Springwell Series Omnibus (#1-6)

1. Chance

1

CHANCE

I peeled my sweaty top off with a relieved sigh. For two hours I’d stood melting in my dress whites, the relentless sun beating on the long-sleeved polyester. Standing by my father’s grave would have been hard enough without the humidity of a July day in Georgia, not to mention all the hardware weighing down my coat—medals, ribbons, badges, and my Navy SEAL Trident.

“I need a beer.” Harris, my middle brother, dropped his dress jacket—courtesy of the U.S. Marines—onto the back of a kitchen chair and headed for the refrigerator.

“Grab me one too.” Lee, the youngest at twenty-eight, stretched his arms over his head. He’d lost his top, Army issue, the second they got home.

Standing in wet undershirts, uniform pants, belts, and shiny shoes, none of us would pass inspection, but only Harris had to worry about returning to service in thirty days. Lee and I had each retired recently, though for very different reasons.

“Chance?” Harris held up two bottles by their long necks and arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, might as well.” I sighed, my skin rippling at the central air conditioning pumping through the vents. It dried the sweat off my biceps and sent a chill down my spine.

Harris nudged the door shut with his foot and thrust the bottles at me and Lee, then twisted the cap off the one he kept for himself. “To Dad.” He lifted his beer. “May he finally be at peace.”

I tilted my bottle toward my brothers, then took a long, fortifying drink. Dad’s funeral had been sad, but not unexpected. Ray McCallister had fought a hard battle with liver cancer, but he’d never stood a chance. Twenty years of hard drinking had given the cancer one hell of a head start. It had run through his body like a forest fire, burned him hollow, and left just a shell.

I set my beer aside, no longer thirsty. I was an orphan now. An orphan at thirty. It all felt too soon. It had happened too fast, three months from the news to that sweaty graveside. Dad had still sounded fine when we’d talked back in May. By June, he’d gone hoarse, his voice abruptly an old man’s. I had barely gotten home in time to say goodbye. I’d been granted retirement on July ninth and buried my father on the twenty-third. I’d only been home a week when he died.

I watched Harris down his beer and wince through the brain freeze. Harris had always been closest to our father, but I had done my best to be there for our dad before he dropped into a coma. I’d read to him, filled him in on my life, sat at his bedside into the night. He’d barely been able to speak, and I wasn’t sure how much he’d really been able to hear, much less understand. Sometimes he seemed agitated, as if there was something he wanted to tell me—but the words never quite came. Maybe he’d been trying to fall back into our old pattern of arguments and accusations. Or maybe he’d wanted to apologize for them. Who could say, really? But in the end, I thought we’d found peace.

“Peaceful” wasn’t how I’d describe the time after his passing, but I’d gotten through it, especially once my brothers had shown up to help. I just wished we weren’t so versed in planning funerals. Coordinating my mother’s had caused a deep scar, left me bereft, and filled with resentment. I’d been just sixteen, and I’d felt so alone. But that was all finally behind me.

Pivoting, I left the kitchen and wandered into the living room. The small, three-bedroom ranch house wasn’t fancy, but it was solid. Dad had been quite a handyman, and he’d kept the place in good repair. The appliances were dated, and the furniture was a little faded, but it was still comfortable enough, even if it felt weird to be home. Peering out the bay window behind a pillow-style couch, I grunted at how tall the grass had grown in the front yard.

“I mowed last Friday.” I raised my voice to be heard over my brothers dissecting the attendance at the graveside service. “You two can fight over who’s tackling the lawn next.”

“Hey, Lee.” Harris bounded by me and crossed to the fireplace. “Remember this?” He plucked an old Polaroid camera from behind Lee’s 8-by10 high school graduation photo on top of the stained-wood mantel.

Deep creases formed between Lee’s brows, and he rubbed his right eye, the same eye that had earned him a medical discharge after a stray fleck of shrapnel damaged his vision. As a decorated sniper for the Army Rangers, that had been the kiss of death for his career, given that Lee had refused to start over in another specialization.

“You never went anywhere without that thing.” I glanced at Lee. “So annoying.”

Harris chuckled. “You used to boast about becoming a world-famous photographer.”

“Guess the joke’s on me.” Lee chugged the rest of his beer in one go, and I felt bad. I needed to figure out a way to reach my brother before this bitter, restless man fully replaced the smartass I’d grown up with. The kid who loved pranks and practical jokes.

