Solitary Man

ALONE…

After surviving a deadly Taliban attack on his unit, Sgt. Ryder Bronson returns home to fulfill a promise—to keep his dead friend’s wife safe from a scandal so dark that it threatens her life. But protecting her from a distance is essential. To be in close contact with Brenna McMurtrey means fighting the guilt and desire waiting to destroy him. Being honest with her would reveal more than his heart can bear.

TOGETHER

Over a year after the death of her husband, Brenna is finally ready to move on. Yet, just as she begins to push past the grief and start living again, danger rises at every turn. Several close calls prove she is the target of a sinister scheme. Nowhere is safe, especially not home. Her next-door neighbor appears to be watching her, a handsome if bad-tempered stranger who seems everywhere at once—and whose gray eyes hold an ocean of tragedy. Even if he is capable of protecting her, a part of Brenna will still be in jeopardy. The part that believes she can never love again.

SOLITARY MAN

Diane Benefiel

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

SOLITARY MAN

Copyright © 2016 Diane Benefiel

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-944262-39-6

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

To Kevin, Katie, and Ethan. Home is where the heart is.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

About the Author

SOLITARY MAN

Prologue

A bullet whizzed past his head and Ryder dove behind the boulder, pushing the wounded Tex ahead of him. Where the hell was Kenny?

Searching for a contraband shipment of explosives, they’d been driving down a dusty dirt road winding through olive groves. He’d heard the laughing and shouting of kids playing in the canal, splashing each other. Exiting their vehicle, his squad had fanned out, looking for anything out of place. Then gunfire pierced the calm and all hell had broken loose. A sharp rat-a-tat-tat sounded from AK-47s echoing through the sunny afternoon. The dull thud of bullets striking the dirt. The kids scattered, all too used to the sound of gunfire. Tex had taken one in the leg but managed to get to shelter. The rest of his men had dived for the other side of the road. All except Ken.

Ryder stuck his head up from behind a boulder, spotted Ken, and ducked back again. Shit! He was down, about ten yards from the cover offered by the big rocks.

Sarge, I radioed for support! Lopez yelled to him from across the road, voice urgent.

The rest of the men clustered behind a stone wall and could defend their position. Taliban fire came from across the narrow valley and had them pinned down. Ryder pulled off his pack, found the medical supplies, and turned to Tex to apply a quick pressure bandage to his injured leg. He was bleeding but not spurting. The bullet hadn’t nicked an artery.

Tex had lost his M4 so Ryder shoved his own rifle into the man’s hands. Cover me, I’m going after Ken.

Lopez! Johnson! he called across the dirt road. Give me cover fire! He yelled the order and, with his men firing a barrage, sprinted across the barren soil.

He didn’t stop to see if Ken was alive. Grabbing him by the straps of his body armor, he hauled him toward shelter. He ignored the sounds of machine-gun fire, the bullets whizzing past. Something slammed into his shoulder just before he reached the rocks and dragged Ken to safety. Ryder rolled him onto his back and assessed the wounds. Blood oozed from his chest. It looked like a bullet had gotten past the body armor near his armpit and penetrated between two ribs.

Tex scooted over. Chest wounds are bad, Sarge. He tore open a package of Combat Gauze and handed it to Ryder.

You always do state the obvious, Ryder muttered and wished like hell he’d let Ken stay behind when he’d asked. That he hadn’t volunteered his platoon for this mission. He unstrapped the armor and ripped open Ken’s shirt to expose the injury. Even as his heart sank, he took the first roll and applied it to the chest wound. He flexed his left hand against a feeling of numbness. Tex, hold this, keep the pressure on.

It’s bad, isn’t it? Ken’s voice was barely a whisper, hard to hear over the continuing gunfire. Ryder applied another roll of Combat Gauze, praying its infusion of QuikClot would staunch the flow of blood. He glanced at his friend’s face. Behind the brown eyes dulled with pain, he could see the struggle to stay conscious. Sarge.

