Matthew (HC Heroes #16)

Chapter One

I f the Navy handed out medals for civilian vegetable combat, Matthew Walker would’ve earned three before lunch.

Maybe four, if you counted the grappling match with the bag of organic garden soil that had exploded across his boots like a tactical dust bomb.

He swiped a smear of dirt from his forehead and stared down the row of vegetable trays as if they’d personally wronged him. “I did not survive seventeen years of active duty to be taken out by zucchini.”

“Quit talking to the squash,” came the dry voice beside him.

Matthew turned his head and squinted at his friend, Bennett. “I’m just saying, this one’s giving me attitude.”

Bennett didn’t reply, mostly because he never did. The man could break a stare into weaponized silence, which made him intimidating to strangers and low-key entertaining to anyone with the guts to poke him.

Matthew was a chronic poker. It was part of his DNA.

They hadn’t served in the same branch—he was Navy SEAL, Bennett was Delta Force—but their paths had crossed in enough hellholes to earn solid respect.

Now, both civilians and back on U.S. soil, they worked at Eagle Security & Investigations, a veteran-run firm tucked away here in Harland County, Texas.

Most of the crew were former SEALs or Delta men.

Matthew liked to think of himself as the glue guy.

Or the comic relief, depending on the mission.

Currently, the mission was Operation Garden Chaos, courtesy of Annie Winslow and her unholy alliance of guilt, baked goods, and strategic injury.

Her small Craftsman-style cottage sat a block off Main, with sun-bleached siding, hurricane shutters, and the kind of front porch that practically demanded iced tea and unsolicited advice.

But the real action was out back, where a narrow porch overlooked raised garden beds, weathered steppingstones, and their dirt-streaked assignment.

Annie rested in her command chair with iced tea in hand, sandals on her feet, and absolutely no shame about supervising two combat-trained men as if she ran a tactical unit. “I’ve seen toddlers with plastic shovels move faster.”

“Three beds, Matthew,” Bennett said, dropping another tray of herbs beside him. “You’re not even done with one.”

He snorted. “I thought we were just dropping these off. No one said anything about manual labor.”

“You said you had a free morning.”

“I said I had coffee and no plans,” Matthew shot back. “That’s not the same as agreeing to unpaid horticultural hell.”

He was supposed to be off today. No missions. No briefings. No gear checks at ESI, the private firm run by Levi “Mac” McCall, former Delta and the only man alive who could wrangle a crew of retired military operatives into working as a team instead of a demolition crew.

Coffee, quiet…and apparently, now, planting for the queen of tactical gardening.

Hell, the last thing he’d planted was a rose bush for his mom nearly seventeen years ago. She’d cried, hugged him, and called him her “Tough guy with a soft heart.”

He’d shipped off to BUDs training a week later.

Now here he was, elbows-deep in thyme and trauma with no backup and a grumpy Delta Force legend for a teammate.

Annie raised her glass. “Hush your complaining. My poor wrists are still recovering from surgery, and I’m emotionally exhausted from watching you two fumble through my herb layout.

” She sighed. “Besides, you both know Laurel won’t let me lift more than a glass of tea, and she certainly wouldn’t allow me to dig anything. ”

True. Even though her doctor had cleared her after carpal tunnel surgery on both wrists, her niece still coddled her.

Matthew nodded. Bennett grunted.

Laurel wasn’t only Annie’s niece, she was also Bennett’s better half and the reason they were both knee-deep in fertilizer. She was probably alphabetizing steamy paperbacks at her new bookstore while they were sweating through garden bed boot camp.

Annie, meanwhile, was pushing seventy, stood barely five feet tall, and somehow still managed to boss them both around with the precision of a four-star general. She’d run Annie’s Diner for decades, outlived her husband of thirty-seven years, and hadn’t slowed down since.

Her gray hair was swept up in a bun, gold hoop earrings flashing in the sun, and her eyes were sharp enough to slice through nonsense at twenty paces.

She deserved their respect and just enough teasing to keep things interesting.

Matthew wiped sweat from his brow. “You sure this isn’t a front to get out of planting season?”

Annie’s lips curled into something far too pleased. “Sweetheart, I could organize a battle with a clipboard and a church bulletin. You really think I can’t get someone else to plant my tomatoes?”

Bennett grunted again.

Matthew straightened and exhaled. “Alright, General. What’s next?”

He couldn’t resist mocking her, and judging by the smirk on her lips, she didn’t mind one bit.

“We’re short two trays of Thai basil,” Annie said. “I called over to Morgan Creek Nursery when I realized I didn’t grab enough—Callie Morgan runs the place. I already paid for them. Tell her it’s for me. She’ll know what you’re there for.”

He squinted at her over the tray of herbs. “Can’t Bennett go? He has the intimidation thing down. People probably hand him stuff just to get him to leave.”

“Nope. Bennett’s staying here to carry my tea when I decide I’m bored.”

“She’s not joking,” Bennett muttered, already returning to the zucchini trench.

Matthew groaned, and after receiving vague directions, headed for his truck, brushing dirt off his shirt. “Civilian life,” he muttered under his breath. “They said it’d be peaceful. Nobody mentioned I’d be bossed around by a demure woman with a basil obsession and a Napoleon complex.”

The truck’s AC blasted the moment he turned the key, and after a few seconds, cool air hit like salvation as he dropped into the driver’s seat. Matthew let his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh.

So much for a quiet day off.

It was turning into a blank page of surprises, some of it interesting, some of it not so much.

With a shrug, he snagged his sunglasses off the passenger seat and slid them on before shifting into gear.

The roads through Harland were wide, sun-warmed, and strangely calming. The kind of calm that given the chance, could reach all the way in.

