Chapter One
Petty Officer, Third Class Robert James Baxter silently reconsidered the decision to take leave at his mother’s house.
Not that he didn’t love her to pieces.
He did.
He’d needed a few days to clear his head and here was perfect.
Tracy, girlfriend number whatever, had announced he wasn’t worth the wait and broke up with him.
In the two weeks since, he’d been plagued by her lack of commitment and the assault on his dedication to the SEALs.
He’d been neglecting his mom over the last few weeks – since he’d started dating Tracy.
His mother was his one anchor. He owed her. She deserved better. But she hovered – a fact he was familiar with but not used to anymore.
“The Navy does feed me, Mom.” He snitched a piece of the roast, popped it into his mouth, and barely stopped a shout of ecstasy. Mom cooking versus Navy cooking – no contest.
Standing in the kitchen he’d grown up in was a coat that didn’t fit anymore.
But the leaf green color palate, the light oak furniture and floors, and the crystal vases along the kitchen window reminded him of their years of refuge in this house and the support and comfort here.
The hum of the new refrigerator was different.
The Branson’s house next door was empty and for sale.
The quiet had shifted, but all still felt the same.
She slapped at his fingers and missed. “Wait for a proper plate, son.”
“You do know I can get called at any time.” He turned on the kitchen faucet to wash his hands.
She tsked at him. “Yes, I do. But we will eat at a table like civilized people.” Yeah, the hand washing got silent approval.
He’d arrived in Pasadena early afternoon yesterday, the home of his junior high and high school years. Yeah, he’d struck out on the girlfriend front in high school, too, but somehow admitting that didn’t seem so bad now.
Last night, he’d taken his mother to dinner so she wouldn’t fuss, but all through the meal, he dodged questions about Tracy.
Today, his mom made him a full breakfast and now an elaborate dinner – his favorite.
She’d beaten him twice at Scrabble in their usual “Use Your Brain” challenge.
He’d hedged on Tracy questions as long as he could.
His mother’s black pants and fuchsia sleeveless blouse accentuated her slender, diminutive frame while the splashes on the white apron confirmed she cooked regularly.
Her graying blonde hair was pulled into a loose, stylish ponytail.
Her fingers were busy prepping their meal, but the mother in her didn’t miss a thing.
The gold wedding ring on her left hand flashed in the light, and her pink manicured nails and makeup assured him things were normal.
But her blue laser gaze confirmed his suspicions. Incoming.
“So, what happened with Tracy?” She didn’t sneak it in as a whisper or a concerned question. She flat out asked in the tone that expected an answer.
Honestly, he knew what happened. He’d understood it wouldn’t work from one hour into date one when he confessed he was a SEAL.
“She hated the job and hated how much I was gone. After more than a few ruined dates, she said this wasn’t for her. I think it was SEAL lore captivating her, but the reality was less appealing. I let her go.”
His mother frowned. He waited for advice. None came. She, of all people, understood.
They were close. She’d been his steady and unshakeable anchor since his father died. Even now, if he let himself linger in those moments, the loss hit hard.
But this life he’d chosen? It was going to test all of it – every memory, every promise, every relationship he had.
Near the end of the hellscape that was BUD/S, he’d come close to breaking. Not from the cold or the grind, but from the thought of her. Of what this would cost her. He’d stood there, staring at the bell, everything in him twisted with grief.
He hadn’t rung it. Had spent too many years prepping to succeed. He refused to fail, and he never told anyone how close he’d come.
Because the truth was, he couldn’t walk away from what he wanted, and she would never ask him to.
She hadn’t. Not once. She’d taken the hit, swallowed the fear, and backed him every step of the way.
God help him, he needed a girlfriend who understood what this life would take and stayed anyway.
“Good you let her go. Are you going to like your new team?” Matter of fact, change of subject. That he could deal with.
He’d recently finished a round of heavy training with still more to come. “I think so. I like my senior chief and the new lieutenant seems okay. I’ll do my best like I always do.”
Bess Baxter gave him the eye. “What’s his name?”
“Why? So you can find him and give him pointers on how to take care of me?” He laughed and went to set the table with the good dishes.
