plans for tonight. I need my car.”

Diana set her cumbersome briefcase, probably stuffed with papers to grade, on the pavement. She and Brenna both worked at Mount Union High School; Diana taught English and Brenna taught home ec. Just about everything in Brenna’s classes was accomplished during school hours, leaving very little work to take home, which suited her just fine. She liked devoting her off-hours to her own pleasures.

“I’ll just keep you company until the mechanic arrives,” Diana said. “Both the men in my life will be occupied with football practice until at least six.”

“Don’t be silly. Go home and wait for your husband and son. Why should both of us melt out here?”

“Maybe this is your guy,” Diana said as a blue pickup truck sped into the lot. A magnetic sign on the door indicated it had come from Alvin’s. The driver jolted to a stop a few feet from Brenna’s car.

“The cavalry has definitely arrived,” Diana said. “I might as well stay until we know he can get your car started.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, where are you going tonight?”

“The Riverview Tavern,” Brenna said. “You’re welcome to come...”

She never finished her invitation because the driver of the truck stepped out and walked over to them. Brenna did a double take. She couldn’t remember this man working at Alvin’s. He was tall with a muscular build that was obvious even under his beige mechanic’s uniform. What hair Brenna could see peeking out of a ball cap was dark and wavy. He wasn’t smiling. Not surprising in this heat.

“I hope you’re looking for me,” Brenna said.

He pulled a work order out of a breast pocket embroidered with the name Mike and Alvin’s Garage in blue letters. “I am if you’re Brenna Sullivan.”

“Yep. And what took you so...”

“This is your silver Mazda?”

Enough small talk apparently. “Yes, it is.”

He stuffed the work order back in his pocket. “You said it wouldn’t start?”

“That’s right. I hope it’s something minor and you don’t have to have it towed.”

“’Scuse me.”

She stepped aside. He sat in the driver’s seat and turned her key in the ignition. Nothing. Not even the clicks she had heard earlier.

Brenna cringed. She was thankful Diana hadn’t left yet. She might need a ride after all.

Diana spoke in Brenna’s ear. “Have you ever seen this guy before?”

“No.” Even if this man were just an Alvin’s employee, she would have remembered him. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. It’s just interesting. He could be our first new man in town in a long time. Maybe he’s single and you and he...”

Brenna frowned at her friend’s blatantly coy grin. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not looking and you know it. And if I were, I wouldn’t be scouring Alvin’s Garage for a date.”

The man got out of the car and opened the hood. He next opened the hood on his truck and finally removed some battery cables from a box in the cargo area.

“What are you doing?” she asked him.

“Charging your battery.”

“Oh.” She watched his practiced, abbreviated movements. He didn’t waste time or effort. He appeared to know what he was doing.

Diana nudged her. “He’s good-looking, don’t you think?” she whispered.

“Stop it.” But the comment did make her study his face again.

Though he remained basically expressionless, his features demanded her attention. Serious to a fault. Yet fine lines around his eyes and mouth indicated he’d done his share of smiling, or maybe frowning. And his eyes. Now that she really looked, she found herself staring into them. Very dark, intense. And much too thoughtful for a guy who spent his time staring at spark plugs. Or did cars even have spark plugs these days? Brenna recalled reading that everything in cars was digital now.

After a few minutes, he disconnected the cables, got back in her car, fiddled around with knobs on the dashboard and started the engine. The Mazda purred like the sleek kitten it was. He got out, took the work order from his pocket again and wrote some numbers down.

“That’ll be thirty-five dollars,” he said.

“What did you do?” she asked. “I didn’t see you fix anything.”

“Nothing needed fixing.” He covered his mouth with his hand.

Brenna stared at Diana. She mouthed the words I think he’s laughing at me.

Diana shrugged. “Appears so.”

“What’s so funny—” she pointed to his pocket embroidery “—Mike?”

“Women, I guess.”

“What? That’s just demeaning....”

He readjusted the seriousness to his face. “The problem with your car was what we call a parasitic drain.”

“And what exactly would I call it?” Brenna asked.

“Probably a dead battery.”

“And why did it die?”

“It was raining this morning. Did you have your lights on?”

“Of course. It’s the law. Why do you...” She realized where he was going with the discussion. “I must’ve left them on when I got to school,” she admitted.

“Not only that, you left your satellite radio running all day. Between the two the battery was drained.”

Diana snickered. Brenna ignored her.

“I know I should have turned the lights off,” she said. “But I wasn’t aware that the radio could drain the battery.”

“It wouldn’t by itself.” He pushed his cap up, releasing strands of dark hair onto his forehead. “Did you ever read the owner’s manual on this car? It would tell you stuff like that.”

“Of course I did.” She paused as he narrowed his eyes at her.

Diana grinned. “She read the part about how to operate the moonroof.”

Brenna glared at her.

“Even though you only needed a jump, I have to bill you for a service call.” His lips twitched as he handed her the bill. “A check will be fine. Alvin knows you.”

That last part sounded like another dig, as if she was so inept she handed out thirty-five dollars on a daily basis. For heaven’s sake. She wasn’t the only woman who depended on a mechanic.

