Vowing Love Read online

  Mom reached across the console and squeezed her arm. “You’ll get your wish.”

  Emotion clogged Brynne’s throat. She swiped at a sudden bout of tears as she pulled around the side of the house and parked beside the florist’s van.

  Reid had worked so damned hard. For a month, she’d been terrified Mother Nature would fly into a hormonal rage and send a monsoon to Steele Ridge. Her anxiety, oddly enough, centered around Reid more than herself. If they couldn’t be married in that gazebo, he’d be devastated.

  She sat for a second, staring at it. He’d painted it the same glossy white as the house and spent hours choosing the rails and decorative borders along the roof. More asters—purple, white, and red—hung from flower boxes that provided an explosion of color. All for her.

  “Oh, Mom,” Brynne said. “Look at the flowers.”

  “Happy wedding day, honey.”

  “Did you do that?”

  Mom’s smile grew wide. “Miss Joan and me. We made the boxes ourselves and hung them this morning.”

  How on earth had they kept that from her? “What time did y’all get out here?”

  Mom laughed. “Early! And, Lord have mercy, Reid and those boys must have torn it up last night. Two of them were out cold in the yard.”

  Uh-oh. Brynne had heard tales about his military buddies and their wild parties. Whether exaggerated or not, it seemed their drunken behavior bordered on hazing. When she’d suggested as much, Reid waved her off, assuring her it was all in good fun. Coping mechanisms, Reid had told her, for the atrocities they saw on missions.

  But passed out? Really? “Were they okay?”

  “Oh, sure. They were snoozing. Probably covered in all kinds of bug bites this morning.”

  Brynne snorted. “Dopes. Serves them right.” She turned off the ignition and opened her door. “Let’s check on the flower delivery then head inside to see if Miss Joan needs help.”

  “Do we need to steam your dress?”

  “No. I hung it in Jonah’s old room and did it yesterday.”

  While being updated by the florist, they found the yard blessedly clear of drunken Green Berets. Instead, twenty-five round tables were being set for two hundred friends and family.

  All of them here to watch Brynne marry the man of her dreams.

  Yes, indeed, this would be the best day of her life.

  2

  From his spot on the floor, Reid peered at Gage, who dragged a hand down his face in a last-ditch attempt to bring his senses awake. From what Reid remembered, he’d hadn’t been a wussy-boy in the moonshine department.

  Behind him, a cell phone honked from somewhere under Mac. But old Phil MacKenzie snoozed away while that damned honking bashed at what was left of Reid’s skull. Reid had known the man five years. They’d served together for three of them. One of the missions included Mac hauling Reid from an about-to-collapse building in Pakistan. From the get-go, it had been fucked. Bad intel, misfiring weapons, crappy weather. Before he’d even stepped into that building Reid had known it wouldn’t be good. Maybe he’d tempted fate by not thinking positive, but three minutes after walking inside, it blew.

  Pow.

  Well, at least part of it did. Jackasses didn’t make the bomb big enough to take out the whole thing.

  The only downside of not being blown to bits was the hunk of cement that landed across Reid’s thighs, pinning him to the floor. He sat there, alone, half in shock, and choking on dust. Before panic even set in, Mac hauled ass, pushing through rubble blocking the crumbling staircase. He looked like King Kong coming up those stairs. Even more so when he hefted the cement beam enough for Reid to scoot out. With Reid unable to walk, Mac tossed him over his shoulder—no small feat considering Reid’s size—and got them both to safety.

  Right before the building imploded.

  So, yeah, he owed Mac a huge-large.

  The phone honked yet again. Whoever the hell that was wanted to talk.

  Had to be the guy’s wife. They’d been having issues lately. One included a visit from the local police due to excessive yelling.

  From the day Mac and Rachael moved in together, before the I’m-preggers-let’s-get-hitched episode, she’d been on him about the time he spent away. Military life wasn’t for everyone, and Rachael most definitely fit into that category.

  Reid slumped lower so he could rest his head against the bottom sofa cushion.

  “Mac?” Gage leaned over and popped the man on the shoulder. “Wake up. Someone is looking for you.”

  Reid didn’t need to look to know his buddy hadn’t moved. This was a guy who could sleep through a raging firefight. Throw in alcohol and it’d take a whole lot more than a pansy-ass poke to get him moving.

  “He won’t get up,” Reid grumbled.

  Gage waggled a finger. “Grif, grab his legs. We’ll move him and get Reid to the couch. He’s gonna need an IV.”

  Grif’s head dipped forward. “An IV? Who’s administering it?”

  “Me. We prepared for this. I got two bags of fluid upstairs. Now grab his legs.”

  From the kitchen another pot crashed to the counter. Shit. Mom was pissed. He didn’t know what scared him more, a pissed-off Miss Joan or a disappointed Brynne. At the thought of his sweet thing’s big brown eyes staring up at him with nothing but sadness, Reid’s stomach flipped again. He needed to either puke or get hydrated. At this point, he didn’t give a good goddamn which as long as he was looking spit-polished for his wedding.

