RJ Scott - Test Upgrade

Love Is In The Title

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWjAmCCBGlPTWXVAa881Zth8nedexeVxHPrEfN935kcOZYpMgy4UvIEgEzVuD1kIpNsFtWCQj-v6_VOcqsyT60tjGgFKDbCTgPLFoY7gL2ZT1Jd9MdKjtw8c007HqxFf4tAy_9Xg1LT0/s1600/love_is_in_the_title.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWjAmCCBGlPTWXVAa881Zth8nedexeVxHPrEfN935kcOZYpMgy4UvIEgEzVuD1kIpNsFtWCQj-v6_VOcqsyT60tjGgFKDbCTgPLFoY7gL2ZT1Jd9MdKjtw8c007HqxFf4tAy_9Xg1LT0/s400/love_is_in_the_title.jpg" width="266" /></a> *Love Is In The Title* is my first foray into the world of Young Adult writing. I really enjoyed writing this story. It is a story of young love and the infinite possibilities of *Forever*. Love is Series Book 1 - Love is in the title Book 2 - <a href="http://rjscottauthor.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/love-is-in-hallways.html">Love is in the hallways</a> Book 3 - <a href="http://rjscottauthor.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/love-is-in-message.html">Love is in the message</a> <div>The Book Luke requests songs for the late show with Roscoe. Songs that mean something to him and the people around him. Lately he has been requesting songs for the boy he watches from afar. The gorgeous dark haired blue eyed captain of the football team, Cameron. One night, and the last request, and all of Luke's secrets spill. It seems though, that he isn't the only one with secrets. <div style="text-align: center;">oOo</div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div> Buy Links - eBook <a href="https://www.lovelanebooks.co.uk/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=11&products_id=11" target="_blank">Love Lane Books</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0053Y7DXK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0053Y7DXK&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-20" target="_blank">Amazon (US)</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0053Y7DXK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B0053Y7DXK&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-21" target="_blank">Amazon (UK)</a> | <a href="https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-loveisinthetitle-557238-145.html" target="_blank">All Romance</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/love-is-in-the-title-rj-scott/1113779778?ean=2940045055086" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/Books/love-is-in-the-title-love-is-book-1" target="_blank">Kobo</a> | <a href="https://ebookstore.sony.com/ebook/rj-scott/love-is-in-the-title-love-is-book-1/_/R-400000000000000861436" target="_blank">Sony</a> | <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/250314" target="_blank">Smashwords</a> Reviews <a href="http://top2bottomreviews.wordpress.com/2011/06/11/love-is-in-the-title-by-rj-scott/" target="_blank">Top to Bottom reviews</a> - 5/5 - "....RJ Scott has written an outstanding young adult story, one that can be appreciated by those who are right now living in the midst of those very trying times, as well as those who have lived through them and managed to somehow survive...." <a href="http://elisa-rolle.livejournal.com/1694371.html" target="_blank">Elisa Rolle reviews</a> - "....A sweet, short story about boy meets boy and boy falls in love for boy. Sweet as sweeter you cannot, since it’s all about a night, and these boys have only the time to kiss and promise forever to each other… how cute they are when they are so young and innocent… but then maybe they are wiser than those adults who don’t dare to love so strongly...." <a href="http://www.thcreviews.com/cgi-bin/vts/book_review.html?book_review_id=448" target="_blank">The Hope Chest reviews</a> - 5/5 - "....It was enchantingly romantic and reminded me of the days in my own youth when I was first falling in love. Love Is in the Title is the second story by RJ Scott that I have thoroughly enjoyed. It has earned a spot on my virtual keeper shelf and Ms. Scott a spot on my favorite authors list. I'm eagerly looking forward to spending more time with Luke and Cameron and further exploring RJ Scott's backlist...." Excerpt</div><div> Luke turned at the quiet hello, to face the boy of his dreams. Cameron had sat down on a stool at the counter in all his post-game glory. His hair was still damp from the shower, and his skin looked fresh and scrubbed clean. Luke tried hard not to swallow his tongue. “Hey,” he managed to reply. Then he searched desperately for something else to say. Something very witty and totally profound. Hell, at the moment, he would have been happy for something involving actual words. Cameron just sat there, looking expectantly at Luke, his eyebrows quirked and a half smile on his face. He seemed to finally decide Luke needed some help. “Can I get another Coke?” he asked simply, and Luke nodded mutely. He grabbed a fresh glass and filled it to the overflow point with the brown liquid. Smiling shyly, he slid it towards the boy of his fantasies. Why did his normally chatty, confident, some said over-confident, personality wither and die at one flash of Cameron’s beautiful blue eyes? An awkward silence fell over the three boys. Mitchell smirking, Cameron swallowing his fifth Coke of the night, and Luke standing there like a prize idiot. The same thing happened every time Luke was within speaking distance of Cameron. Luke was reaching the point where, whether Cameron was into boys or not, he was afraid he wasn’t ever going to be able to tell him his feelings anyway. “Nights like these are the ones when being team captain must suck, huh?” Luke finally blurted out, wincing as Cameron lowered his head and half nodded. “Yeah,” was all Cameron said, and Luke swallowed. Misery curled inside him at his stupid comment. How did he expect Cameron to feel after what had been another crushing loss for him and the rest of the team? For God’s sake, at what point had his scary brilliant brain decided it was okay to bring up the game? “I’m sorry,” Luke offered, watching as a small smile started on Cameron’s full lips and moved to light his eyes. “Well, I can for sure say it wasn’t your fault, Luke, since you weren’t even there.” Cameron offered. His smile broadened as he leaned forward into Luke’s space. “I ha…have to work,” Luke stuttered quickly. Cameron’s words took a moment to register; then he did a mental double take. Cameron had noticed he wasn’t at the game. “I know,” Cameron offered gently. “Maybe if you had been there, we mighta won?” Hang on a damn minute! Luke blinked. Those words in that tone sounded like— well, like flirting? <div style="text-align: center;">oOo</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div>Amazon Kindle <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Love-Title-ebook/dp/B0053Y7DXK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=A7B2F8DUJ88VZ&s=books&qid=1307179983&sr=8-1">HERE</a> and All Romance Ebooks <a href="http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-loveisinthetitle-557238-176.html">HERE</a> The website for my Young Adult writing is <a href="http://www.lovelanebooks.co.uk/">HERE</a></div>

Love Is In The Title

*Love Is In The Title* is my first foray into the world of Young Adult writing. I really enjoyed writing this story. It is a story of young ...

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Deefur Dog

<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRLZvlP95l-oSbu9ydxGLIaZsjAlaxvDNqJ_v_-nATbGEpR9cNsZ0meMGTzlbp3f5SG24EuZn0TE7ewM4ltZWbQ118vK22rlt9rkYj3Bxhh_dQY0h-k5k9ywUMO60M6pNmk3WSaXKRg/s1600/Deefur+Dog_RJ+Scott+6x9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRLZvlP95l-oSbu9ydxGLIaZsjAlaxvDNqJ_v_-nATbGEpR9cNsZ0meMGTzlbp3f5SG24EuZn0TE7ewM4ltZWbQ118vK22rlt9rkYj3Bxhh_dQY0h-k5k9ywUMO60M6pNmk3WSaXKRg/s320/Deefur+Dog_RJ+Scott+6x9.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>The Book For over a year, widowed Cameron Jackson has tried to juggle his business with childcare for his two year old daughter ...all while living with Deefur, a Great Dane who believes he rules the house. Nannies last a day, some don't even make it through the front door if the self-proclaimed ruler doesn't approve. Something has to give. Enter Jason Everson, nanny, teacher in training, apparent dog whisperer, and the only man who seems to make it past the initial scrutiny of the king. Can Jason help Cam put his house in order and help to heal his heart? Buy Links - eBook <a href="https://www.lovelanebooks.co.uk/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=6&products_id=35" target="_blank">Love Lane Books</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00D8LRTCK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00D8LRTCK&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-20" target="_blank">Amazon (US)</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00D8LRTCK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B00D8LRTCK&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-21" target="_blank">Amazon (UK)</a> | <a href="https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-deefurdog-1217013-149.html" target="_blank">All Romance</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/deefur-dog-rj-scott/1103809879?ean=2940044565067" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/deefur-dog-1" target="_blank">Kobo</a> | <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/307569" target="_blank">Smashwords</a> Buy Links - Print Book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1492298352/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1492298352&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-20" target="_blank">Amazon (US)</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1492298352/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=1492298352&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-21" target="_blank">Amazon (UK)</a> Reviews <a href="http://heartsonfirereviews.com/?p=3194">Hearts On Fire Reviews</a>  5/5  - RJ Scott has done it again with a feel good love story. Cameron Jackson is mourning his dead husband while trying to raise his two year old daughter, help run a business and get a grip on a mammoth dog with a mind of its own. Every nanny Cameron has hired was run off by Deefur the dog. Cameron finally makes up his mind to get rid of Deefur and runs into a hot Jason Everson who volunteers at the animal shelter. Jason is about to be evicted and needs a job badly to finish up his teaching degree. Jason also happens to be the perfect live in nanny. True to her romantic style of writing, RJ winds a tale of lost love and love found again. Don’t look for a lot of hot sex in this book because you won’t find it. Pick this book up if you’re looking for a feel good romantic story and you will not be disappointed in the least. Extract Chapter 1 "That's an impossible deadline," Cameron Jackson snapped, aware of the frustration and exhaustion running through his voice. So much for staying calm he thought. He shifted the phone to his other ear, balancing his fractious daughter on one hip and pushing his Great Dane away with his other. He tried to concentrate on what his brother and business partner said but found it damn near impossible above the noise of barking dog and over-tired sobbing daughter. "Dadda, wan' chocca," Emma whined, tears in her eyes, her small hands twisted in his hair, pulling just this side of painful. He wished one more time she would give in and have her nap. He needed an hour—only an hour—to make some decisions, to actually get some vital work done. "Shhh, baby, Daddy's on the phone," he muttered, trying to jiggle his hip without losing hold of the phone clamped between his shoulder and ear. "Cam?" "Not you, sorry—I have Emma here—" "I thought your new nanny—Elsa or something—y'know, the one with the mauve