She scrounged through her purse a second time and pulled out her wallet. “I assume you’ll take paper money,” she said, handing him three tens and a five.

“Never had a problem with cash,” he said, tucking the bills into his pocket. He nodded at both women. “I’ll be going, then.”

He started to get in his truck, but Diana stopped him. “Excuse me, Mike, but are you new to this part of Georgia?”

Brenna turned to give her friend another pointed stare.

“Been here a couple of months,” he said, one foot in the truck.

“Oh. How do you like it?”

“Okay.”

“Do you live in town?”

“About three miles out.”

He got in the truck, but apparently Diana wasn’t done grilling him. “Do you have family, Mike?” she asked.

He squinted into her face. Was he offended at the question?

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” Diana said.

Brenna huffed. Yeah, right.

“We’re a friendly town,” Diana added. “Perhaps your wife would like to join us girls some afternoon...”

“I’m not married.”

Brenna had had enough, and she was certain the mechanic had, too. “I’m sure this man has to get back to the garage, Diana,” Brenna said.

“I do,” he said. And as quickly as he’d come into the lot, he left it.

“What was all that?” Brenna said. “You made that man uncomfortable. I can’t imagine that he enjoys being treated like Mount Union’s catch of the day.”

“Well, he could be a catch...for you.”

“I already told you—don’t get any ideas.”

“You didn’t find him the least bit attractive?”

“I didn’t find him anything but rude and condescending.” That wasn’t exactly true. Brenna usually drew conclusions about every man she met, and she’d done so with this guy. Mike had a sort of earthy appeal that some women might find attractive. But earthy appeal wasn’t at the top of Brenna’s priorities. Not even close. “Parasitic drain,” she muttered.

“Well, I think he’s very good-looking,” Diana said. “He’s rugged and well built. And I could practically smell the woodsmoke coming from those eyes of his.”

So Diana had noticed that feature, too. Still, Brenna wasn’t going to get into this discussion. “Shouldn’t you go home and fix supper or something?”

Diana smiled. “Don’t be mad at me, Bren. I just want you to be as happy as I am.”

Brenna stared at the angelic face that was so typical of Diana. “How do you know I’m not? What makes you happy isn’t the same for all women.”

Diana considered the statement. “Point taken.”

“You go home to your son and your husband, and I’ll put on my cowgirl boots and kick up my heels at the Riverview. I’ll bet we both go to sleep happy.”

“Maybe so. But one person won’t be so happy tonight.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mike. He didn’t get a tip and he didn’t get your phone number.”

“You’re impossible,” Brenna said. “He obviously didn’t want my phone number, and he didn’t deserve a tip.”

* * *

WHEN SHE PULLED into her driveway, Brenna was thinking about which pair of jeans she’d wear out that night. She parked her car and walked to the front porch of the 1930s-era three-bedroom Craftsman-style cottage she’d bought four years ago and renovated with light earth-toned paint and sage-green trim. Her friends called the place “darling” and “charming.” Brenna was just grateful every day that she called it home.

She’d only taken a few steps along the brick walkway leading to her front door when she noticed a girl sitting on her wicker love seat. Brenna stopped, stared at the girl and realized she was familiar.

The girl raised her hand. “Hi, Miss Sullivan.”

Oh, no. The girl called her Miss Sullivan. Had to be a student. “Ah...hello.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Brenna searched the crannies of a mind that had already mutated from school to weekend mode. “I think you’re in one of my classes. Is that right?”

“Yeah. I’m in your third-period cooking class. My name’s Carrie Langston.”

Brenna remembered calling the name off her roster, but she hadn’t yet had time to put a face to each student’s name. “Sure,” she said. “Carrie.” She walked the rest of the way to the porch. “What are you doing here, Carrie? How do you know where I live?”

“It wasn’t hard to find out. I just said I’ll bet you have a nice house, and one of the other kids in class told me you lived here on the river.” She looked at the colorful stained-glass panel centered in Brenna’s front door. “I was right. This is a cool place.”

Mount Union was a small town. Brenna figured lots of her students knew where she lived. But none of them had ever come calling before. Brenna made a point to avoid sending that kind of welcoming attitude. To keep her school life separate from her personal one, she didn’t go to games or chat with students in the hallways about their problems. There were counselors for that job—and teachers like Diana Montgomery. If her past had taught Brenna one thing, it was that she should maintain a noninvolvement policy.

“I don’t know why you’re here, Carrie, but if you came to talk to me about school, you could have waited until Monday...”

The girl’s voice dropped to a chastised tone. “I didn’t come to talk about school.”

“Oh.” That was even worse. “I can’t imagine anything else that couldn’t wait. This is the weekend, and...”

“I’m sorry, Miss Sullivan. I just needed someplace to go, and, well, you seem so nice in class.”

Intrigued in spite of herself, Brenna leaned against a porch column. “Why do you need a place to go? What’s wrong with your home?”

“It’s not nice like this is.”

Since Brenna hadn’t seen this girl before this year, she assumed she was new to the school system. “So where do you live exactly?”

“Outside of town.”

“How far outside?” Brenna wondered if she would have to drive the girl home. If so, there was a liability issue with having a student in her car. And she’d be late meeting her friends. Precisely why she didn’t get involved.