Save your strength, brother. The air shook with the roar of F-15s strafing the hillside. He applied a pressure bandage to keep the gauze in place. The whump-whump of approaching Chinooks signaled help on the way. Thank God. Hold on, Ken. Choppers are coming. You’re getting out of here. The hot sun beat mercilessly and sweat dripped from under his helmet as he bent over the wounded man.

Listen to me. Ken struggled for breath, his voice raspy. If I don’t make it, I need you to do something.

He wanted to tell him to shut up, of course he’d make it. But they’d both seen too much to believe the bullshit. His left hand felt weak so he switched to his right to keep pressure on the chest wound. Name it.

Look after Brenna for me.

Ryder felt his heart jolt. I— He broke off. He didn’t know what he was going to say, what he could say. Because somehow, in the middle of this war-torn land, through videos and letters sent to her husband, Ryder had fallen for his best friend’s wife, a woman he’d never met. And never intended to meet, if he could help it.

Ken coughed, blood staining the spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth. There’s something going on at home, something I was involved in. I’m afraid she’s in trouble. He coughed again and too much blood leeched through the white bandage. I sent her something. Shouldn’t have. Puts her in danger.

Ryder peeked around the boulder. A chopper was landing, kicking up a huge plume of dust as an F-15 screamed overhead, strafing the hillside where the Taliban were holed up. The machine guns went quiet.

Ken grabbed his hand, grip weak. There’s something going on in the police department. Don’t trust anyone but Marco. They’re covering up a police shooting. I don’t want her caught up in it. He grimaced, teeth clenched in pain. Sarge, promise me.

Kenny, I’ll check on your wife.

Tell her I love her. That I’m sorry.

Ryder’s nod seemed to satisfy him because his grip slackened and he closed his eyes. The Chinook disgorged its crew and Lopez ran over to direct the medic. In seconds Ken was on a stretcher. Ryder hauled up Tex and braced an arm around him to get him onboard.

Get in, Sergeant, fast. We need to get out of here before those bastards regroup. The medic was all but shoving Ryder into the helicopter.

I’ll stay with my men.

Not with that shoulder, you won’t.

Ryder looked down and saw his shirt soaked in blood. In that moment, the dull pain registered. Well, fuck me.

Yeah. Captain Fisher is on the other chopper. He’ll get your boys back to camp. Now in.

Pushed into the helicopter, he slid onto a seat next to Tex moments before it lifted off. They ascended into the sky over olive trees and poppy fields, and the medic cut open his sleeve to begin cleaning the wound. The bullet had blasted a deep furrow through his left deltoid. Now that he was aware of it, it hurt like the devil. Ignoring the pain, he looked through a round window as farm fields swept past, cut by a ribbon of water, the lifeblood of the region. Sudden activity around Ken drew his attention. They’d placed an Ambu bag over his mouth and nose and a medic began pumping his chest. He watched, a hard knot in his stomach. The compressions continued even as they landed at Bagram.

Chapter One

Brenna McMurtrey was moving on. One year, five months, and three days of soul-rending grief and she was calling it quits. She had to. She simply could not be in that place any longer or she would never leave it. If she didn’t take charge of her life, she’d find herself back in that black hole of grief and never dig herself out. She pulled out of the school parking lot and onto the boulevard, heading for home. This evening she’d break the routine. Usually it was go home, make herself dinner, feed Finn—did anything say I’m in a rut more than a solitary woman eating dinner with her cat?—grade papers, go to bed. But today she was pulling those running shoes out of her closet. She had run cross-country in high school, kept it up through college and Kenny’s deployments, but then she’d stopped. One year, five months, and three days ago she’d picked up the shoes only to throw them back in the closet, and that had been that. For some reason, no more Kenny meant no more running. She forced herself to relax her grip on the steering wheel. Today that would change.