hair, was working well?" Cameron winced at the evidence of a mix of surprise and disappointment in Neal's words And therein lay the problem. Yet again, for another one of those highly reasonable reasons his nannies gave, he and his daughter had been left in the lurch. Elsa "Purple Rinse" Saunders, highly recommended by the agency as being able to manage the most fractured and difficult of households, had lasted exactly three days. "It was fine until Emma realized her mauve hair was actually a wig and pulled it off." The mousy brown curls thus revealed had looked okay to Cameron, but Elsa had pitched a fit. "Em gave it to Deefur who buried the damn thing in the garden." And Elsa had pitched another fit. He sighed, wishing he could see the humor even as Neal snorted down the phone. "She left yesterday." "Jeez, Cam, I can't believe you let Deefur anywhere near her. I thought we talked about this?" "I didn't let him. He got out of the boot room somehow." "What? He can open locked doors now?" "No, Neal," Cam had to rein his natural instinct for sarcasm, "he cannot open locked doors, I think the dog walker must have—I haven't got time for this. All you need to know is she said it 'was an impossible working environment' or some excuse—said she loved Emma but she couldn't…" his throat tightened with emotion, "and then she just left." The need to absolve himself of responsibility for her leaving asserted the urge for a fight. He needed to take his frustration out on someone, why not his baby brother? God knows since everything had hit the fan his brother had borne the brunt of his bad temper, on the job and off. Neal was used to it by now. "Could you not have—" God, Neal is insistent. "I didn't ask Emma to pull the wig off, or for Deefur to bury it." "Okay. Okay… devil's advocate here bro—is you being pissed at the world in general the reason why you think we can't meet this new deadline?" "No, it isn't the freaking reason!" Cameron swore. Immediate guilt filtered through him at cussing in front of his daughter, disappearing as soon as Deefur tried to push past him. He leaned harder against the dog to get him to stop rooting through the newly delivered groceries still sitting in piles by the door. A cabbage rolled tantalizingly around the floor just out of Deefur's reach. The sable haired Great Dane, easily the size of a small pony, pushed back, whining low in his throat, clearly wanting the damn cabbage. "Look, this is Adamson playing us off against the others. Neither of the rival bids they say they have, are gonna hit the target any more than we can. Certainly not without further off-plan changes, so whatever they threaten, they would be stupid to take the project elsewhere. We're two months into this. Why go out of state for a local job? It's not as if asking for bids from Seattle will be any better than what they get here in homegrown Tacoma." Cam winced at the analogy although not an exceptionally good one. Tacoma was not a small town with one set of traffic signals, but a freaking urban Washington city. The third largest in the state in fact; a port hub and located right on the Puget Sound, and an area teeming with local color and history. Cam and Neal both believed strongly when customers wanted new builds, they wanted people who lived in Tacoma and had a feel for the work that needed doing. Someone who could design and build sympathetically, not some fly-by-night construction company without heart. "Still, the threat is there, Cam, and to be fair…" Neal's voice tailed off. The brothers had been having this conversation on and off for months now and Cameron braced himself for the continued hurt. "I want to make this easier for you. Bro, I don't think your eye is on the ball here. Maybe we should re-evaluate things?" "Re-evaluate what? This is our company; you shouldn't have to shoulder all the responsibility." "Listen C, I said I wouldn't blame you if you needed a break from all this. You're grieving and you're going to make yourself ill." Neal's brutal honesty was delivered in the way only a family member could do. Cam appreciated how his brother had his back. Neal would, and could, run their thriving construction company on his own if push came to shove. "No. Just—no." The company grounded him, and he refused to give up the only thing appearing to be working right. Besides, Neal warranted more from Cameron on a personal level and certainly more in the business as co-owners. He deserved someone who pulled his weight, whatever the stresses and strains in his life. "Dadda…" Emma had a particular whine in her voice only a tired toddler could pull off to perfection. The right amount of cute mixed in with a teaspoon of impatience and a pint of attention-seeking monster. He shushed and jiggled her gently, allowing Deefur to move, because his leg alone could not hold back one hundred and forty pounds of dog intent on some great cabbage-eating adventure in the hallway. Half closing his eyes and shaking his head, he watched Deefur pounce on the cabbage with all the agility of a ten-week-old puppy, wide jaws closing around the vegetable with ease. Bang goes vegetables for dinner. Cam sighed. Neal continued talking, only now he had moved on to super-sympathetic-brother speak which Cam hated. "It's not been long—" Cameron reacted instantly. "Nearly two years, Neal, I'm fine." He wanted to stop this train of conversation at the source, not prepared, yet again, to go through all the whys and wherefores of his being a widower. "You need a nanny, Cam. You can't keep letting them slip through your fingers." "I didn't let her," he huffed irritated. Was Neal not listening here? "She hated Deefur, she refused to feed Emma fruit yogurt, and didn't approve of my lifestyle," he listed her faults quickly, shushing Emma when his raised voice started her whimpering into his neck. "How the hell did she find out about your lifestyle? Did you tell her?" Neal used the same old argument, allowing sadness to overwhelm the rising temper. Neal counted himself as Cam's greatest supporter, but sometimes he could be so obtuse. "There's pictures of us all over the damn house, what do you want me to do? Put away all the images of me and Mark? Of Mark with Emma? I'm not concealing who I am, and I am not hiding the man I loved from view." "Cam—" "Anyway, she turned out to be worse than useless. Deefur never liked her, wouldn't let her within five feet of him from day one." "Deefur? Shit, Cam. He's a freaking dog. His opinion—" "Dogs know." "The dog you shouldn't even still have." "He's Mark's dog." A simple statement, filled with all the emotion for what this meant. Quickly he realized what he had said. "Was Mark's—he's my dog—our dog. Emma's dog…" He tripped over his words and his voice tailed off in a hopeless way, the result of not really knowing how to defend what he had started to say. Yes, Mark had brought Deefur home as a puppy. Yes, Mark had the idea to have a dog, but Deefur was the family pet, Cam's and Emma's. "He's an extra in your house you don't need." Neal had said this before and would undoubtedly say it again. "We talked about this. You need to get him re-homed. Make your life easier and put him up for adoption—" "You want me to put Emma up for adoption as well?" The irrational response spilled from his lips before he could gather his thoughts. What did Neal want him to say? It seemed that the nannies would use any excuse they wanted, be it about him being gay, or Emma having an unconventional surrogacy birth, or having to deal with Deefur. All reasons why not one nanny lasted more than a few days. "I never said you should put Emma up for adoption." Neal sounded way past hurt and Cameron grimaced. He had been way out of line. No one could question Neal's love for Emma, and Cameron didn't know why he had said what he had. "I know. I'm sorry." Cameron let out another noisy exhalation and continued louder over the sound of crunching cabbage and snuffly woofing. "The Agency said they were sending someone else over. She should be here soon." Even as he said the words, the sound of the doorbell startled him, and he stumble-tripped over a family size box of Tide, righting himself with a shoulder against the wall and exclaiming down the phone, "She's here!" A flood of relief nearly overwhelmed him. Deefur did his infamous imitation of what Mark had always called his 'The Hound of the Baskervilles imitation'; hurling himself at the door and baying like a lunatic. The whole door frame shook as the huge dog repeatedly tried to reach the person on the other side, pieces of cabbage being flung from his open jaws. The sudden barking started Emma off again with pitiful and very wet sobs into his neck, while she choked out "Daddy" and "chocca" over and over and over and— "I'll call you back," he shouted down the phone to Neal, ignoring the faint, what the hell? before he disconnected the call. Cameron lunged for the door, trying to pull back Deefur and at the same time not squeeze Emma to death in the current forty-five degree hold he had on her. He reached the handle past the confusing mess of panting, barking, swirling, jumping fur, and opened the door. Only to see a small Toyota screeching away from the sidewalk in front of his house. He couldn't believe his eyes, looking up and down the deserted street to check again. Surely the woman leaving in the car couldn't be the last nanny on the agency books, leaving as soon as she'd arrived? His heart sank when the truth of what had happened hit home, and sudden, furious, self-pitying thoughts squirmed into his head. Damn it. Another prospective nanny bites the dust. This time Deefur was well and truly to blame; damned nanny didn't even get past the threshold. "Chocca Dadda pwease?" Emma continued to squeeze out more tears as Deefur shouldered past them both to stand at the tall fence in the front yard, barking heroically at the retreating car. Thank God the escaping woman had shut the gate; otherwise, there would have been another trip to rescue Deefur from the pound after he chased the car clear across Tacoma. "Chocca," he said helplessly to his clinging daughter, ignoring the disapproving looks from Mr Perkins at number fifteen, and shouting over the barking to get Deefur back indoors. Deefur showed no sign of stopping the deep and frantic baying. From Deefur's point of view, the perceived intruder needed to be well and truly told off. Deefur snorted and let out a few extra oofing barks, almost under his breath, getting in the last word. Clearly satisfied his work was done, Deefur turned round and trotted back inside, finally as obedient as you like, to take his place in the pool of morning sunlight filling the kitchen, the remains of the cabbage between his huge paws. Cameron waited at the still-open door, in a daze. There went his last chance, the last suitable nanny on the Agency's list, a list that wasn't that long to start with. Emma buried her tears in his shoulder, her murmured "chocca" getting quieter and less there, to his intense relief. He closed the front door behind them, effectively closing them off from the world outside. He leaned against the door and slid down to sit, legs stretched in front of him and cradling his whimpering daughter in his arms. Deefur remained quiet. The big, largely friendly giant took up most of Cam's tiled kitchen floor, and not for the first time in the past few months Cam's knifing resentment rose at the chaos in his house. He didn't mean to. He loved Deefur, he really did, and he didn't want to resent Mark's dog, but it was getting so damn hard not to. Mark. He had been the one to decide they needed to be a family, declaring a dog a good start. As much as Cameron tried, he couldn't forget the day they brought him home. "Deefur dog," Mark had declared. "Look at the