True Horizon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Kudos for Laurie Winter

  True Horizon

  Copyright

  Dedications

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Do you know how to ride? Horses, that is.”

  “That’s a negative, ma’am.”

  “Well, I guess it’s time you learn.” She rubbed her hands together. “The ranch is fun to explore on horseback.”

  “As grateful as I am that you sprung me from jail, I’m not interested in death by horse. Is there anything else I can do? Wash your car? Paint your nails? I’m building your wedding gazebo, don’t forget.” His internal temperature rose along with his panic. The thought of riding one of those huge beasts made his nausea revisit with full force.

  “You were in the Army, right?” she asked.

  Afraid of where this line of questioning was headed, he nodded.

  “You jumped out of planes? Fast roped out of helicopters? Was shot at?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “But you’re afraid of riding a sweet, tame horse?” A smirk formed on her face.

  “I didn’t say I was afraid.” Too late, he realized his assertion of fearlessness was tantamount to surrender. How would he get out of this situation with his male pride still intact? News flash, soldier—you’re not. Grace was on the offensive and showed no signs of surrender.

  “Great! I’ll go change and meet you in the stables.” She smiled and took off toward the house, her spry legs moving quickly across the lawn.

  He forced his gaze away and slowly walked to the stables. “I survived multiple tours in a war zone only to be ensnared by a bewitching siren and lured to my death on horseback,” he muttered to himself.

  Kudos for Laurie Winter

  “I enjoyed this book so much, and I knew it would be a hit with Laurie Winter’s talents and charms.”

  ~RomanticReviews.blog

  ~*~

  “Laurie Winter captures her audience’s heart and attention right from the very moment they flip the first page.”

  ~UnderneathTheCoversBlog.com

  ~*~

  “This was a great story with great characters. I really enjoyed this book and look forward to more from this author.”

  ~Mara W. (Netgalley)

  ~*~

  “I just loved Julie and Reagan’s story. This is a great read, and you won’t want to put it down. Cannot wait to read more from Laurie.”

  ~Sarah C. (Netgalley)

  ~*~

  2015 Pages from the Heart Contest

  2nd Place—Hero of Our Heart Award

  Honorable Mention

  ~*~

  True Horizon

  by

  Laurie Winter

  Warriors of the Heart Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  True Horizon

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Laurie Hoffman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1791-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1792-2

  Warriors of the Heart Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  To Paul, Kailey, Jenna, Brandon, and Nicolle,

  whose support and encouragement

  provide me with endless inspiration

  ~*~

  A special dedication to Luis Carlos Montalván,

  former Captain in the US Army,

  and his PTSD support dog, Tuesday

  ~*~

  Several years ago, while doing research for True Horizon, I had the honor of attending a presentation by former Army Captain Montalván and Tuesday. His presentation, along with his book—Until Tuesday—brought to life the daily struggles and heartaches that many of our service members experience after coming home from war. Former Captain Montalván worked tirelessly to bring the issue of PTSD to our attention and understanding. Despite the fact he was afflicted with chronic pain, he and Tuesday traveled around the country giving lectures to the public.

  In December of 2016, Luis Carlos Montalván lost his battle with PTSD. While many, including myself, grieve his loss, his life’s work continues.

  Chapter One

  Besides the crashing waves or the occasional honk of a horn, the night had turned blissfully silent. Just in time, too, because after being stuck in that hot and musty motel room for the past three hours, Heath Carter needed a release.

  Fourth of July used to be his favorite holiday. Back in high school, he’d been that annoying kid who’d shot off tons of fireworks and freaked out the neighbors’ dogs. But lately, any loud explosion had the ability to bring him to his knees. So now that the fireworks had fizzled out for the night, he could find an escape in the bottom of a cold beer.

  Heath stepped out of his motel room and took in a deep breath. The fresh air still held strands of the humid heat that earlier in the day had blanketed Galveston. But the breeze was now coming off the Gulf of Mexico, carrying the water’s crisp chill. He didn’t bother to lock the door behind him. Nothing inside worth stealing, except for the small wad of cash, which he’d safely stashed. The unlit motel parking lot sat quiet as he cut across toward the street.

  Walking down the sidewalk, he approached a large, rambling building bustling with activity. The wooden sign attached over the door read, Breakers. Its faded blue and yellow lettering proclaimed it to be the last local hangout. Inside, the smell of beer mixed with salty sea air reminded him of the places where he and John, his late brother-in-arms, hung out in North Carolina.