He liked it here, though he hadn’t been in town long. Harland had its quirks, like a diner owner who could weaponize charm and casseroles, but it also had good people. Steady work. Quiet evenings.

And ghosts he hadn’t expected.

His fingers tightened on the wheel.

It wasn’t the work he missed from his old life, it was the clarity. The structure. The way danger had a shape and rules and a chain of command. When that chain snapped—when trust broke down and no one owned the fallout—it stuck with you.

He shook off the thought.

A hand-painted sign for Morgan Creek Nursery came into view at the edge of town, claiming it was four miles north. It was large, tidy, and easy to read, as per Annie’s words.

Matthew turned left off Main, easing onto a two-lane road that connected an unofficial line between town and country. The kind of road that made you check your gas gauge and wonder if GPS would lose interest halfway through.

The first stretch still had life—an engine repair shop with two lifted trucks out front, a row of tidy homes with porch swings and geraniums, and a Tractor Supply store doing brisk business, judging by the loaded flatbeds.

A few blocks in, the pace shifted. The houses grew farther apart.

A weathered antiques shop sat empty, its OPEN sign dangling sideways as if it’d finally given up.

A barn leaned into a field behind a Wood for Sale sign, and a produce stand was manned by a teenager in a straw hat who gave him a lazy wave beneath a hand-painted banner: Fisher Farm Fresh – Tomatoes Today!

By the time Matthew spotted the larger, clearer Morgan Creek Nursery sign up ahead, it felt as if he’d driven out of town entirely.

Which, he figured, was probably the point.

White fencing framed the property, with rows of neatly spaced greenhouses, flower beds, and gravel walkways beyond it.

Clean.

Efficient.

Someone cared about this place.

He pulled into the gravel lot, rolled to a stop beside a rusty pickup, and stepped out into a soft wave of heat and floral-scented air.

It was peaceful.

Which meant something was about to go sideways.

He was halfway to the main building, ducking under a trellis draped in climbing roses when the full scope of the place came into view.

The nursery was bigger than he’d expected.

Neat rows of greenhouses fanned out behind a modest shop building, the kind with a covered porch and a bell over the door.

He spotted a kid answering phones on the side patio, a woman behind the register juggling customers, and two guys in work shirts talking with a man near mounds of mulch.

There were also trees, stone, and pavers. It was a landscaper’s paradise.

Efficient. Busy. And clearly well-run.

Compared to Annie’s chaotic backyard herb mission, this was practically a military operation, and he respected that. Every row was straight, every label visible, every plant thriving as if it knew better than to disappoint the woman in charge.

Matthew hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this level of dialed-in perfection. Whoever ran this place didn’t just grow things, she commanded them.

Then a voice snapped through the air, “You’re not my regular delivery guy.”

Matthew stopped and slowly turned around.

And there she was. Callie Morgan, no doubt.

Her hands were on her hips and her boots were planted in a patch of gravel as if she owned the earth under it and dared someone to disagree.

Curiosity and intrigue twisted his quick once-over into a more thorough assessment.

Pretty. Very pretty.

Average height, but she stood like she was taller. A sun-faded ball cap sat low over a medium-length brown ponytail. Her tank top was streaked with dirt, clinging in places that immediately tried to short-circuit his focus—most notably across a chest that didn’t need help grabbing attention.

And her skin? Damn .

Sun-kissed and glowing with the kind of quiet power that made a man think goddess of agriculture …right up until she opened her mouth and a drill sergeant came out.

“What do you want?”

Matthew blinked.

Then grinned.

Well, hell, now he was even more intrigued.

He cocked his head. “I’m here on behalf of a woman with recuperating wrists and a taste for basil,” he replied, letting his voice dip into friendly. “Annie Winslow. She sent me to retrieve two trays of Thai basil. I come in peace.”

Callie narrowed her eyes, and for one sharp second, he could practically hear her flipping through an internal Rolodex of men she didn’t have time for.

He probably topped the list.

“You’re not from Mike’s Landscaping,” she said slowly.

“Nope.”

“You don’t work for the county, either.”

“Nope again.”

She folded her arms. “You don’t look like you know what Thai basil is.”

“Technically, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m told it has angry leaves and a superiority complex.”

That earned the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile, more like her face considered the idea and rejected it on principle.

His kind of woman.

This was fun.

He stepped forward, unthreatening, casual. “Matthew Walker. I work at ESI, but I’m currently on garden patrol.”

She studied him as if deciding whether or not to spray him with a hose.

“Callie Morgan,” she said at last.

As he’d assumed. The name fit her. Clear, grounded, no fluff.

He noticed things, because that’s what his brain was trained to do. The small scab on her knuckle. The faint tan line from where her watch usually sat. The natural curve of her mouth that looked as if it didn’t smile often, but when it did, it probably made grown men forget their names.

And the eyes.

They were a warm brown that didn’t quite match her clipped tone. Quiet fire in them. She didn’t just own this land, she belonged to it.

During his appraisal, she was sizing him up with the precision of someone who didn’t trust easily, and the thought that maybe she had good reason not to didn’t sit well with him.

His gut twinged. Had someone burned her in the past?

Idiot.

“I’ve got the order in the back greenhouse,” she said finally. “Follow me, and don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, falling into step behind her.

In truth, he couldn’t stop watching her. Not because of the way she moved—though, okay, that didn’t hurt—but because something about her set off the same part of his brain that used to wake up when things felt slightly out of sync.

He shoved the thought away.

He was here for herbs.

That was all.

And if the woman leading him through the greenhouse smelled of honeysuckle and trouble, well…he’d been in worse situations.

Usually with more explosions.