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His Best Friend’s Baby
Mallory Kane
Table of Contents
Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history, and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.
Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at [email protected].
For Michael, for the usual reasons.
The cold rain beat down on the white roses that blanketed Bill Vick’s coffin, turning them yellow and soggy. The canopy flapped and creaked in the wind.
A dozen or so people had braved the weather to attend the graveside service, but Matthew Parker saw only one—Aimee Vick, his best friend’s widow.
From his vantage point, several dozen feet away and partially hidden by trees, Matt could barely see the strands of brown hair that had escaped from beneath her hat to blow across her pale face.
Aimee didn’t notice. She stood stiffly, her arms folded protectively across her tummy, nodding and smiling sadly as people filed by, offering their condolences one more time before they headed home.
Matt pushed his fists deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bone-deep chill that shuddered through him. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold April wind or the freezing rain that poured off the brim of his Stetson.
Three days before, he’d done the two most difficult things he’d ever done in his life. He’d brought Bill’s body home to Sundance, Wyoming, and he’d faced Bill’s wife and tried to explain how a weekend adventure had turned into tragedy.
How, in the blink of an eye, she was widowed, and her unborn baby would never know his father.
Her utter shock and disbelief had been agonizing to watch, but he’d stood there, needing to see it. Just as he did now. He needed to share her grief, her pain.
Aimee wiped her cheek with a gloved finger, and bowed her head for an instant.
Matt’s eyes stung. He blinked and looked at his watch. He needed to leave now. His flight back to the tiny border province of Mahjidastan was scheduled to leave in an hour.
For a few seconds, he debated whether he should speak to her. But he quelled the notion as soon as it surfaced. Seeing him would only hurt her more.
He’d known Aimee nearly as long as he’d known Bill, which was most of his life. He’d kidded Bill about not deserving her. She was generous and kind, and forgiving to a fault. She gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, until they proved they didn’t deserve it.
Three days ago, Matt had proven he didn’t deserve her forgiveness. She hadn’t said it, but the look in her eyes had spoken louder than words.
If not for him, Bill would still be alive. He’d be safe at home with his wife, awaiting the birth of their son.
Bill’s death was his fault.
A year later
THURSDAY 0900 HOURS
Matt Parker stepped outside Irina Castle’s ranch house, the headquarters for Black Hills Search and Rescue in Sundance, Wyoming, and headed for the helipad a few hundred yards to the east. He lifted his head and took a deep breath of crisp, fresh Wyoming air.
The day before, for the first time in a year, he’d set foot on American soil, on Wyoming soil. He was back home, where he belonged. He loved the Black Hills. Even though they’d tried to kill him and his three best friends twenty years ago, he loved them. They sustained him.
He’d done his best to track down any rumors of Americans in the remote mountain province of Mahjidastan, which was located in a disputed border area shared by Afghanistan, Pakistan and China. His objective had been to find Rook Castle, Irina’s husband. But ultimately, he’d failed, as had BHSAR specialist Aaron Gold before him. And now Irina had called off the search.
As he circled the Bell 429 helicopter that was BHSAR Specialist Deke Cunningham’s baby, another fellow specialist, Brock O’Neill, appeared in the doorway of the hangar.
“Parker,” he said as Matt approached. The terse greeting was typical of the ex-Navy SEAL. He held out his hand and cocked his head—the only indication Matt had ever seen that the patch over his left eye bothered him.
Matt