I strolled down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “You may have been irritating—man, you drove me nuts, actually—but you did get some great shots.” I pointed at a Polaroid tucked between the glass and frame of my parents’ wedding portrait.

Harris and Lee crowded in to admire the photo of our father holding a bag of boiled peanuts, caught mid-shock when he walked into the house for his surprise birthday party.

“Oh, man.” Harris cracked up. “Look at his face. I forgot about that day.”

“But this one’s my favorite.” I plucked a Polaroid out of another frame. The entire family—three brothers and both parents—stood in front of the house on a sunny day only months before our mother got sick. “I still can’t believe you talked Mrs. Mabry into taking this.” Our old neighbor, seventy-one at the time, had always complained about everything and everyone.

Lee smirked and for a moment, his amber-brown eyes twinkled like they used to. “That old bird was easy to figure out. The second I promised to scoop all the poop out of her yard and dump it on Pete Walsh’s porch, she was putty in my hands.”

A bark of laughter erupted from my throat. That damn dog had been a menace, and Pete had deserved what he got. Replacing the photo, I peered up the hall, then back toward the living room. “Can either of you picture living here anymore?”

Tension leached the small bit of levity from the room. Our father had worked two jobs in an effort to keep a roof over our heads and our mother’s medical bills from consuming him. He hadn’t been able to save anything extra to pass down, so he’d only left the three of us the house as our inheritance.

“I think we should sell it,” Lee announced, turning away and tromping down the hall.

“You don’t want to stay now that you’re out?” I asked, following behind.

Lee paused in the living room. “Are you saying you want to stay, now you’re out, too? You think Springwell is going to welcome you with open arms?”

A muscle ticked in my jaw. For most of my teenage years, our hometown of Springwell, Georgia, had not been kind to me. Small towns had long memories, and no transgression was ever truly forgiven or forgotten. I had managed to earn myself a reputation as a fighter—not just a fighter, but a bully, no less. Even now, the idea had me boiling with resentment. I hadn’t started those fights, but damn right, I’d ended them. That was what strength meant—standing up for the weak. Cutting the real bullies back down to size. That meant I’d settled a lot of situations with my fists. But what else could I have done? I’d just been a kid.

Could’ve told someone. Gotten an adult to help.

I could’ve…but I hadn’t. Maybe on some level, it had felt good, taking out my anger on some two-bit bully. After the way I’d lost Mom, and basically lost Dad with the man checking out like he had, I’d been carrying more than my share of rage. Rage that had needed to be vented somehow, on someone.

Thankfully, twelve years in the Navy—with eight of them as a SEAL—had given me an outlet for that rage until I no longer had to channel it into aggression. The type of bond I had formed with my teammates had given me the emotional support I hadn’t realized I needed until my confidence grew with each successful mission, and the vise squeezing my chest disappeared.

“You’re probably right,” I said, snapping back to the present. “This town’s going to have the same opinion of me as before.” I drove my fingers through my sweat-slick hair. “I can’t say I want to stay, but I didn’t exactly have enough time to figure out what comes next when I retired. Dad was barely functional before I even landed, and I haven’t had time to focus on anything else.” I eyed my brothers. “Harris only has bereavement leave, but what about you, Lee? What are you going to do now?”

Lee sneered. “I doubt Springwell has a need for a useless sniper in SWAT—not that we’re big enough to even have a dedicated unit.” He swished his hand over his high-and-tight, shorn head. “Nothing’s holding me here, but I have no clue where to go.”

“You’re not useless,” Harris snapped, rounding on Lee. “You’ve still got skills no matter what the Army says.”

“Agreed.” I jabbed a finger at him. Lee’s unit had dubbed him “Puma” for his eye color, and for the way he hunted like a cat—a solitary killer, stealthy and smooth, stalking his target with patience and strategy. “Your vision may not meet Ranger qualifications anymore, but I’d bet my life if I slapped a rifle in your hands, you’d nail the center of a bull’s eye with ease.”

Lee’s chin jutted mulishly, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he sauntered into the kitchen and opened the door to the single-car garage. “How’s this coming?”

Getting the message to back off, I stepped into the sweltering garage. My taut muscles loosened at the welcome sight before me. A black 1967 Ford Shelby Mustang sat with its hood propped up, facing the garage door. My father had found the classic muscle car at an auction years ago, but he’d never gotten it running. The body was in pristine condition, but whoever owned it before didn’t know jack about engines. To be fair, our dad hadn’t had much of a clue either. In our family, I was the only one who really knew what I was doing under a hood.