“I live beyond that old mill, the one on White Deer Trail. Do you know where it is?”

Brenna did know. Diana and her family lived close to that location. So did other families who preferred the rustic, remote neighborhood. But Brenna hadn’t known another house existed beyond the long-defunct gristmill.

“Why aren’t you there now?” she asked. “Do you need a ride? I’m sure you missed the bus.”

“I did, but I can call someone. I thought I could just hang out here for a while.”

“That’s not really such a good idea.” In desperation Brenna quoted school board policy. “We have a strict nonfraternization policy here. The school board frowns upon high school students visiting teachers’ homes.”

The girl hung her head. Long, dark waves of hair hid her face, but Brenna thought she heard a sniffle. Oh, dear. What would she do if this girl suddenly burst into tears? What was she so upset about? She was obviously clean and well cared for, like just about all the kids in Mount Union. Her clothes were stylish. She wasn’t anything like the students Brenna had had her first two years of teaching.

Carrie scrubbed her face with both hands and looked up. She seemed in control. “It was dumb of me to come here. I was just hoping you’d let me stay awhile. But I can go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Someplace. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Brenna sat on the wicker chair next to the love seat. Something was going on with this girl, something Brenna might not be equipped to deal with. Remembering the hard-learned instincts to remain distant—the ones that had stayed with her since her first teaching position—she put her hand on the girl’s arm. Even that slight bit of familiarity made Brenna uncomfortable.

“What aren’t you telling me, Carrie?” She studied the girl’s face, her bare arms, looking for bruises and hoping she wouldn’t see any. All she saw was clear, pale skin. Yet something wasn’t right.

“Do you have problems at home?” Brenna asked.

The girl didn’t say anything. She just twisted her fingers in her lap.

“Carrie? Do your parents know where you are?”

“It’s just my dad, and I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Give me his phone number. I’m going to call him.”

“No!” She brushed bangs from her forehead, revealing red eyes. “I said I’d go. You don’t have to take care of me. I get it.”

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Brenna said. “But you can’t stay here. I’ve got plans tonight.”

Why did that suddenly sound shallow?

“Sure, I understand,” Carrie said. “I guess I was wrong. I thought you’d be easy to talk to.”

Me? I seem easy to talk to?

Carrie continued, “I don’t have any friends here. Where I used to live, one of my teachers talked to me a lot. She even came to my mother’s...”

“Your mother’s what?”

“Never mind. It’s not important. I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll go.”

“I don’t mean to sound short with you,” Brenna said, “but you should be home. And you sound like a girl who just needs to make some friends her own age. There are lots of ways to make friends. On Monday we can discuss it. You can join a club...or something.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.” Carrie stood and walked slowly to the steps leading from the porch. With each footfall, Brenna felt the sting of her conscience. But she didn’t want to be this kind of teacher again, the Diana kind. She’d tried it once and still suffered from her decisions. Besides, Diana was used to Mount Union kids being in her house 24/7. She had a son in high school and a husband who worked at the school. And she hadn’t been through what Brenna had been through at her last job. Brenna had only herself, and she just couldn’t risk getting involved like that again.

Why hadn’t Carrie gone to Diana’s? Brenna watched her walking away and sighed deeply. When Carrie reached the sidewalk, Brenna called to her. She almost didn’t recognize her own voice. “Are you hungry?”

Carrie turned. “A little.”

Brenna managed a quick mental survey of her refrigerator. “I could probably rustle up some mac and cheese and a couple hot dogs.”

“I could eat that.”

“Okay, then. Come on back.” Brenna stood. “We can talk a bit if you want. And then you’ll go home, okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

Brenna unlocked her door. “I’ll get out of my teacher clothes and fix us that mac and cheese.”

She changed into worn cutoffs and a T-shirt and gathered her humidity-frizzed red curls into a ponytail. So much for getting to the Riverview on time.

During dinner preparations she and Carrie talked about Mount Union High School. Brenna gave her some tips on what kids in town did, where the closest movie theater was, things she thought would interest a sophomore. She also told Carrie about the Cultural Arts Center that was being planned for the community. Brenna was chairing the committee for the center and hoped it would be beneficial in a town that offered little in the way of teen activities.

“Besides the center being a meeting place for teens, we’re going to offer special classes,” Brenna said. “Drama, music, other courses that have been eliminated due to budget cuts.”

“Classes?” the girl asked. “Over and above having classes in school?”

Okay, maybe that sounded lame, but Brenna knew several students who would take advantage of enrichment courses. “There will be activities, too,” she explained to Carrie. “Movies, dances, games, a whole range of choices.”

Carrie didn’t comment on the center, but halfway through the cheesy casserole, Brenna saw the girl smile for the first time.

“This is really good,” the girl said. “Thanks for fixing it.”

“You’re welcome. We make this in class, you know. About midway through the semester.”

“That’ll be cool.”

Brenna carried her plate to the sink and looked over her backyard. The sun was setting, turning the trees on the other side of the river to gold. “It’s late,” she said. “Maybe you’d better call your father and tell him to pick you up.”