  Breakers appeared to be a typical beachside bar, full of local flavor. Colorful flags hung from the ceiling and the walls looked like a scrapbook, cluttered with pictures of Galveston and its fun-loving citizens. He sat on a stool at the far end of the worn bar, away from the crowd, and asked the bartender for a beer. A large group of loud twenty-somethings gathered at the other end. From the sound, they were likely capping off a day of partying. Heath watched them with mild interest then turned his attention back to the cold bottle wrapped in his hand.

  In three long swigs, he drained the bottle a
nd motioned the bartender for another. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young man with pink board shorts and a white sleeveless shirt approach. The dude’s skin was flushed red, a mixture of drunkenness and sunburn. With a lopsided grin and bloodshot eyes, he didn’t appear threatening, just annoying.

  “What’s your deal, man?” He pointed a wavering finger at Heath’s chest. His slurred words tinted with a southern twang. “You look like you just washed up on shore after a shipwreck.” The man laughed at his own joke with a few of his friends joining in.

  “I did.” Heath ran his finger over a deep gash in the wood of the bar top. A sliver pricked and dug into his skin. “The ship of the dead.”

  The man grunted an unintelligible reply and stumbled over to rejoin his group. “The freak over there needs to chill,” he said. “Like havin’ arms full of tattoos makes you a tough guy or something. Bro, I’ve seen homeless people with better grooming. What a loser.”

  Heath tightened his hand around the neck of the beer bottle. Over the past year, he’d grown used to that type of reaction over his looks, but he’d be lying if he said hearing it didn’t bother him. People were narrow-minded and ignorant. They only saw what they wanted to—never stepping out of their own sheltered world. Forcing calm, he glanced at the TV screen that hung crookedly above the bar. With the distraction, his brief flash of anger dissipated.

  On a neighboring stool, a heavy-set man seated himself and barked out a demand for a whiskey on ice. From the irritated look on his face, he seemed as inclined to make conversation as Heath.

  After several minutes of peace, the rowdy group regained Heath’s attention.

  This time, their jokes were directed at two men wearing Army ball caps, who sat in a booth across the room. The loudmouth in the pink board shorts pointed toward the men. “The only people who join the Army are losers who can’t make it in the real world.”

  A red haze permeated Heath’s vision. Leave—walk out the door—go. He stood and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the damp, sticky bar. Instead of following his head, he walked over to the man still on his tirade and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” Heath’s feigned politeness vanished.

  The man turned with a cocky smirk on his pretty-boy face.

  Heath’s fist connected with his jaw. Soft flesh yielded under hard knuckles. The next thing Heath knew, he was lying on the ground, both hands squeezing the man’s throat. The face beneath him blurred into a wavy mirage. John’s face. The sound of shouting snapped Heath back to reality. John wasn’t here. John was dead.

  A stranger’s bug-eyed face came into focus.

  Heath jumped off the man, still sprawled out on the floor. His breath heaved through his constricted throat. Stumbling, he tried to stand. His vision scanned the growing crowd.

  The bartender, a middle-aged man who was as wide as he was tall, started around the counter.

  Without hesitation, Heath turned and strode toward the door, walking into the darkness of the night.

  ****

  Four hours of restless sleep felt like a luxury. Heath packed his olive duffle bag, which took all of sixty seconds. He grabbed a few pairs of jeans, several old shirts, a letter from his grandparents’ lawyer, and the cash he’d hidden. He counted out the remains of his last paycheck. Why couldn’t his cash multiply like the fat cockroaches that hid in every corner? Should be enough money to last him until he found another job. Too bad he didn’t know when or where that would be.

  He studied the grease stuck under his fingernails, a memento from his last job working on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. At the time, working in the middle of the ocean sounded like a perfect escape. But after three months, when his contract was over, he jumped on a chopper to shore and never looked back. That was his life since separating from the Army, darting through short-term jobs with nothing holding his interest for very long.

  With bag in hand, he exited the motel room he’d called home for the past few nights. Leaving his room key on the unoccupied front office counter, he strode to his motorcycle and put all his earthly belongings securely inside the saddlebags. He straddled the bike and started it. The deep-throated engine roared to life. The bike vibrated under him. His black Harley Davidson meant freedom. The world wanted to confine him, hold him down, and label him as damaged. As long as he kept moving, no one would ever have that power.

  After riding for hours, he reached Austin. Unsure if he should head north toward Dallas or continue his trek west, he mentally gave control to the bike. She always knew the right direction and now pulled toward the exit leading north. He followed her lead, eager to explore the Texas prairie landscape he’d read so much about.