size of his paws. He's gonna be huge. What about Hercules, or—I don't know—something for a big dog, like, we could be ironic, call the puppy Tiny or something?" "Nope. Deefur is so much cooler," Mark responded cheerfully to what Cam knew was a blank expression, "D-for-Dog, get it?" Cameron was in love enough to go with the flow. For both the mixed breed dog with the uncertain parentage—Great Dane and who knew what else—and the huge paws and the equally stupid name. In no time at all the puppy with the sticky-up ears, the melting chocolate eyes, and the irrepressible doggy grin had become an adult dog. Still, with the eyes, he could worm his way out of many a bad situation with a single doleful look. Cameron loved dogs—he considered himself a dog person—but with his company growing so fast… They were a victim of their own success, clients demanding more for less, and then the whole surrogacy thing had happened so damn quickly; sometimes everything had been too much. They had muddled through though, Mark and Cameron, as they did with everything; with a lot of laughter, a few arguments, and one hell of a large amount of dog poo bags. Deefur became Mark's dog, and the damned idiot fur-frenzy absolutely adored the older man, following him everywhere, earning the nickname Shadow. Mark's shadow. Mark's dog. "Maybe you should think about loaning Deefur out somewhere for a while?" his mom had suggested on her last visit. She had been picking cans, boxes, and other recycling items from the hedge where Deefur stored them for some weird purpose. "Just maybe until Emma goes to preschool?" Cam agreed at the time. She made one hell of a lot of sense. Yes, handling work and Emma would be easier if he didn't have to deal with Deefur too. But who the hell did you lend dogs to? Deefur had literally become the one part of his life Cameron couldn't reconcile. Mark had been gone a long time now. Taken on a frigid January morning when black ice, soft snow and an oncoming semi meant Mark never made it home from an overnight trip. Eighteen long months—a year and a half—with Emma doubling in size and passing her second birthday, her long brown hair and blue eyes so much like Cameron's. There would never be one hint of Mark's wheat-blond hair or his beautiful, hazel green eyes. Eyes which constantly sparked with emotion and enthusiasm for life. Nope, she was only ever going to get Cameron's dark hair, his blue eyes, or maybe lighter brown hair like the birth mother, because Cameron's genes had been used in this surrogacy. The plan had been for Mark's turn to be next. Whatever obstacles they had to overcome, they were determined to have at least two children if they could. Mark worked from home, an accountant, the least boring accountant Cameron had ever met. He was there for the baby, for Emma… most of all he dealt with Deefur on a day to day basis, walked him, groomed him, trained him. His death left all three of them at a loss. Cameron believed it was only luck that got him through each day so he could take care of Emma and meet her needs. Grief kept a bubble of isolation around them, but the biggest loser always would be Deefur. Cameron gave into everything he wanted and paid the dog enough attention for Deefur to remain healthy. Walked. Fed. Brushed. But when it came to discipline? Well, that became non-existent. Cameron had neither the time nor the inclination to worry. So now Deefur ruled the damn house, and Cameron had no control in the slightest over the one-hundred and forty pound Great Dane cross. Walks involved Cameron being dragged down the street, pulled like a small kid on the leash. Peace in the house involved locking Deefur out in the yard, or in various rooms to keep him out of Emma's and his stuff. He was exuberant, playful, a big, overgrown, hairy puppy who single-handedly cleared a room with his over-excitement. No, today had been the final straw. He couldn't deal with Deefur's behavior, and the dog reminded him too much of the man Cameron had married, the man he wanted to raise children with. He couldn't handle it. He couldn't. Not anymore. He struggled enough with the breath-consuming grief on his own, looking after a two-year-old daughter and a business partner who relied on him. Deefur needed a family with acres of land, people who had time, a family who was more than just scraping by on a day to day basis. When he weighed up the pros and cons in his head, the con column was about a foot long and no other choices remained. He wasn't capable of giving the high-spirited dog a good home anymore. Deefur had to go. Chapter 2 "I'm sorry, Mr Everson. We are fully aware of your skill set, but we don't have any matches." Jason sat and listened, refusing to let the news get him down as he sat in the administration office of the Agency. Sitting here at the best of times with no hope of possible employment was hard enough. Added to this, he had to listen to his shortcomings being listed by the officious official who officially told him he was completely unemployable. "I've said this before, young man. I'm sorry, but people don't always want male nannies. Especially young male nannies with little or no actual experience." Add the unspoken 'gay nanny', and there remained no job or even the slightest prospect of a job. The fact he had helped his momma raise his five younger brothers and sisters, plus his qualifications, criminal checks, and references didn't appear to matter one little bit. "Anyway, Mr—erm," she checked her paperwork and he winced. Jeez, not even important enough to have his freaking surname recalled. "Everson. Surely it can't be long until you graduate?" The helpful Agency owner had an enormous amount of optimism and expectation on her face. He imagined the forced smile was used to hide the relief the unemployable would be leaving their books soon. "Another year. I only need something for the year. There must be—something?" "Have you thought of advertising as a babysitter in the papers?" "A babysitter?" Jason flinched inwardly, horrified at the word. His qualifications and experience put him way past odd nights here and there as a babysitter. Okay, so much of his experience leaned towards the informal, but he had been a nanny for the Mitchener's kids for four months and they loved him. Unfortunately, they had emigrated to Canada and had taken his position with them. "I'm sorry. We have your details, and as soon as there is a suitable match…" Her voice trailed off and she glanced towards the door expectantly. Clearly his cue to leave, and with a singular disappointment knifing through him, he thanked her for her time and left. Glass half full was how he looked at the world. A positive kind of person normally, the world around him consisted mostly of a sunny, happy, positive place, and generally he saw the good in everything. Today though, leaving the Agency office, two days before his twenty-fifth birthday, there was no good to see in an eviction notice, an empty bank account, and no job. The words of the Agency's dismissal ringed in his ears. Moodily he scuffed at the grass underfoot as he walked, realizing he had reached his shabby, barely-holding-it-together truck without even remembering the walk to get there. This was stupid. He needed to get a grip. After all, if everything went seriously wrong, if he had really run out of options, then he could always go home, back to his parents' house. The door remained open to him, always. Other twenty-five-year-olds got help from their parents; he wouldn't be the first. His mom would jump at the chance to have her eldest child back at home, and for a moment, the prospect made his breath catch. Back to his family, his siblings, well, the ones still at home anyway, made a pang of self-pity curl in him. This is silly. I'm not giving up now. So close to passing the requisite teaching exams, so damn close; three terms remained, and there must be something he could do. A part-time job at Joe's Pizza Parlor filled most of his spare time with minimum wage pay and pathetic tips. He had to find something paying well enough so he could leave the pizza job and concentrate on the final three terms. Otherwise, he may as well kiss his career hopes goodbye. Always a late starter—Jason took a long time to decide what to do with his life and now, at the last hurdle, everything was going wrong. There were so many different paths he had tried to take; baseball-guy, advertising agency trainee-guy, writer-guy, all the time being pulled back to what instinct told him he would be good at: teaching kids. Not teenagers, but younger kids with their eyes full of wonder, little sponges thirsty for knowledge. His second brother Nathan had often said Jason appeared little more than a kid himself, anyway, which was why the kindergarten kids loved him so much. Said comment had caused the usual Everson pile-up with Nathan victorious—again—damn his extra weight and sneaky poking-in-the-eye maneuvers. Thinking of his family left Jason feeling decidedly blue as he peeled out of the parking lot and found himself heading to Billy's on automatic pilot. Right then he couldn't think of anywhere else he wanted to be, and eventually he turned his old truck into the pot-holed staff parking and left it there. Then, not fit for human company, he bypassed the office and went straight to the dogs. There would be coffee and sympathy from Billy if he wanted, but at this point in time, he wanted to wallow in the unfairness of life. Always ready with coffee, Billy had a wealth of understanding and a wise word for any situation. Jason wasn't ready for someone being nice to him, not until he calmed down, allowing the total adoration and love of the rescued dogs to work their magic on him. He found rare peace in his volunteering at the animal shelter and wished he had more time to offer his canine friends. Pulling down leashes, he started the daily cycle of dog walking. He scrambled and ran; enjoying the quiet acceptance of the rescued dogs. From Lacy the King Charles, to Bear the Husky, he walked them in the fields behind the sanctuary, while uncomfortable thoughts raced through his head. He anticipated the eviction notice on his rooms. The landlord had plans to remodel and sell up. Jason's money to live on had run low. He didn't earn enough for a deposit or monthly rental, and he had to keep some back for his college courses. He already juggled a part-time job with his studies and still had nowhere near enough money to cover everything. Billy had said he could stay overnight in the office if he got desperate, but he couldn't employ Jason. He didn't have the money. Jason wasn't stupid—the dog rescue didn't have excess funds to support any staff and relied on volunteers like him and donations of food and money. He had thanked Billy for the offer of the pull-out couch in the office as a last resort, his pride dictating he would rather end up sleeping in his ancient truck. With a degree in child psychology and a teaching qualification as near as damn it in the bag, finding a position looking after kids should be easy. Maybe slightly easier if he hadn't been so honest about his sexuality during the informal first interview. Shit, why the hell he should hide? Being gay didn't make him some kind of sexual deviant. Frustrated by his thoughts, he slumped down next to the nursing pen. The Retriever dumped at Billy's last week lay on her side, panting with exhaustion and heat. She had been discarded pregnant and close to birthing. Now there were ten puppies crawling around her, searching for milk. Instinctively Jason leaned over to help. He smiled down at the tiny blind creatures, guiding them to the source, lifting one tiny pup where two could fit in his palm, and he wished he could take one of them—two of them—all of them, to a