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Back to Books The Memory of You
Declared dead by the army when he was taken prisoner six years ago, Lieutenant Matthew Foster is finally rescued and returns home as MAC. Due to posttraumatic stress, he has no memory of the bad-boy Romeo he was before his capture. Broken facial bones, extensive dental work, and the beard he’s kept to conceal his gauntness have left him looking nothing like the handsome young man in the induction picture the doctors pull from his military file after they identify him Spunky single mother, Abby Foster, is a soft touch for hard-luck cases. She’s had trouble accepting her husband Matt’s death, and complications while having their son have left her unable to have more children and feeling like only half a woman. She’s marrying the well-to-do dentist she’s been dating because she’s lonely, and he accepts her inability to give him a family. When the Army informs Matt that he has a wife, he figures she’s had to have made a new life for herself. He plans to simply write a note and wish her well. But first, he can’t resist going to catch a glimpse of the woman he’d loved enough to marry. Six years of fear become reality when he learns she’s engaged--and he’s a daddy. He’s relieved his wife doesn’t recognize him and continues posing as MAC, a down-and-out vet. He convinces Abby to hire him to paint her house, hoping to discover if she can love the broken man who’s come home before he tells her he’s her husband. He doesn’t want her staying with him out of pity or obligation. Unfortunately, this wounded hero has only weeks, before the wedding bells chime, to convince Abby she wants him, a mental-case who has zip to offer his family, instead of her wealthy fiancé. Abby didn’t believe she’d ever love any man the way she had Matt...until she meets Mac. She shrugs off, as coincidence, similarities between him and her husband and struggles with her growing feelings for Mac. After all, he’d have a tough time passing a psych exam to adopt, so Mac would never want her--not with his dreams of the big family she’s unable to give him.
PROLOGUE Myanmar, 11 January, 22:40 hours ♫ You look like a sergeant, and you act like one--♫ A rocket-propelled grenade whistled by the Blackhawk, cutting off the men’s rowdy birthday chorus. The missile self-detonated in a blinding flash only fifteen meters away, illuminating the dark mountain below. “Damn, that was close.” Second Lieutenant Matthew Foster released a breath of relief, then braced himself as the pilot banked the helicopter right through the trail of smoke in an evasive maneuver. Seconds later, a tooth-jarring blast told Matt a second RPG had clipped them in the tail rotor. Seven pairs of terrified eyes stared at him while the helo spun out of control, falling from the night sky the way a maple tree’s seed pod twirls to the ground. “Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot shouted, then rattled their coordinates into his headset. “Heads down!” Matt ordered, checking to make sure all his men obeyed before folding himself into the crash position. Please, God, no, he silently prayed. Abby and the baby need me. On impact, every bone in his body vibrated like a tuning fork quivering to the pitch of his men’s agony. Mercifully, the butt of an airborne M-16 smacked him in the temple, and a black void swallowed him. # Matt groaned, regaining consciousness to the crunch of footsteps and voices cutting through the muggy night. If the barrage of artillery fire inside his head would stop pounding, maybe he could think straight. He wrinkled his nose at the suffocating petroleum fumes. Please don’t let this damn thing explode. Wincing, he shoved the weight of a man off him and sucked in a breath as pain shot through his head and battered body. He peered into the dark, then snapped his eyes shut again after seeing the vacant stares of his men in the shaft of moonlight shining through the helo’s door. Men? Yeah, right. Most of them still had zits. Only the pilot and his crew chief had racked up more than Matt’s twenty-three years. Wiping the perspiration from his throbbing forehead, he counted three distinct voices echoing off the mountainside. Since some jerk had felt compelled to shoot them down, the odds were probably against him it was the Welcome Wagon coming to roll out the red carpet. They’d crashed about twenty-five klicks north of Daik-u. He and seven of his men had been deployed out of South Korea to provide support to a covert Special Forces operation. After receiving word of the mission’s success, the guys had broken into song to celebrate his birthday as they headed back. Matt dragged himself between the crew and his men’s bodies, checking each one for a pulse. The voices stopped right outside the helicopter, and the wreckage vibrated as an armed soldier