She turned left onto Oak Hill Road and frowned at the funny pull on the steering wheel. Maybe, hopefully, it was nothing. She slowed down a bit and followed the winding road away from town. The car, her smallish—and she’d like to think smart—SUV, seemed a little hard to steer. She should make it home okay, but taking the vehicle to a mechanic was suddenly on her Saturday to-do list. She’d make herself do it. No more letting important things get by her where they stacked up to enormous and daunting proportions.

The drive soothed her as it often did. The road wound through oak-dotted hills with the creek to the right, its course marked by tall cottonwoods and sycamores. She loved the town and the home they had bought. She and Kenny had been raised here and had both graduated from the high school where she taught; they’d planned to spend the rest of their lives here. The medium-size community of Bridgewater nestled along the central coast of California had retained its old downtown and was now a tourist destination. They’d bought a little cottage far enough outside the city limits that it had the feel of living in the country. It was where they were supposed to start a family, to grow old together. But someone had torn up that script.

That kind of thinking only allowed depression to slink its way in again so she concentrated on the scenery. Along the creek the deciduous trees had lost most of their leaves when the weather had turned cool. Which made her realize she’d left her coat in her classroom and the sun was going down. It didn’t matter. Five minutes and she’d be home.

She rounded another turn and this time the steering was seriously sluggish. Crap. Whatever was wrong wouldn’t wait for the shop. Brenna eased over to the dirt shoulder, pulled to a stop, and stepped out of the car into the chilly breeze. And immediately noticed the flat tire. It hadn’t been flat when she’d left school but there it was, looking like the rim was sitting on a rubber pancake. Fantastic. Super. Her shoulders slumped. Well, Kenny had taught her how to change a tire before he’d deployed, so now she’d have a chance to practice the skill.

She opened the back hatch and got to work, first placing the jack on the ground next to the lug wrench. Next, the tire. When she’d bought the car, she’d liked that it had a full-size spare. Now she stared at the big tire nestled in the wheel well and realized lifting it out would be a challenge. Regretting choosing a skirt and pumps that day, she tugged and pulled and managed to get the spare up to the edge of the bumper.

A vehicle pulled up behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder. Brenna heaved a gusty sigh. Great. Just great. Grumpy Neighbor had to be driving by. Why couldn’t he simply ignore the woman changing the flat? Most people would. But no, Grumpy Neighbor had to stop and now she’d have to talk to him. And she refused to be embarrassed over their first meeting the previous weekend—it hadn’t been her fault.

The door of the charcoal gray pickup opened and one long jean-clad leg emerged, then the other. He growled stay to the two dogs in the cab and shut the door.

Brenna gave a mighty tug on the tire while the sound of gravel crunching under boots came closer. The tire shifted so now all she needed to do was tilt it over the bumper to slide it to the ground.

I’ll get that for you.

She decided his voice didn’t really sound like a growl, but seemed to vibrate from somewhere deep inside.

I’ve got it, thanks. She tipped the tire, jumping back quickly when it bounced on the ground and started to roll.

He reached around her to steady the tire and keep it from heading for the creek. I’ll change the tire.

Brenna counted slowly to ten and told herself not to overreact. She was even tempered, she really was. But something about this guy got her back up. He’d been downright rude since moving in, hence the Grumpy Neighbor title. She turned to face him. Thanks, but my car, my problem. I’ll do it.

She’d never been this close to him, at least not face-to-face. Not close enough to notice that besides unruly black hair that hadn’t seen a barber in months, he had eyes of slate gray, unrelieved by even a hint of blue. Those eyes looked at her with a steady watchfulness she found unsettling, not only because of their intensity but because, just for a second, she thought she’d recognized him from somewhere, like maybe they’d met but long ago. He broke eye contact and rolled the tire around her to rest it against the car by the flat. Crossing her arms in front of her for warmth, she followed him.

Look, Mr.— She broke off. I don’t even know your name. She raised her brows expectantly.

Ry.

Doubtful, she said, Okay, Mr. Rye. I appreciate your offer to help, but I can change the tire. He didn’t respond, just looked at her with that cool gray stare. And I’m Brenna McMurtrey.