home. His home. His own home. There was a peace in having a dog, a natural love you could only get from a dog, and he missed owning one. Here with the animals, Jason didn't feel so helpless, or out of control. After allowing himself the ten minutes of self-pity he needed, he pulled off his t-shirt, wiping at the sweat on his face and neck, and moved back out into the sunshine to walk the next group of dogs. His mood lingered, but had lightened considerably, and for the perspective, he was grateful. Chapter 3 Neal flew to Cameron's rescue, taking Emma for the day and carrying her off to the site with him. Their fledgling business teetered on the edge of being big and couldn't handle at least one of them not being on site. Neal rationalized it all for Cameron—made what Cam had to do easier. "If Deefur has a new home, a big house, maybe with more space, owners at home all day, and then, without Deefur, you know it will probably be much easier to find help with Emma." Cameron and Mark had split their time equally. Childcare had been an important thing for them, they both wanted to be hands-on parents. Now with it being Cameron on his own—it was damn hard. He had tried several local agencies by recommendation, nannies with impeccable references. All of them had bravely sat through the interviews, until the whole Deefur thing had been introduced, or his lifestyle came into the discussion, or his opinion on Emma's upbringing had been mentioned. Not one of them stayed longer than a week, and the last one, well, that one quite clearly hadn't even made it through the door. Neal's advice made sense. Which was why, on this hot Saturday, under a clear blue sky, Cameron sat in his truck with Deefur panting and drooling in the front seat next to him. He willed himself to get out of the cab and to actually go into the place his mom recommended. Billy's Dog Rescue. "The best place, Cam," Neal had agreed softly. "It has a good reputation, and they don't put the dogs down. It's this huge ranch-type place, and they re-home. They spend time finding the right families, the right owners—" Cameron looked at Deefur, who stared back at him, his mouth wide in a doggy grin. His brown eyes were sparkling and excited by the journey in the truck, said journeys generally ending up in a walk of some description. In his mind's eye, Cameron saw Mark standing at the door, a bundle of sable fur in his arms and a huge bashful smile on his face. Full of ideas for walks and eager to buy puppy food, bedding and a crate. The same crate Deefur grew out of in three months, the same crate that still sat in the garage complete with bite marks and missing hinges; the result of the great Deefur escape attempt of Christmas Eve. "Don't look at me like that," Cameron said softly, burying his face in Deefur's soft fur, the smell of freshly shampooed dog in and around him, and the nuzzle of a cold, wet nose against his skin. He wanted a way to explain; to make this huge dog with a heart of gold understand why he needed him to go to a new home, why his very presence made Cameron's and Emma's lives so damn difficult. "I'm sorry," he murmured into the fur. Then he clipped the leash to the collar and opened the door, encouraging Deefur out and across the grass, which Deefur promptly scent-marked, and then spent time exploring on the long lead as Cameron locked up the truck. Cameron stopped under the ranch-style sign and tugged on the leash. Deefur happily jumped ahead, his joy in the summer day in every sniff and whine as he discovered the grass and the dusty path. Finally Cameron stood at the door to the cabin-like office, with the words "Welcome Dogs and People" carved into old wood. With a determined straightening of his shoulders, he pushed open the door making an old-fashioned bell jingle. He hesitated only for a moment, the words, the reasons, and the excuses suddenly tumbling out of his mouth in a heated rush to the white haired man sitting behind the desk. "I need you to take this dog his name is Deefur he is four, my daughter is two I have my own company he is too big, too big for us I can't handle him and I can't find a nanny to help with my daughter when he is there. He was my partner's dog but see he's—my partner— he passed away, and I'll pay his board until you find a home for him, a good home, but I need you to take him, so—please." Cameron hadn't even stopped to breathe or to even look at the person who stood patiently staring over the desk at Deefur. "You wanna take a seat?" he asked and Cameron sat, quickly and suddenly. Every ounce of energy had left him. "Coffee?" asked the same gruff voice, and Cameron found himself saying yes; found himself looking out of the window at the kennels and dog runs behind the office, found himself drinking hot, almost-black coffee as the other man sat back down and listened. Finally finding himself telling this man, this nodding, understanding man, the whole problem from start to finish. The reasons why he sat here, even as he sat desperately holding onto Deefur's lead with his right hand, absently stroking the huge shaggy head with his left, coffee abandoned, his knuckles white with the grip on the lead. * * * * Billy Pearson looked carefully at this man who sat clinging desperately to the long leather leash, this Cameron Jackson. He focused on the other man's left hand buried deep into his dog's fur, took in the dog's wet nose, the brushed coat, the clear eyes. Through narrowed eyes he read the body language, at the man's own eyes, suspiciously bright, and he made the decision there and then. With no hesitation on his part, Billy stood and opened the back door, the one marked Staff and shouted two words out into the dust beyond. "Stretch, office!" He tapped his fingers, watched the man and refilled his coffee, offered a biscuit to Deefur, and glanced repeatedly out the window until finally he saw Jason jogging this way. He wondered how much to tell Jason. Should he mention Cameron had a male ex-partner, or would he be seen as being some kind of matchmaker? He decided it might be better coming from this Cameron Jackson himself. He smiled as the office door flew open; Jason never did anything quietly. The young man's worn jeans were covered in mud, his t-shirt off and tucked in his belt, his chest bare to the sun, and his hair damp and plastered back on his head. He looked impossibly young and fresh from exercising the boarders, jumping up the final steps and banging in through the door. Billy smiled at his entrance. "Wassup?" Jason smiled, dropping to fuss at the dog sitting in the middle of the office, crooning a hello, and then standing up to look at Billy and Cameron expectantly. * * * * Cameron sat dumbstruck, startled at the entry and at the young man who stood in the open doorway. The young half-naked man, the young half-naked, impossibly gorgeous, sweaty man with the muscles. Really tall, probably five or so inches taller than him and clearly not a stranger to the gym. Short, dark, sweat-damp hair clung flat on his head and his gaze skittered from dog to him, and then back to Billy. He pulled his t-shirt from his jeans to wipe his face, and in the time it took him to do that, Cameron lost the power of rational speech. "Jason, we got us a reject. This here's Deefur," Billy said firmly, crossing and taking the lead from Cameron and handing control over to the tall newcomer. Who switched from affable youth to pissed-off man in an instant. "A reject? What is it?" Jason drawled, talking directly to the dog, scruffing the fur around Deefur's huge floppy ears. "Did he get tired of you now you're not a puppy?" "I'm not—" Cameron started to splutter. That wasn't fair, but the new guy dismissed excuses. "Whatever. It's nothing we can't handle," Jason snapped, guiding Deefur towards the exit door. "Don't I get to—" say goodbye? Cameron wanted to say. He wanted to stop them, to grab back the lead. Deefur wasn't their dog yet, and as the owner he had rights—surely— Jason turned back, waiting expectantly for Cameron to finish the sentence. When Cameron could think of nothing to say and the pause grew too long, Jason shrugged. With disappointment and anger carving his face, he opened the door and started to leave the office, Deefur following calmly. "Wait—no—" Cameron said, standing and taking a single step towards his dog, "I didn't reject him—I can't—it isn't as simple as it seems—please—" Jason, tall guy, stopped, a simple softening in his expression, as he waited, looking again between Billy and Cameron, clearly waiting for guidance. "Jason," Billy began, "can you stay for a bit?" * * * * Cameron stood uneasily outside the office, his head still spinning. This sounded like a set up. Or too good to be true. To find someone who loved dogs and in a position to nanny, even temporarily for a year, added up to something way beyond his expectations. "So, you're like a nearly qualified teacher? For real?" Cameron realized he probably sounded like he didn't believe him, "and you just happen to be in your last year at college, you like dogs, and you volunteer here?" "Yes." Jason nodded, his own face marked with caution. Cameron knew it was too good to be true and actually anticipated a punch line of some sort. "And you are looking for work?" "I need something to help me finance my thesis, allowing me to study from home, and I'm looking for somewhere to live." "Where are you living now?" Cameron didn't mean to sound so damn suspicious but hell, either luck had landed finally on his side or he'd become the target in one hell of a practical joke. "My landlord is relocating and developing the place I rent to sell." Far too late Jason attempted to look like he didn't care. Cameron had already heard the disappointment in the other man's voice. "You sure you could handle a two year old and a dog? A big dog, a Great Dane." Cameron emphasized the big dog part, his instantaneous reaction, and his immediate worry. Deefur had become such a handful. Then he felt guilty almost straight away. Emma. Could this half-naked guy actually be the right person to look after Emma? Shit. Half-naked. Cut. Clearly worked out, looked after himself. Emma… Focus on Emma… Emma… Jason laughed, dropping to his knees next to Deefur, who instantly rolled on his back showing his belly for a rub. "Yeah, no worries, man." "I would need references—for Emma—" Cameron said a little desperately. "I have them." Jason answered simply. "I have all my police checks, and I am actually registered in town with the Adams Nanny Agency." The Adams Agency? The same agency he had tasked to find him a nanny? Cameron wondered why the agency hadn't sent Jason out on an appointment for the position, but swiftly put the thought to the back of his head. Maybe the guy had a homophobic streak and the agency knew this? Perhaps he had specified he wouldn't work with a family once comprised of two dads. Should Cameron tell the prospective nanny about Mark now rather than later? No, he should leave it until he had more of a handle on this whole thing. He didn't have to offer this Jason a job today. He could check references, ask around, and make sure this six-three, tight-bodied man fit the job. Cameron pressed fingers against the ache forming in his temple, wondering what the hell he could be thinking, trying not to look at delineated muscle-tone and sun kissed skin, or focus on spiky, dark brown hair and the hint of dimples in a wide smile. He tried desperately to imagine how life could be easier if only he could find a nanny, and how this solution, this Jason guy, would mean he could hang on to the only link he had left to Mark. Deefur.

Deefur Dog

The Book For over a year, widowed Cameron Jackson has tried to juggle his business with childcare for his two year old daughter ...all while...