appeared in its opening. Matt froze, praying the SOB wouldn’t spray them with lead. He peeked at the scavenger going through the other fellows’ pockets and held his breath when the man eventually grabbed his wrist. Damn it. Did the dirtbag have to take his watch? It had been a graduation present from Abby. When the soldier’s fingers stiffened on him, Matt cringed inside. Somehow the guy must have sensed he wasn’t dead. Probably because Matt was sweating more than a cold beer in July. Even his hair, clipped to barely an inch, was soaked. As the man felt his throat, Matt sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and rammed his hand into his opponent’s jaw. Hearing bone crunch, he heaved a sigh of relief as his adversary slumped to the floor, yanking the chain around Matt’s neck. Thank God, he was out for the count. Matt grabbed an M-16 and scrambled toward the opening in the side of the chopper, ready to drop and play possum. He rubbed the irritated spot on his throat and frowned. The jerk must have broken the chain on his dog tags. The hell with them. He had to get out of there before the others discovered their buddy. He glanced out at the full moon and waited for a cloud to pass over it. A foot from the door, he held his breath in the shadows and pressed his sweat-drenched body against the fuselage while the remaining two soldiers strolled by the opening. When they spun their backs to him, he slipped out and crept away from the Blackhawk, trembling as he glanced over his shoulder to keep an eye on his six. Turning to face forward, he ran smack into the muzzle of a Russian AK-47. The man behind the trigger motioned for Matt to raise his hands and relieved him of his weapon. So much for his brilliance in counting voices. The military played a prominent role in Myanmar’s drug trafficking, so the United States didn’t have the Myanmar government’s approval to send U.S. forces into the country. Consequently, dropping in for a belated New Year’s visit was unauthorized, and officially...they were never there. He pressed his hand to his bulging shirt pocket, taking comfort from feeling the pack of Marlboros where he’d tucked Abby’s last letter and the rabbit-eared picture of her swollen belly. Only nine weeks till her due date. His captor shoved the rifle into Matt’s gut and motioned to stick his hands back up. He complied, praying in a hoarse whisper, “God, please don’t make my kid grow up without me.” While the mute soldier kept his rifle trained on Matt, the others retrieved their unconscious cohort and laughed as they turned the wreckage into a fiery tomb for Matt’s friends. He’d only been overseas eleven weeks, but in the short time he’d been in command of these guys, they’d formed a bond he’d never forget. Watching the inferno of his men’s funeral pyre, he retched from the stench of burning flesh and wiped the blood running into his eye from the gash in his forehead. Granted he might be royally screwed, but at least he was still alive--something none of the guys he’d personally chosen to accompany him could claim. # Matt sat up and rubbed his eyes as the sun finally peeked through the narrow slats of the box truck, turning the interior into a sauna. His CO had told him January was the cool season in this part of the world. Like hell--or so it seemed. Despite the sweltering heat, he was grateful the soldiers had locked him in the back of the truck alone. He hadn’t had to endure their hostile stares while they’d hit one pothole after another all night. He patted his pocket, forgetting for a moment they’d confiscated his cigarettes along with Abby’s letter and picture. Damn, but he needed a smoke. Where the hell had he gotten the bright idea to get his education paid for through ROTC? Right. Abby’s brother, Pete Larson, had come up with that birdbrained scheme. Matt snorted. He was definitely going home and kicking Pete’s butt around the block a few times. If he ever got home. It wasn’t likely these clowns were taking him to the embassy to return him. He might never run his fingers through Abby’s thick blonde hair again or see her laughing green eyes. They’d always reminded him of fresh clover bathed in sunshine. “Oh, baby, I’m so damn scared.” Matt squeezed his eyes shut to dam the tears threatening to spill from them. The last thing he needed right now was to start blubbering. He sucked in a labored breath as the image of his dead friends flashed through his head. He should just be happy to be alive. Shuddering, he recalled all the horror stories he’d heard about the arbitrary imprisonment and inhumanity that went on in Myanmar. Then again--maybe his buddies were the lucky ones.
Click on the titles to read other excerpts
A Little Bit of Déjà Vu The Most Precious Gift The Right Match
Copyright 2008 Lauren Kellogg
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