Fortune's Favored Heiress

Prologue

Northeastern France

The Second Battle of the Marne

Roger’s limbs refused to respond, rendered immobile by the grip of terror.

Even as bombs were rumbling the ground beneath him, even as shots were being fired, he remained frozen in place, his eyes wide with horror.

The acrid stench of gunpowder filled his nostrils, mingling with the saltwater tears streaming down his face.

“Ian,” he whispered hoarsely, the name a desperate plea on his lips. “Ian . . .”

His brother was nothing more than a singed body, hardly what one could call ash.

Moments ago, he was scouting ahead through the barbed wire, leading the platoon.

The scene replayed in Roger’s mind. It had to be a foolish nightmare, but the reality seemed too real—the thundering explosion and the fire and smoke consuming the boy Roger once teased and called his little brother.

The roar of an approaching plane cut through the turmoil, momentarily drowning out Roger’s desperate cries.

The plane fired ahead, and Roger dropped his gun and fell to his knees.

No, no, not Ian. This can’t be real. He kneeled and lifted his eyes towards the murky yellow sky.

God, why? Why did it have to be him? The gunfire wasn’t enough to distract him.

His mind still lingered on Ian, the pain sinking deep into his soul.

“Ian!” Roger’s voice cracked, a futile attempt to summon him back from the void. Despite the chaos surrounding him, he could not tear his gaze away. Each flicker of flame, each wisp of smoke, served as a cruel reminder of all that had been lost.

Roger tried to run for his brother, believing he could carry him to the hospital, hoping the doctors could somehow save him, but an arm restrained him.

His heart pounding, Roger fought against the grip, fueled by a determination to save what little remained of his family.

Ian was only ten yards away. If only Roger could reach Ian, take him into his arms, whisper that he was going to be fine, and then apologize.

He should have stopped Ian from enlisting. It should have been him leading the platoon. Roger should have been a better brother. He could have prevented this!

“McKinley, stop!” The voice cut through the moment like a knife, piercing the veil of anguish clouding his mind. “We must move. They’re gaining on us.”

Roger lashed out, his fist meeting the face of the man who was trying to guide him to safety. The blow was met with a pained grunt, but it brought only a fleeting moment of rebellion before Roger was surrounded by the rest of his comrades.

“We have to move! Don’t be a fool! You’ll die out here.”

The ground thundered beneath them again as another bomb dropped close by, followed by the sound of painful screams.

Ian had cried out that exact way before he was killed.

A soldier retrieved Roger’s arm, pulling it over his shoulders. Roger clung to the man and took an urgent step, but it didn’t take away the weight of loss heavy on his shoulders.

“Ian!” Roger screamed. Hot, stinging tears streamed down his face. “Ian!” He took another step, his legs giving out, nearly taking the other soldier to the ground.

He cried Ian’s name again, but there was no reply except the sound of bombs and planes—and death. Ian was gone, truly gone.

Helplessness consumed Roger like a suffocating force gripping his chest, threatening to crush him. Another bomb erupted a hundred yards away. Gravity pulled him and his comrades to the ground.

“Come on!” one of them yelled.

Roger and his comrades rose to their feet and climbed cautiously down a ladder and into a trench. Their feet sank into the mud as though it were devouring them. Roger took a deep breath as they sat against the trench’s wall, their heads hung low, shielding each other from the fumes.

Survive. You mustn’t stay here, Roger’s body cried, but his mind was elsewhere. Maybe he’d die here, or perhaps be captured by the Germans. Roger was numb to it all; if death or torture awaited him, he’d welcome either with open arms. It was what he deserved.

The putrid smoke clung to the air as the shame clawed at his chest.

“Take care of him, Roger,” Mother had said on her deathbed two years ago. “He’s a bright young lad, but he needs guidance. Be there for him. Don’t let the world take him off the right path.”

Roger’s eyes burned with tears. He kept recalling Ian’s singed body, lying in the mud.

His face would be hardly visible from the ash and burns, but if it hadn’t been touched, it would display disappointment, just like Mother’s would if she were still alive.

Roger observed his comrades—their muddied faces wearing looks of horror.

Their breathing was ragged and loud, almost like the puffs of a train.

They were safe for now; that is if they could make it out alive.

It should have been me. I should have been the one to die.

If Roger hadn’t left home, the young fool would never have enlisted. Oh, poor Ian, only nineteen. His life had been wasted. He was supposed to obtain his higher education, work from the ground up until he was a successful businessman, then fall in love and raise a family, but he perished instead.

Died from an explosion that engulfed his future.

There was nothing left of Ian, just like there was nothing left of Roger.

He had the responsibility to keep Ian safe, and he failed.

Roger’s mind replayed the moments he had spent with Ian, his crooked smile and smooth face that had hardly been shaved.

Ian’s laugh—that was the worst. His laugh was far from normal, snorting loudly like a pig.

Roger had complained about it embarrassing him, but now he’d give anything to hear it again.

Those were the best days, but they’d be no more.

His mother used to tuck him and Ian into bed every night because she’d work late as a kitchen maid.

She’d sing lullabies to them and remind them that even though their father had passed, they had a Heavenly Father.

But where was that Heavenly Father now? What father would let his son die just as the other?

The same kind as Roger was—careless and cruel.

He blinked away those happy memories; he didn’t deserve to remember them.

His heart turned to stone, cold and dark, with no way back.

Roger McKinley was gone.

I’m sorry, Ian. I’m so sorry.

But the apology would fall upon deaf ears, lost amidst the deathly war, swallowed by the void of despair stretching out before them.