I know who you are.

Oh. Well, fine. Brilliant, she thought. Could she sound any more inane? She grabbed the tire iron and, very aware the man was scrutinizing her every move, went to work on the lug nuts. They loosened easily enough, all except the last one. The damn thing must have been set with two-ton epoxy because it wouldn’t budge. She put muscle into it, and when that didn’t work, set the wrench so she could bounce on it with her foot.

Jesus Christ, let me do it before you hurt yourself. Big hands gripped her shoulders and moved her to the side.

Look, Mr. Rye, I can—

You’re a piece of work, you know that? And Ry’s my first name, as in short for Ryder.

What does that even mean, I’m a ‘piece of work’? I get that it’s an insult, which is totally unnecessary by the way, but—

She broke off when, with hardly any effort, he turned the wrench and loosened the nut. She hissed out a breath. I did that. It would have turned with my next try. When he didn’t say anything, she threw up her hands. Right. Whatever. She stooped to get the jack, placed it under the frame, and began turning the crank.

Wait. He shrugged out of a thick plaid jacket and shoved it into her hands. You might as well put this on before you freeze. He lay on the ground and stuck his head under the car, grunted and moved the jack.

I had it under the frame, and you need your jacket as much as I do.

Rather get my shirt dirty than a wool jacket. He spoke from under the car. And there’s a notch in the frame for the jack.

Which meant she hadn’t put it in the right spot. Damn. The wind picked up and after a furious inner debate, she gave in and slid on the jacket. It still held his body heat and felt deliciously warm, enough that she had to stifle a hum of pleasure. She bent to turn the crank but he beat her to it.

It’ll be quicker if you just let me do it.

Right. She fiddled with the ring on the chain around her neck, hating that her tone came out petulant. She had to admit he was much quicker than she would have been. And she didn’t know if she could have lifted the spare onto the hub once she’d wrangled off the flat. But she had roadside service and would have called for assistance if she hadn’t been able to manage.

Once he had the spare secured and the car lowered, he rolled the tire, looking intently at the tread.

What are you doing?

Looking for a nail or screw or something that would have caused it to go flat. Don’t see anything obvious.

Oh. Another inane comment. She had to clear her throat when he hooked one hand through the center of the rim and swung the tire easily into the back of the car. Okay, next time she’d definitely call for roadside service. There was no way she’d ever be able to get the tire into the car, and she didn’t want to have to rely on grumpy neighbors. Particularly well-muscled grumpy neighbors.

She sighed. She really needed to be kinder. He may be grumpy but he’d just changed her tire. And loaned her his jacket. Umm, thank you.

Take the tire to a shop in the morning. See if they can figure out why it failed and have it fixed.

I’ll do that. He stared without any change in expression. Oh, sorry. You want your jacket back.

She slipped it off and handed it to him and thought he hesitated, like he was going to say something but changed his mind, before he turned to his truck. At the door he called over to her. You go on. I’ll drive behind you to make sure you get home.

Brenna drove in the fading light, very aware of the headlights behind her. He lived on the property next to hers, and theirs were the last two of a half dozen houses on the road, all built in the 1940s. The houses were on large lots, some on an acre like hers, others on a couple of acres. She watched in her rearview mirror as Grumpy Neighbor—she paused, recalling her resolution to be kinder—as Ry turned onto his driveway about the time she turned into her hers.

Entering her house, she felt the familiar mixture of pleasure and sadness. Pleasure because the house was so pretty and the warmth of the hardwood floors, the mission-style oak furniture, the light sea green she’d painted the walls, all combined in a soothing combination. But also sadness because of the little reminders that half of her was dead and buried.

Finn, her brawny orange tabby, rubbed against her shins and demanded to be fed. She poured kibble, and when she found herself following her usual evening routine, she stopped and forced herself to bring back that earlier resolve. Changes would start today. The flat had made her too late for a run, but she had to do something. She went to the bookshelf and pulled out a