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The Soldier's Tale (The Fitzwarren Inheritance #2)

<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnNghpnicnaL5XZyPZ2Aw6WTM_oClIc7064IBX-uV8dfzR6abl_pfjVvJcJMjqJq-nT9LtvzsMFFi3X2d28pbbo9VldVovjp2ra76Wk-I_jQULM0BMKnZuLl1SIqGdmtt1gzPJNyV1KA/s1600/The+Soldiers+Tale+600+x900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnNghpnicnaL5XZyPZ2Aw6WTM_oClIc7064IBX-uV8dfzR6abl_pfjVvJcJMjqJq-nT9LtvzsMFFi3X2d28pbbo9VldVovjp2ra76Wk-I_jQULM0BMKnZuLl1SIqGdmtt1gzPJNyV1KA/s400/The+Soldiers+Tale+600+x900.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Book</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Book Two in The Fitzwarren Inheritance</div></div> <div>Corporal Daniel Francis has returned to his childhood home in England to heal; the only one of his unit that survived a roadside bomb. His reasons for skipping medication are based on a stubborn refusal to become an addict, and he is overwhelmed with survivor's guilt. Doctor Sean Lester has joined his father's surgery and when he is held at knife point by a patient high on drugs it is Daniel that leaps to his rescue-much to his horror. When Sean nearly runs Daniel down in the dark he finds a man who needs help, and resolves to be the person to show Daniel that it is possible to live through guilt and find happiness. Set against the backdrop of the Fitzwarren family curse, The Soldiers Tale is a story of one man's fight to find his place in a new world outside of the Army.</div><div>Books in this series... <ul><li>Book 1 - The Psychic's Tale by Chris Quinton</li><li>Book 2 - The Soldier's Tale by RJ Scott</li><li>Book 3 - The Lord's Tale by Sue Brown</li></ul> The trilogy was nominated for Best Reviewer Read of 2012. in the Alternative Lifestyle M/M genre (December 2012)   Buy Links <a href="https://www.lovelanebooks.co.uk/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=7&products_id=38" target="_blank">Love Lane Books</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00D8DDLRK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00D8DDLRK&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-20" target="_blank">Amazon (US)</a> | <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00D8DDLRK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B00D8DDLRK&linkCode=as2&tag=rjsc-21" target="_blank">Amazon (UK)</a> | <a href="https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thesoldier039stale-1217012-148.html" target="_blank">All Romance</a> | <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-soldiers-tale-robert-g-scott/1017864190?ean=2940044573239" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a> | <a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/Books/the-soldier-s-tale" target="_blank">Kobo </a>| <a href="https://ebookstore.sony.com/ebook/rj-scott/the-soldier-s-tale/_/R-400000000000001064818" target="_blank">Sony</a> | <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/323500" target="_blank">Smashwords</a> Reviews <a href="http://top2bottomreviews.wordpress.com/2011/07/08/the-soldiers-tale-by-rj-scott/">Top2Bottom Reviews</a> 4.5/5 RJ Scott has delivered not only a compelling addition to the saga but has also written a story with so much heart and emotion, filled with adversity and angst and ultimately, love and healing—which truly is her trademark and her talent. I’ve come to depend on it with every one of the books she writes. <a href="http://www.reviewsbyjessewave.com/2012/10/09/the-soldiers-tale/">Jessewave 4.25/5</a> - The “fated lovers” element was there, but pushed far to the background, and the Fitzwarren curse was more of a backdrop than the determining matter that brought them together as lovers. Sean and Daniel’s romance would’ve made just as much sense outside the context of the Fitzwarren mystery. <a href="http://www.darkdivasreviews.com/?p=6060">Dark Diva Reviews 4.5/5</a> - The Soldier’s Tale is a heartfelt and a painful journey toward seeing yourself as others see you. Daniel is an amazing character. RJ Scott has done a brilliant job continuing the tale. <a href="http://mrsconditreadsbooks.com/index.php/?p=8618">Mrs Condit Reads Books 4.5/5</a> - This anthology is three related stories of a 400 year old curse and the effects still being felt today. The interesting thing about it is the three stories are written by three three very talented authors and the transition from one story to the next is so smooth it makes it seem as though it was written by one person. I recommend the anthology to readers who love history, mysteries, and love. <a href="http://heartsonfirereviews.com/?p=17792">Hearts On Fire Reviews - 4.5/5</a> - Throughout the story, it was really nice to see how Daniel had been improving with his own reactions to situations with some help from Sean. It didn’t really concentrate on the curse, just a soft touch of them. I have to be honest, I didn’t like Sean at the beginning and fortunately, I had grown a fond of Sean toward the middle of the story. It was interesting to see how Daniel and Sean were connected to the curse itself. That was making me enjoying the curse much more. Highly recommended, but please read The Psychic’s Tale first before you start this one. You’ll love Daniel. Excerpt Chapters 1 & 2 Chapter One "Uhnnnn, damn it, sod it, bloody hell—ghuuu." Daniel Francis couldn't keep the grunts of pain and expletives from spilling out of his mouth. Letting loose the torrent of noise was the only thing that grounded him. He had only meant to rest for a few minutes, but, God, how much worse could this pain get? He was trapped now, sitting in the dark, surrounded by the scent of pine toilet cleaner, like some kind of bloody cripple. Scared. Stupid. A waste of space. What had happened to the man he'd once been? Why the hell was he stuck in the men's toilet at his local surgery, literally scared to death to walk out into the waiting room? He had been doing so well today pushing the pain away. He had taken the pain meds like he was supposed to. They took the edge off the throbbing long enough to fake how well he was doing, and he had yet again survived his monthly visit to see a doctor. In this case, it was the second time since coming home that he had seen Lester, Sr. The doctor had been his usual efficient self, dismissing Daniel with a cursory glance at his records on the screen in front of him. "Here are the scripts for your pain meds and muscle relaxants. I've lowered the level of Sertraline although I'm not comfortable with your request to do so. Keep to the prescription, use the ice packs. Come back and see me in three weeks so we can re-evaluate, and I can re-issue your medication." The doctor had continued with the usual inane questions that experts always threw at him, and Daniel made a show of listening while he focused in on grey hair, bushy eyebrows, and pale grey eyes. He was half listening, already deciding he'd had enough of the blurred edge to his world on these damn tablets. He would fill the prescription, but that didn't mean he had to take the capsules. The doctor certainly didn't need to know. Daniel was his own man, and he could make his own decisions. He wasn't a kid who had to do what he was told all the bloody time. Hell, he'd had enough of that in the Army. As a non-commissioned officer in the Royal Engineers, Corporal Daniel Francis was an explosive ordinance disposal expert—part of a small unit of highly-trained specialists. Men and women who provided munitions neutralization and disposal for both military operations and training exercises around the world, he was trained, experienced, good at his job. Daniel missed his friends and his fellow soldiers, and he felt the familiar twinge of loneliness that always came with the memories of the soldiers he had commanded. They had been a tight team of six men and one woman, their work enabling the Army to handle battlefield conditions with fewer distractions. They were experts in their field, providing mine clearances and defusing roadside bombs in war zones, and they had been employed in post-conflict situations as well. Daniel's expertise, and that of his team, provided the skills needed to sweep fields and roads and to clear homes and other buildings in towns, making what remained of any civilian population safe. Corporal Francis had become the go-to man, the person the recruits turned to when they were unsure, the one whom the rest of the unit relied on as a sounding board as they puzzled out difficult situations. He was capable of focusing completely on the mine or bomb or incendiary in front of him, using his skills as the key to surviving a disarmament. He kept the balance between absolute certainty in both his skills and those of his unit and knowing precisely when the time had come to pull back and relieve the horrendous pressure on his men. Daniel had been able to call on his ability to sink into utter stillness at any given time. Corporal Francis was decorated with awards and citations, resulting from situations that he and his team had survived. Others who praised and paid and wrote articles in newspapers back home called it incredible bravery. He and his team, however, simply called it a job. That was then, but he had to live in the now. Daniel Francis, invalided from service, no longer a corporal by name or possessing the ability to be a corporal by physical action, sat cowering in a sodding bathroom unable to even attempt a short walk home. He was damaged goods. Twisted and scarred and unable to even bloody breathe properly at this moment. "How are you feeling today?" the doctor had asked with a raised eyebrow. Daniel had hesitated before answering. Post traumatic stress disorder was probably not something Dr Lester had much experience in, and the questions he asked were from some kind of script clearly approved by some specialist somewhere. And Christ, that had been a leading question. The headache that had been nagging at Daniel all day went full blown and intense as he'd tried to formulate a suitable answer. "I'm good," he'd finally said, as firmly as he could. There was no way he was giving the doc any openings for further questions. "Your knee—" "Is fine. Improving every day." He'd lied. He'd said those five words as convincingly as a pro. Which he was. Daniel had managed to convince the much savvier medics at the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital in Birmingham. The medics and shrinks there had been more difficult to convince: they were far too familiar with PTSD, not to mention severe injuries. However, Daniel had stuck to his claims, and though still reluctant, both his body and brain docs had discharged him back to his family home in Wiltshire to "heal." The goddamned fucking lies were acid inside him. He had seen friends crippled or ripped from him by fire and metal, faces gone or reflecting the terror that had occurred with their deaths. His head was as screwed as it could be and still leave a chance for him to pass as something like normal. As for his knee? What if he told the doc the truth? That oftentimes the pain was so personal, so intense, that he couldn't breathe or stop the tears from scorching his skin as they marked runnels of disappointment down his face. What if he had to admit his failure to deal with physical discomfort when Tommy Llewellyn had lost both legs? What the hell good would that do? He was alive, alive when so many of his unit had not survived, alive enough to walk and to feel the pain when they could no longer do either. He'd be goddamned if he was going to travel the rest of his days on earth in a drugged up anti-pain stupor. Daniel could have become addicted to the Sertraline and pain pills, unable to go an hour without them, much less a day. He didn't need the softened edges that made his memories blur. He demanded for himself the ice-cold, cut-glass edges of memory. He wanted to remember. For the Ones under his command who never made it home. He forced himself to walk naturally from the doc's office, refusing to show that his knee was close to giving out, the metal pins holding the bones together as rough as barbed wire grating under his skin. "Three weeks," the doc had reminded him as he left, and he had managed to respond to the affirmative even as he realised he needed to sit before his knee gave way. He judged the distance to the door in the convoluted nest of corridors and cubicles that constituted the surgery. The toilet was nearer. In any event, Daniel wasn't ready to face the