“I think I might be close to getting it started.” I fingered the blanket I had spread along the fender to keep it from getting dinged by tools or parts. Working on the car had given me a modicum of peace the past week. A much-needed outlet after watching my father die, then all the fallout of dealing with notifying banks, companies, insurance, etcetera while planning the funeral. Going through all of Dad’s old papers was going to be another headache and a half. I’d pulled out some boxes, thinking I’d start sorting through them, but I hadn’t found the motivation to get very far. The garage was where I spent as much time as I could.

“In fact, the carburetor I ordered should be in today at the shop.” I picked up a wrench off the multi-colored quilt. “I took a risk and ordered a much cheaper one that’s supposed to be equivalent to the original Holley. Not ideal, but I wanted to keep my savings instead of blowing it on original parts.”

“The shop, huh?” Harris asked, his voice sing-songy.

I stiffened.

“Would this be the same garage where your ex-girlfriend works?” Lee said, piling on.

The wrench bit into my palm.

“Lee, do you remember him always coming home late with grease on his hands?” Harris kept going with a laugh. “I swear, he lived more at that shop than here.” My brother paused just behind me. “You gonna start hanging around there again like the good ol’ days? Showing up early with shakes from the diner?”

“Oh, yeah, those thick shakes. What was it she liked again? Chocolate? Strawberry?”

“Half-’n-half strawberry and vanilla.” Harris was full-on grinning, like a smug Cheshire cat.

I tossed the wrench on the blanket and crossed my arms against the memories trying to pull me under. “Nope,” I muttered through a tight throat. “I stopped in once and spoke to a mechanic named Vince, who didn’t bother to share his milkshake preference. He offered to order parts through the garage so I can use their discount with their distributor.” I glanced at my watch. “I should probably get over there if I want to catch him before he gets off his shift.” And with any luck, I’d miss… her .

“Take a shower before you leave,” Lee shot at my retreating back. “I bet Vince likes it when you smell pretty.”

I thought about not showering, just to spite Lee. But I did kind of stink, and that wouldn’t do. A sailor was always shipshape and squared away, and that was why I was showering—definitely not for any other reason. That was why I soaped twice, went heavy on the Speed Stick, and picked out a shirt that hugged my pecs tight. Not because I was heading into her territory. Nothing to do with potentially seeing her again after twelve years. I marched down Main Street, strong, resolute. I wasn’t thinking about Mandy, not at all. Hadn’t thought of her in years, and I wasn’t about to start n?—

Oh, Jesus . Just one glimpse and I ground to a halt. I swallowed hard, floored by the same gut-punching, mind-numbing reaction I’d had the first time I saw her, fifteen years ago.

Mine.

My chest tightened as I stared across the street. She was talking to someone, some guy in a suit, the two of them framed in the wide garage door. Twelve years fell away, and I was back in high school with the same shake in each hand, the same thumping of my heart in my chest that I’d experienced then. She’d changed, but she hadn’t. Her thick, russet curls still framed her round face. Her skin was still milky and charmingly freckled. But time and hard work had made her stronger, filled out the lines of her arms and thighs into something stronger and more toned. Turned her from a princess to an Amazon queen.

Somehow, impossibly, she’d grown even more stunning.

I swallowed, but I found I couldn’t look away. Her charcoal coveralls hung loose on her body, but the drape of the material revealed mouth-watering curves—those same luscious curves I used to lick and suckle for hours. A vision ran, unbidden, through my head. A memory so powerful, it made my mouth water—the time I’d spilled a milkshake on her new jeans. Then she’d splashed hers on me, and I’d done the same, and it’d run down her arm. I’d reached out to thumb it off, then on impulse, I’d licked it, and her giddy laughter had shivered into a moan. We’d lost our virginities that night, in the garage, to each other. I’d gripped those out-of-control curls as she swallowed me deep. Afterward, we’d lain on the roof of her car, and talked about everything and nothing at all. It had been perfect, and so had she.

Amanda “Mandy” Loomis. The love of my life. The woman I thought I’d marry…until she’d ripped my heart out right before I left for the Navy.

The woman I hadn’t seen or spoken to since that day.