  The sun glared intensely overhead like an unblinking eye. Even his dark sunglasses couldn’t block the strong glare reflecting off the pavement. The next exit was for a town called Liberty Ridge. His growing hunger ordered him to stop for chow.

  He parked his motorcycle in the lot by a small café that sat on the town’s Main Street. Red-and-white striped awnings covered the tall windows of The Daybreak Café. He walked inside, and then took a seat on a stool at the counter. The smell of coffee and grilled meat sent his stomach growling. A waitress, who looked old enough to be his grandmother, came over and handed him a menu.

  She gave him a welcoming smile. “Anything to drink, honey?”

  “Coffee, please.” Heath was surprised by her friendly manner despite his disheveled appearance. She must need a new prescription for those thick glasses perched on her nose. Either that or she had a thing for scraggly men.

  “You got it.” She winked before heading through the double doors of the kitchen.

  He didn’t bother to pick up the menu since he always ate the same large meal. Many days, he might only get to eat once, so he’d learned to make his food choice count. While waiting for the waitress to return, he glanced around the mostly empty café.

  A couple of old timers sat at the other end of the counter, talking about rainfall and cattle prices.

  Three women occupied the corner booth. Plates, cups, paperwork, pictures, and fabric swatches littered their table. His gaze rested on one of the young women. Something about her held his attention. Her dark hair rested over her shoulder in a long braid—one he’d love to use his fingers to untangle. Glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window, her copper skin and her high cheekbones hinted at Native American ancestry. She was beautiful.

  The waitress returned with a tall glass of tea. As she set it on the counter before him, the ice cubes clinked inside. “Do you know Grace?” She pointed to the dark-haired girl.

  “No.” His response sounded overly harsh. Heath dropped his gaze to the counter. Over the past year, he’d forgotten how to interact normally with people. He needed to get out of here.

  Mabel, that was what her name badge said, only smiled and tapped her pen on the order pad. “How ’bout I get you something to eat? You look six courses short of a seven-course meal.”

  A hint of a smile formed on his lips, and a short chuckle escaped. A long time had passed since anyone had made him laugh.

  ****

  Grace Murray had been too deep in conversation about bridesmaids’ dress fittings and ornate floral arrangements to pay much attention to the strange man at the counter. But she glanced up when Mabel, with a deep-throated chuckle, placed three heaping plates of food before him. Only one look and she couldn’t tear away her attention. She was sure she’d never seen him in town before, because she would definitely have remembered him. His brown hair hung long, tied behind at the base of his neck. His beard was equally scruffy, and the clothes he wore were old and faded. Each arm bore a patchwork of colorful tattoos. Sweet mercy—despite his crazy appearance, she actually found him kind of attractive. Simply because of the timeless appeal of a bad boy.

  He looked over to catch her gaze before returning his to his food.

  The light color of his eyes surprised her, compared to his dark brows and lashes. And the lost expressio
n in those eyes—he reminded her of one of her dad’s calves who’d gotten cut off from the herd. She could sympathize, since she had experienced the same disconnected feeling the first few years after leaving home.

  “I think we’ve checked everything off your list.” Jenny Murray started organizing the papers that littered the table. “So enough wedding talk. How’s business going, Grace?”

  Grace took a sip of her drink and focused her attention on her future bridesmaids. “Good, I can’t complain. Right now, I have more work than I can handle.”

  Jenny handed over the fabric swatches.

  Grace ran the smooth satin through her fingers before putting them into her bag. “Yesterday, I got a call from a Major Peters from the Army. He offered me a chance to bid on a cyber security contract for a new weapons system they’re developing.”

  “That sounds like a great opportunity,” said Molly, who swung her glossy brunette ponytail over her shoulder. “You gonna bid?

  “Government contracts are like milk and honey to a business,” Jenny said.

  “I already told Major Peters to take my name off his list. I’m not interested in helping secure a system that’s only purpose is to kill.” She didn’t see herself as one of those anti-war hippies, but she didn’t want to profit from the military.

  Molly stole the last French fry off Grace’s plate and popped it in her mouth. “Whatever you think is best. Do you have time to come over to the police station and take a look at our server security? Our computer tech just up and quit last week.”

  “Sure,” Grace said. “I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’m so happy to have you home.” Molly squeezed Grace’s hand.

  Yes, even if only for two months until the wedding. She’d lived in Dallas for so long, away from her family and close friends, that she’d forgotten how much she enjoyed her small hometown. Once again having the opportunity to enjoy a quiet lunch with her best friend and her sister-in-law. And to be surrounded by familiar places and people.

  Jenny turned her head and pointed to the drifter. “Do you see that guy sitting over there? What do you think his story is?”