receptionist with her beady eyes and her concern over how he was feeling. He locked the door behind him, shoved the toilet lid down and slumped until he sat on it. A small part of his mind registered the fact that he'd sat. He pressed blindly with both thumbs into the knot of incredible pain in his knee joint. The blast that had ripped through his team had inflicted contusion, blunt force trauma, burns, and penetrating wounds on those who had survived. Daniel had been fortunate: many of his injuries had been superficial, except those to his face and knee. Triage had sent him behind the lines to a field hospital, where he'd been threatened with an amputation above the knee. Infection had hit the bone. Even if they were able to cure the infection, there was no guarantee that the knee would be anything close to normal, but it didn't matter. What the surgeon said didn't matter a damn. Nothing would have made Daniel sign that form. He might die? Then he'd die. But he'd do it with two legs. Thank fuck he'd been lucky enough to prove the doctors wrong. Daniel's face healed. He'd been given as much plastic surgery as was possible, but some scars remained, curling and twisting under his hairline and down his neck. He was a disgusting thing to look out now, damaged, past his sell-by date. Feeling bloody sorry for himself, his throat thickening with emotion and unshed tears, he bowed his head and pressed more deeply into the skin over twisted muscles and tendons. His pain decreased, but Daniel couldn't tell if the spasm had eased or if he had caused enough damage that his system had released endorphins Silently he sat. Breathing deeply. Visualising his breathing. In, out, in, out. The rhythm became steadier than the knotting around his knee, and he realized dimly that he was trying to formulate an excuse for sitting in the bathroom for so long. God knows how long he'd sat here, sweat sliding down his face and his stomach churning. He checked his watch—ten minutes to seven. The surgery was past closed for the evening. Shit. He was stuck in the bloody bathroom, unable to fucking leave even if he could. Locked in. Hope remained that someone's appointment had run late, that there would be a staff member who could let him out, even though Dr Lester had probably departed for the day. Daniel moved with the caution of the very frail, testing each change in position, measuring his own ability to deal with the stiffness and the pain. Then, gathering every ounce of his remaining energy, Daniel pulled himself to his feet. His fingers clasped the help bar so hard he thought it had given way, and he tottered, light-headed and soaking wet with sweat. Abruptly, the air shifted, and the sweat began to cool, and he shivered. A little twinge in his wrecked knee warned him. Breathe, in and out, the rhythm stronger than the pain. He had never dreamed that he would need the alterations to bathrooms for disabled users, but he thanked God for them every time he got stuck. The lock twisted under his clammy, sweat slick palm, and he cursed as the metal slipped. Wiping his hand on his thick wool sweater, he managed at least to turn the lock on the second try. He sagged against the door jamb, the little he had done leaving him breathless. Only evening light illuminated the corridor, and using the wall both as a support and a guideline to exit, Daniel stretched and pulled on the twisted muscle until it finally completely relaxed. By the time he'd hobbled to the door to the reception area, he was able to allow the knee to take weight. Experience had taught him he needed to stop for a few minutes and allow the knee more time to relax, for the muscle to forget about continuing to spasm. Quietly, he waited, staring at his faint reflection in the glass partition to the darkened area beyond. His hair was no longer military-short, but long and untidy and, Jesus, verging on wild. It curled unhindered to his collar, the longer hair covering more of his scar. Daniel wasn't totally ashamed of his disfigurement, but he didn't want to set out to scare grannies and children. Six months, that was all. Six months and the man he'd been had found himself replaced with this lesser being. Thinner, muscles tired, exhausted, his skin pale, his stature bent. Fuck. He'd signed up knowing he could die for his country, but he'd never signed up to become a pathetic burden on the same country that had relied on him. Wait. He tilted his head. Someone was talking in the darkened area, but he couldn't make out who. The corridor where he stood was darkening by the minute. His eyes were tired. There were two raised voices, but not the receptionist, not a woman's tones. Cautiously he moved towards the door, pressing his ear against the cool wood, instinct bringing him to a stop. His military training kicked in, and he automatically assessed the situation before he jumped in. The second voice sounded erratic and edgy, a curse surrounding each word though the tones were slurred. "…sort this… I can phone the pharmacy… I'm your doctor so I can prescribe you…" "…just the fucking pad…prescriptions is currency… thass'all I bloody need…" The first man? He said he was a doctor? Didn't sound gruff enough to be the older Doctor Lester. Maybe it was the younger, the son, new to the surgery. Daniel had seen him from a distance. Tall, blond, unattainable and aloof, and a bit on the slim side to count as an asset. The second man, the threat. The environment. Closed area, only two doors in, one of which he was leaning against. There was more talking, raised voices. Was the second guy armed? Adrenaline rushed his system. He crouched lower. Changing the expectation was the name of the game. Anyone who attacked the situation would be expected at shoulder level, not in a crouch. His knee protested, but as he had done on the battle field, it was easy to push pain away as the impetus for action coiled in his spine. There was a lull in the talking, and he strained to hear. He heard other noises, like a chair being dragged across the floor, and then, suddenly, hoarse shouting. The soldier in him came to the fore, and coiled energy underlay his motions. He assessed the situation in the half second required to shove open the door. A man in a suit, a white shirt, his hands raised, placating. The victim. Another, a smaller figure, hooded, his back to Daniel. He caught the glimpse of a knife, wicked, sharp and silver, glinting in the streetlight illumination from outside. The man in the suit startled as he spotted Daniel. Daniel knew he had seconds as the hooded figure turned on his heel, all the while waving the knife. Daniel sidestepped the blade, feinting left and bringing his arm up to block the return sweep, ducking and using his foot to catch the guy at the back of his leading knee, the most vulnerable point Daniel could use to overbalance the intruder. In between one breath and another, he twisted the guy onto his front, dropped his weaker knee against the other man's lower back, and yanked back the intruder's hood. Long, dark hair slipped free, and he clutched it tight. "Drop the knife," he snarled, smashing the guy's face into the carpeted floor, pushing it harder when the hand holding the knife refused to let go. The intruder tried to struggle and twist, but it was a pathetic attempt, nothing that worried Daniel. Easily dominating the moment, he moved his hard body and made the person under him whimper in distress. "Let—up!" The voice intruded into Daniel's concentration. He glanced up at the other man, then down again, pressing his thumb into the pulse point of his opponent's wrist. The other man released the knife because his fingers refused to hold it. Using his foot Daniel pushed the knife away. "Let. Go." Jesus, the guy in the suit was insistent. Thing is, finishing a takedown when spectators jeered and threw stones was nothing. He could push through this. In a movement as smooth as he could manage, he clambered to his feet, pulling at the intruder and shoving him at the reception desk, tense, watching for retaliation, alert to the possibility of another weapon. What he saw was a boy, no older than seventeen or eighteen, eyes dark and huge in his face, the hood fallen and twisted around his neck. He was shaking, sobbing, and—what the fuck—the other man moved between them, holding out his hands and talking softly. "He didn't mean to hurt you, Connor. Let's get you out of here. It's okay, we'll sort this…" Nonsense slipped from the man's mouth, a mumble of placating claptrap, politic-speak. Suddenly Daniel felt fury spiral up his spine. He'd risked his own very stressed and fragile body to save the doc, and the doc was acting like Daniel had committed a crime. "He had a fucking knife," Daniel snapped, leaning on to his other knee, the burn in his bad leg causing him to favour it. "He wasn't going to hurt me," the man snapped back, his tone as hard as Daniel's. Daniel couldn't understand the annoyance in the other's eyes. His anger was directed at Daniel, not at the boy who stood shaking in the corner. Daniel watched as the doc's gaze slid to the side of his face, but he damn well refused to move his hair to cover it. "D-Doc, please… Doctor Lester." The boy was pleading with him, his voice shaky and slurred, then suddenly he slumped into the doc's arms. Lester didn't even seem surprised. He quickly pulled out his cell, dialling and speaking in short, clipped tones. "Ambulance, Steeple Westford surgery, overdose." Daniel listened to the man who the unconscious guy had positively identified as the younger Doctor Lester. What the bloody hell kind of Wonderland had he dropped into where he was the bad guy? He watched Lester place the boy in recovery position; the patient seemed to be breathing, but was limp and unconscious. The doc traced the lad's face where Daniel had pushed him into the carpet. He looked up at Daniel, who gazed back at him steadily, just waiting for the doc to try something. "What the hell did you do?" he finally barked at Daniel, his handsome face creased into an angry frown. Daniel took a deep breath. The adrenaline pumping through his body had been giving him an edge, but now it was starting to recede, and the pain in his damned leg was back. "What did I do?" What the hell? Why am I the one being handed the anger? "He's the one with the bloody knife." "He's high, for God's sake. I was talking him down." Doc was vocal in that clipped, closely cropped, precise way that Daniel had previously only heard in the young army officers who had avoided grunt work by virtue of education. Born with silver spoons in their mouths, the lot of them, including the doctor glaring at him. "Yeah, looked like it was working." Daniel injected sarcasm into his voice then winced. I sound like a bloody kid, not an experienced soldier with a valid point. Doctor Lester pointedly ignored him, hunching over the prone figure of the boy. Daniel edged towards the door. He was not waiting around </div><div>for any more shit. He had enough of his own to deal with. Daniel left the young doctor to do whatever he needed to do, limping away before people started asking questions. He wasn't going to stand and watch the accusation in Lester's face, even as he lost himself in the depth of the man's bloody green eyes sparking with indictment. Now was not the time to be attracted to anyone, least of all someone so unlike the cool, calm level-headedness he'd seen from the numerous army medicos he'd talked to and been seen by. Young Dr Lester's level of passion and heat in crisis was disconcerting. Daniel needed to go, had to leave, and action followed thought immediately. Within a few minutes he had half walked, half tumbled back to his house. The one-story rambling white cottage with its tangled autumn country garden and high wall was his family home. His parents were long since gone, and Daniel had no siblings, so the house had become his retreat. When he'd been injured, he wanted to be at home, his home, where there was peace and memories that made him smile. He had waited while the broken bones healed, waited to hear that he was cleared to return to his role in the Army. If he couldn't be on the front line, he wanted to serve in some kind of capacity, advisory, something. When the medical officer turned up in his room, his expression stern and serious, Daniel knew. There had been some placating words, words like pension and support and counselling. And then it was over. Just over. The front door shut behind him, and