She spooned the mash potatoes into a serving bowl. “I never suspected you’d thrive in the Navy. I was wrong. I’m proud of you.”
“Ah, Mom. You’re gonna make me cry.” He grinned. “His name is Lieutenant Travis Hunter. His XO is Warrant Officer Warren Dugan, and our Senior Chief is Van Nguyen. Don’t tell anybody.” Finished placing the silverware, he went to the pantry for napkins.
His mom huffed out a laugh, then laid out the food. “I wouldn’t do that. I understand the security issues.” She opened her mouth to say more, but his phone vibrated.
He pulled the device from his pocket, hoping for the girlfriend. Christ! Why? Head slap. Senior Chief’s name popped. He swallowed a sigh. “I gotta take this, Mom.”
He went out on the wide back porch and answered. “Senior Chief? I’m here.
“Where the hell are you, Baxter?”
The man knew. He’d approved his leave. Bax stated the facts. “On a two-day pass, Chief. I’m in Pasadena visiting my mother.”
“Get yourself back.”
“Are we going out?”
“Don’t have info yet, but you’re too far away. If we go, we leave you behind. Is that what you want?”
“No, Chief. I’ll be there.” He clicked off and calculated how fast he could eat so it wouldn’t insult his mother. Better to insult his mother, though, than to let down the team. That wouldn’t fly.
He stepped back into the kitchen, the enticing aroma winding from memory to memory through his growing up years to now.
“You have to go.” His mother’s quiet voice always stopped him cold no matter what.
“I have time to eat, Mom. Let’s do it. Then, yes.
I have to go.” He’d planned to leave in the morning anyway, but the juicy goodness of the roast called to him.
He wasn’t leaving without eating. He was a SEAL.
He could do both things. Traffic was going to be a bitch.
He’d have to speed a bit, but he’d make it work.
He helped his mom into her chair and handed her a napkin. He drew in the scent of home cooking from his place across from her. “Smells good. Thanks, Mom.”
She grinned. “You better hurry. Can’t keep the Navy waiting or your team.”
He didn’t gobble, but he didn’t linger either. He did clear a full plate with a tad bit of seconds – the good china plates were smaller – and managed cake, too.
Bag packed and on the porch, he set aside his motorcycle helmet and hugged her where she stood with her arms wrapped around herself. “I love you, Ma.”
“I love you, Robert. Go do good.” She never said goodbye anymore. Not since his dad died.
“You’re the best.” He kissed her cheek, settled his helmet on his head, and fastened his bag on the back of his bike.
She waved at him from the front porch amid red and yellow flowerpots and a U.S. flag. He was sure she watched until he turned the corner.
Pasadena to San Diego in heavy traffic wasn’t his favorite – but two and a half hours later, he walked into the team’s workroom with all its sterile, functional beige and metal ways. The room smelled of gun oil and lemon floor cleaner.
“You’re back.” John “Carter” Evans greeted him from the cage next to his.
He swayed in a gray hammock stretched from corner to corner.
The man had All-American nailed with the blond hair, the blue eyes, the muscles, and the confident personality.
His well-known attention to detail and deft competence were currently hidden by his lazy sprawl.
“You waiting, too?”
“Yep.”
“What’s happening?’
“No word yet. Pull up a hammock.”
He nodded in agreement. But first, he zipped open his bag and pulled out a roast beef sandwich and his favorite chips. They’d been cushioned on the top of his gear, and he was more than ready for the snack. His mom was the best.
He opened the plastic, carefully separated the stuffed sandwich from the wrapper, and took a big bite. God, it went down good. All he needed now was a beer.
Carter eased upright in his hammock. “Dog, are you eating? And you didn’t bring me any?”
“Next time go home with me and meet my mom. You too can have leftovers.” He wasn’t sharing. He didn’t care if Carter outranked him. Mom love was mom love, and he’d play that card if he had to.
Carter eyed the sandwich, but dropped back into his cocoon. “Deal. Tell me next time you go.”
He didn’t know anything about Carter. Family, friends, hobbies, habits. But maybe by his next visit, he would know enough to be willing to share his mom’s cooking. Team, after all, was team.
No One Left Behind
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