he was finally alone. The adrenaline left his body, dropping steadily until only he and what he'd done remained. He hadn't overreacted. He hadn't. The intruder had a bloody knife. Never leave an opponent armed no matter who might say otherwise. The last time he'd done that, the last time he'd second-guessed himself, and trusted another, people had died for God's sake. He wasn't some stupid, soft idiot who allowed shit to happen to him. He was a brave man, a strong man, and he made things happen to other people. Daniel repeated those two sentences over and again as he made his way through the house, turning on lamps until the rooms were flooded with light. He closed all the curtains. Finally nothing of the dark outside remained inside his house. On unsteady legs, he went first to the bathroom and then to his bedroom. He tipped out his tablets into his hand and counted them: two of the white ones, three of the pale cream, one red one. In a single second, he threw them in the bin. He didn't need all this shit to take the edge off the pain. He was a soldier, and he had a high pain threshold. He could manage on his own. Pain proved to him that he was alive. He had been strong and certain, and he knew what he'd done at the surgery was right. There was no way he was going to doubt himself because he was looking at his life through a drug-induced haze. Hell, that made him no better than the kid he'd thrown to the ground. Still half dressed, Daniel fell into bed and pulled the covers over himself. With a grunt, he rolled onto his stomach. His hand naturally slipped under the pillow, and his fingers closed firmly around the hilt of a knife. Cold, hard metal within reach. It comforted him, more so than the Browning pistol. Far more than his uniform that had attracted fire in foreign lands from people resentful of his presence. The knife signified stealth and strength, and he knew how to use it. He closed his eyes and stretched out each cramped muscle in turn, forcing the ache in his knee away to the dark parts of his mind. Those dark depths were the only part left of him that could handle the memories and the pain. Chapter Two Sean had just about reached the end of his tether. Stress knotted in him, and his normal politeness was pushed aside in lieu of barely hidden irritation. The police had made another visit in the morning, alerted by the hospital as a matter of course. They just wanted to tick all the boxes on what they termed the "Connor Simmons situation," and Sean really had tried very hard to assume his best doctor persona to deal with all the questions. Yes, he knew Connor Simmons, the boy that had threatened him. Yes, he knew Connor's medical history and all of its implications. Yes, Connor was his patient and not his father's. No, he didn't want to press charges. Yes, that was a decision based on clinical evidence and not just because he knew the boy and the boy's family. Sergeant Andrews, all spit-shine and officious, tutted and hovered, his face showing his displeasure. Given he was one of Sean's patients, Sean did wonder if the other man's irritable countenance was more to do with the recent recurrence of his piles than frustration with Sean's decision. He had far more important things to consider. He had his best friend's sister in hospital, her newborn son fighting for his life. He tuned out the monotonous questions and thought about how he was going to visit the hospital before dinner tonight. He wondered if Phil would be there. The poor Fitzwarren family spent so much time in hospitals one way or another. Damn curse and all it meant for his friends. "We would recommend the records show—" Andrews tried one last time, but Sean wanted this finished. "There's no need for that," Sean interrupted. "The patient has been discharged by this surgery into hospital care." He remained adamant, and after some disapproving final comments, the policeman closed his notebook and left. Sean was tired, and the last thing he needed were people like the cop and that idiot wannabe hero type from last night, interfering in the care and understanding of one of his patients. "You know my opinion on this." His dad's voice was tight with the same disapproval as Andrews', and Sean groaned inwardly. They were at loggerheads over most things. His dad was a doctor true to the old ways, stubbornly attached to methods that made Sean shudder with his own form of disapproval. He glanced around the empty waiting room, seeing only Edna behind the desk filing records, and she had been privy to many of their heated disagreements in her time. "He's my patient, Dad; it's clearly not up for discussion." His dad made a sound halfway between a sigh and a snort and turned on his heel. Sean thought he made out muttered words like idiot and boy, but at the age of twenty-nine, it wasn't the first time he'd been called either, nor would it be the last. Surgery was due to start in ten minutes, and the door opened revealing a harried mother with small baby in her arms. "Doctor Lester—" Sean was immediately in doctor mode as the baby squalled and sobbed, the mother not far behind. All thoughts of his dad or cops or dark-haired ninja aspirants pushed to the back of his mind as he triaged the situation by sight alone then scooped the baby confidently and expertly from the hysterical mother. It was the start of a very long work day, patient after patient, with ills from the baby's milk rash and ear infection to the current rush on non-seasonal flu. If the day was long enough, then the evening spent with his parents for dinner with no escape was even longer. It wasn't that he particularly disliked having dinner with the family, but he was tired and irritable, and his dad had this way of getting under his skin. He managed to excuse himself by ten, walking back the mile between his parents' Georgian-style house and the surgery. His home was a small cottage and had been part of the original farmhouse. It had been converted along with the main house, which housed the surgery complete with two consulting rooms and a small dispensary. It was linked to the surgery by a corridor but blocked by two connected doors that he hadn't had to open since he began working here. He guessed it had been originally designed for the resident doctor to be on site, but the cottage, a quaint mismatched level of rooms and tilted ceiling, hadn't been properly inhabited by a doctor since his dad left after marriage. Marrying his mum had been financially a good move for Doctor Lester Senior, and the large, six-bedroom house that came as her dowry, for want of a better word, had been the ideal home for the socially upwardly mobile village doctor. It helped that his mum and dad were wildly and completely in love. Whatever his problems with his dad in professional terms, his home life was an excellent and very stable one. He normally found comfort in the warm cosy home, walls solid and whitewashed inside and out. He closed curtains and poured a small whisky. Hesitating a moment he sighed heavily and then tipped every drop back in the bottle. Tonight wasn't the night to take the edge of his frustration with alcohol. He was officially on call, although he was backed up by out-of-hours surgery support. He settled in the old chair by the fire, half wishing he could be bothered to lay a fire and then dismissing it when thinking of the smoke that pushed back in the room whenever he did that. He really needed to think about getting the chimney swept, and he added it to his mental list for another day when he had less pressing matters to think of, including Connor Simmons. Soon, Connor's notes lay spread across Sean's lap and sofa. They were tangled and mostly still paper driven, the paper records stopping only at the point two years earlier when Sean had managed to drag the surgery into the twenty-first century. Some observations were from the Salisbury District Hospital, others from counselling sessions, and a few annotations were in his dad's hand. Curiously he read his dad's messy cursive. Connor Simmons was a local boy, had been a patient of the surgery since birth, and there were the usual notes of immunisations and childhood illness. It was clear from what he read that he started showing signs of depression around age fourteen, and Sean blinked at the words "needs more exercise" written under a prescription for depression meds. At fourteen. It went downhill for him from then on, but to be fair to his dad, it happened out of his control, at school. Connor succumbed to an addiction to drugs, cocaine, and speed, getting in with the wrong crowd. It didn't say that last part in the notes, but Sean had first-hand knowledge of Connor. He'd been at school in the village, and he knew the family. He'd heard the village talking, heard more than people realised. He opened his laptop and logged into the surgery network, running through the rest of his notes in their electronic form, updating the actions from last night in minute detail. But he kept getting distracted. Something was digging away at his thoughts, but for once it wasn't worrying or thinking of a patient of his. Sighing, he tracked back through his dad's appointments yesterday. The last appointment? No, actually the second from last, the only one that fit the details of the display Sean had seen. Daniel Francis, twenty-six, and the only records he could see were the automated records. Ex-army, bomb disposal, time in Afghanistan, injured badly by shrapnel in an explosion, his left side damaged, left knee, thigh, arm, face and neck, his ID number tracking a move to the veterans ward in Birmingham on arrival back in the UK. The man was evidently some freaking war hero, combat-ready, injured, but clearly still in defence mode. Hence the separating of Connor from his knife in such a brutally quick and efficient way. Daniel checked through the prescribed meds passed by the hospital and rubber-stamped by his dad. Jesus, how the hell did the man make such dramatic moves on the perceived threat when the drugs in his body were so damned disabling? Daniel Francis was a walking medicine cabinet—meds to keep the man sane, meds for highs, meds for lows, meds for the pain, muscle relaxants. He must feel like a zombie. There were no black and white records of post traumatic stress. Daniel's psyche evaluations were only that which would be expected. His plastic surgeon had recommended more work on his face and neck, but there were notes to indicate the patient had withdrawn from the programme of medical intervention. Having seen the scarring on Daniel's face, Sean wondered if surgical intervention would have made any difference to what was there. It wasn't awful scarring—Sean had seen worse on patients caught in fires—but he wondered if Daniel was self-conscious of the marks. Sean made another mental note to maybe book an appointment for some face-to-face time, but he would have to manage it without his dad getting wind of it. The elder doctor didn't take kindly to interference in his patients by his son. Maybe an informal chat? There were inconsistencies in his prescriptions, modern schools of thought that would never have prescribed the happy pills and the muscle relaxants on the same script. By the time midnight came, he was ready for bed, but by two in the morning, tossing and turning in his bed, he just knew he wasn't going to get any sleep. Solutions to this inability to sleep were easy. He handed them out every day to his patients without conscious thought. He should attempt relaxing, maybe aided by finishing a lukewarm drink, but not caffeine, warm milk perhaps. Then maybe he should be asking himself what might be worrying him. All he needed to do was to find the root of the issue, and sleep would normally follow. Simple. He just couldn't seem to apply any of these wonderful fix-it-all solutions to himself. He wasn't stupid. He had ideas why he was so restless and irritable. Connor was one. He knew he couldn't turn his brain off, which made him not able to sleep, which made him tired and even more unable to relax. On nights like this, when the village was in darkness and his thoughts refused to allow him to sleep, there was only one thing to do. He needed her like he needed his next breath. She was beautiful, sexy, gorgeous, and all his. His only extravagance from the inheritance his gran had left him. Low slung and cherry red, a beautiful Audi TT Roadster sat next to his dad's old battered Land Rover they used for cross country house visits. Two hundred and sixty-eight horses sat under the Audi's bonnet, and a sound system that blew him out of the water. It was like chalk and cheese, their choice of cars, yet another thing that his dad didn't expect from him. In his dad's opinion, a flashy car was not what a village doctor should be driving. He slid into the driver's seat, the leather cocooning him, the smell of new and clean intoxicating to the senses, and peace slipped over him as he shut the door. For a while he just sat there, his arms stiff and his hands gripping tight on the wheel. Losing control of Connor yesterday was bad. He hadn't recognised the lad's appointment earlier in the day for what it was—a cry for help. Damn it, how the bloody hell had he missed it? He pulled away from the surgery and drove through the village at a slow speed, the darkness engulfing the car and blurring the scattered homes. The pub at the edge was the final barrier until he was out on the open road. It twisted and turned, and he opened her up, using sense memory of each bend, his mind concentrating at near full capacity. Rhianna played on the iPod, segueing into Lady Gaga and then into Abba. Finally he felt the stress across his shoulders release, and he selected some Enya to pull him home. A mile outside of the village he was smiling thinking of the homestretch, his bed, sleep. What happened next was his worst nightmare. He came to another bend, and there was something in the road. A shadow, a suggestion of shape, a deer, a fox, and he slammed on the brakes, his stomach clenching, the bushes scraping the side of the car as he wrenched it left and away from the shape. He was going to miss it. He knew it as he glanced at the shadow, then shit, he ended up nose-first in twisted yew at an angle. The smoke from the tyres created an ethereal mist around the embedded car on the dark road. "Shit! Fuck! What the—" He had the presence of mind to turn off the engine, caught between horror and shock that he had nearly killed something… someone. In seconds he was out of the door and stumbling to the shape lying on his side in the middle of the road. A man. Oh god no. "Bloody hell," he stuttered and dropped to his knees on the hard road, years of training in emergency care to the fore, testing for a pulse. It was strong. "Didn't h-h-hit me," the shape near-whimpered, rolling over onto his back. Sean rocked back on his haunches. Daniel Francis? Lying in the road—not hit? "Why the f-f-fuck you d-driving like Mi-c al Sch'ma'cher?" His voice was strained, vowels slurred, shivery, and in the faint light of shattered headlights, Sean could see the sheen of sweat on grey skin. "What the hell are you doing in the middle of the fucking road at two in the morning?" Sean snapped back, his fingers moving to palpate across Daniel's neck. "W-w-walking," Daniel pushed out. Sean huffed and held out a hand to help the man up. Walking. What an idiot. Who the hell walked in the pitch black on country roads in the dead of night? Daniel didn't take his hand, stubbornly using his own instead to lever himself up. He fell back with a grunt of pain and an added groan of frustration. Given the level of damage to his knee, he must have been in one hell of a lot of pain. "Take my hand," Sean insisted, putting on his best doctor voice, the deep authoritarian tone that brooked no argument. "F-f-fuck off," Daniel ground out, and Sean stood abruptly. "You want to stay in the road? Suit yourself." With a harsh exhalation of breath, he crossed to his car, judging he could just reverse from the hedge. Nothing gripped too tight to the ruined bodywork. He flicked on his hazard lights as a warning just in case there were any more cars on the road. Pulling out his mobile phone, he moved back to crouch by Daniel, his free hand automatically touching around the knee, watching the grimace of pain twist the man's face. He dialled emergency services, identified himself and began to explain— "No 'bulance," Daniel ground out. Sean hesitated, told the operator to hold, and covered the mouthpiece. There was intense desperation in Daniel's voice, in his wide eyes, and the creases of pain that bracketed his mouth. "Are you going to let me help you stand then?" Sean waited, counting to five in his head. "F-f-fuck—okay." Daniel was cursing a blue storm, but calmly Sean explained how the patient was ambulatory, he was providing assistance, and cancelled the call. Then he pocketed the phone and braced himself to help up the solidly built guy who was almost curled in on himself in obvious distress. Finally, Daniel was standing, leaning most of his weight on Sean, and there was no way he should be walking under his own steam. Except… Sod it. He was. He walked a few steps away, stumbling and dragging his bad leg. "Get in the car," Sean snapped. "I'll take you home." Daniel kept walking, well, limping, not really walking, and stopping. "Bloody idiot. Get in the car, Francis." Daniel stopped fully, but didn't turn. "You know m-m-my name?" His words sounded less lucid with each syllable he uttered, and Daniel contemplated phoning back nine-nine-nine just to get some help to move his stubborn arse. "You're one of our patients. Of course I know your bloody name," Sean defended quickly, unexpectedly aware he had clearly crossed a subtle line with the soldier broken in the dark. Maybe revealing he knew him, and likely in a more intimate way than most, was probably a very bad thing on Daniel's scale of bad things. Daniel visibly slumped in place, his shoulders loosening from where they had been so rigid before. Sean sensed victory, just wishing he felt less like it was Daniel verging on unconsciousness and more that Daniel saw Sean was right. "Are you getting in the car?" he added quickly. "Can't move." Simple words but they dripped with a biting terror, and Sean's heart turned. The compassion that he wore like a second skin snapped alive, and in seconds, he was there, remembering the notes that it was Daniel's left side that was damaged and scarred. He slipped under the taller man's right arm, taking his weight. With as much strength as he possessed, he finally managed to get them both to the car door. Daniel's breaths were fast and uneven, catching snatches of desperate air as his eyes slid closed. Getting him into the car was easy enough; it was like he simply slid in, boneless, and semi-conscious. He was clearly in a place where he could handle the pain, and Sean couldn't even begin to contemplate how dark that place must be. He didn't worry about the belt, couldn't untwist it from around Daniel's lax body, and cursed as branches pulled and gripped his car viciously, paintwork scratched to buggery. Shit. Within a minute or so, thanking the gods she started and pulled out of the tangle of tree roots and bushes, Sean was at the surgery, the best place for Daniel he thought. The closest safe flat surface was his front room and the sofa bed that he could pull out. He quickly arranged what he needed, then guided the semi-conscious soldier in through the wide door and to the thin mattress. It wasn't the best bed in the world, but the patient was at least lying still. "I'm coming back." He returned to the front door, closing it on the night outside and then grabbed his bag before settling on his knees next to Daniel. "Can you tell me what you've taken, Daniel?" "Don shtake… drugs…" Daniel slurred, forming each word slowly. "I mean your meds," Sean explained patiently, "your meds, Daniel?" Daniel groaned and lashed to his right. "Walking…through it. No meds—" Sean blinked. That wasn't right. Daniel couldn't mean he hadn't taken any of his meds, the cocktail of pain killers and muscle relaxants that had been prescribed? "None of your painkillers? Nothing?" Daniel shook his head mutely and tried to lift his head, his skin clammy with sweat and grey. He was visibly shaking, and then stiffening as his entire body seemed to spasm. The pain that the soldier was in must be inconceivable, indescribable, and Sean made a decision, rummaging for his limited stock of morphine. He loosened Daniel's jeans to pull them slightly down. Finding the right location, he injected and then sat back. The jeans needed to come off. He had to see the knee, but there was no way he could pull them down over the knee. He would need to cut them off. "No 'spital," Daniel pushed out through gritted teeth, bending his neck to look directly at Sean, his eyes bright with pain. "Promise me." Sean hesitated. What if when he cut the jeans away he found damage beyond his care? Had he hit him with the car? What the hell was the idiot doing in the middle of nowhere in the dark? Why hadn't he taken his meds? "For God's sake, you need…" Despite his frustration, he fought to find some compassion and tried to temper his voice with a softness he wasn't really feeling inside. "Hell, I promise." Daniel closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. It seemed the two words had worked, and as the morphine kicked in, the lines of pain bracketing the soldier's mouth started to relax. Sean took a few minutes, watching as the tension left Daniel's face. He was gorgeous, and the scarring that curved around his ear was less than it seemed. It was close to his left eye at its extremity, the skin puckered and ridged. Taking a deep breath to concentrate, Sean sat back on his haunches, reaching for the scissors and cutting from the ankle upwards on the jeans. He slowed as he neared the knee and cut as carefully as he could around the swelling that was pushing against the denim, distorting the shape. It didn't faze him to see the scars, livid and stretched against the swollen flesh. He had seen worse on his casualty rotation, but what did faze him was why the swelling was so damn bad. Had this idiot really not taken the medication his dad had prescribed? He carried on cutting, running his hand up under the material as he reached the crotch area, and was finally halted by the thickness of the cloth and hard metal under the jeans and Daniel's shirt. Curious, he used his other hand to hold the cloth and separated the top from the belt. A knife—a dagger. Ornate on the hilt and inscribed with words that were worn with time. He didn't question why this invalided soldier carried a knife, particularly what appeared to be an ancient dagger. He had seen some PTSD, knew some of the decisions made by those suffering seemed at odds with what polite society expected. He had dealt with an attempted suicide from a guy who had lost his whole unit in one go, and he'd been left without a scratch. Survivor guilt, PTSD, so many descriptions for so many different souvenirs soldiers brought home from war. Daniel's face was different without the violence in his eyes or the pain in his body. At peace, eyes closed, with morphine-soft sleep allowing him to rest, he had a gentleness to him. He really was a stunning man, all carved sharp angles and muscles. Clearly the wasting on his left leg was not anywhere else. He still had strong arms, a small amount of scarring blemishing his left arm. He must still work out. His thick black hair had a natural curl to it, and he evidently hadn't kept up with keeping it army-short as it curled around his ears in defiance of style. His eyes were closed, but before they'd closed, Sean had looked past the glaze of pain and wide pupils to the deep mink brown and the lines of amber that specked to the centre. They were beautiful. Hell, he was just Sean's type, all dark and brooding alpha male. His dark hair, thick and unruly was currently plastered to his head with sweat, and the dark brown eyes were hidden behind tightly closed lids. He shook his head. Doctors did not harbour impure thoughts about patients, however gorgeous they were. He was not perving on the curve of Daniel's dick as he cut away the jeans or the muscles that were hard and defined on his broad chest as he pulled the T-shirt to one side. That was just wrong. He palpated the knee. He knew he'd promised no hospital, but unless he could get this swelling down… Sighing, he moved back slightly and pulled two blankets over the resting man. He probably had around three hours before Daniel would wake in pain, and he needed to rest, and maybe research a little on knee injuries.</div>

The Soldier's Tale (The Fitzwarren Inheritance #2)

The Book Book Two in The Fitzwarren Inheritance Corporal Daniel Francis has returned to his childhood home in England to heal; the only on...

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