  “Guys, can we cut the chatter and get this operation moving before I barf all over the pretty boy’s Versaces.”

  “Fuck off, Reid,” Grif said. “I should leave you here. And they’re not Versace.”

  Reid gave his older brother the death glare.

  “Swear to God,” Gage said, “if you two start, I’m going HAM on you. We don’t have time for this.”

  Finally, Grif moved to the foot of the couch. Upsie-daisy, they lifted Mac up and over Reid. Grateful for the opportunity, Reid slid onto it, staying upright, but resting his head against the backrest while they dumped Mac on the floor. Mac groaned once, then rolled to his side while Reid stretched his legs out on top of Mac’s torso.

  Gage stared down at Reid. “You good? You need a bucket or something?”

  As if. If he needed to goddamned lose it, he sure as hell wouldn’t do it in his mother’s living room. Between Grif’s abuse and her derision, no way he’d survive that.

  Reid closed his eyes. “I’m good. Just get me going. Brynne’s got the whole bridal party showing up at ten. And she made me promise we wouldn’t see each other beforehand. She’ll kill me if I’m still here when they show up.”

  The squeak of the staircase let him know Gage had left to retrieve the saline that would drown the alcohol in Reid’s system.

  Beside him, Grif was too quiet. Never a good sign. Reid opened his eyes and looked at his brother, who, Reid had to admit, looked at least a little concerned.

  “Jesus, Reid. Are you gonna be able to do this?”

  No lecture. No what-were-you-thinking?

  Thank you, sweet Lord.

  “I’m good.” His voice croaked enough that neither believed it. “And thanks for not being an asshole about this. For the record, I told them I couldn’t get hammered.”

  The stairs creaked again. A sure indicator his savior had returned. “He’s right,” Gage said.

  “Then what the fuck happened?”

  Gage set a backpack and a bag of IV fluid next to Reid and unloaded medical supplies—gauze, gloves, alcohol wipes, medical tape. “A bunch of guys got wasted and lost every last ounce of common sense. I seem to recall him being strapped to a chair and forced to drink.”

  “And these are friends?”

  “Yeah,” Reid said. “At the time, it was funny. We were blowing off steam. As long as we have saline, we’re good. I didn’t expect to feel this bad, though.”

  Gage checked the package holding the catheter. “No worries. You’ll be fixed up i
n no time.” He glanced around, searching the room until his gaze fixed on the front door. “Grif, grab me that coat rack by the door. And a metal hanger, if your mom has one.”

  Ha. Gage was about to sling a saline drip on Mom’s standing coat rack.

  “There’s a batch in the coat closet,” Reid said. “On the floor. She returns them to the dry cleaners for recycling.”

  “On it.”

  Seconds later, his buddy went to work, hooking the saline bag to the hanger then sliding it over a peg on the standing coat rack.

  “Mom is gonna freak when she sees this.”

  “Hey,” Grif said, “if it gets you looking human, Captain America here will be a hero. As usual.”

  At that, Reid laughed. He had to give his sister props. She’d riffed off Gage’s wholesome farm boy looks and given him a spot-on nickname.

  Gage snapped on a pair of gloves and went to work priming the tubing. After tapping it a few times, he nodded. “Good.” He held up a tourniquet. “Which arm?”

  Reid held out his left and Gage secured the band. As dehydrated as he was, this would suck. Rolling veins were the worst.

  Gage pressed down, palpating the vein at least a dozen times. “This one looks good.”

  Figuring he didn’t need to watch, Reid rested his head back and closed his eyes while Gage did his thing.

  “Little stick,” Gage said a second before he drove what felt like a drill bit into Reid’s arm.

  “Ow.” The reaction lacked heat, but was enough to let the captain know he was out of practice.

  “Poor baby,” Grif said.

  Gage loosened the tourniquet and secured the catheter with a sterile bandage. In the minute it took to hook the IV tubing to the bag of fluid, Mac’s phone honked and honked and honked.

  “That’s gotta be Rachael.”

  “Yep.” Gage checked the drip. “Okay, buddy. Good as new in no time.”

  Mom appeared at the kitchen doorway, her jaw dropping in horror. “What on earth?”

  Great.

  She rushed toward them, hands flying. “What are y’all doing?”

  Reid offered a smile that nearly killed him. “It’s okay, Mom. The saline helps.”

  “My God,” she said. “I am not believing this.”

  “He’s fine, Mom.” Grif rested a hand on her shoulder. “You wanted him cleaned up and, apparently, this is the first step.”

  But this was their mother. Cold day in hell when she’d be satisfied with an answer that lacked detail. Mom turned her hazel eyes on Reid. “Do you need a doctor? This isn’t alcohol poisoning, is it?”

  Probably.

  “Uh, no. Moonshine poisoning.”

  “Really?” Grif asked, clearly not happy with Reid’s idea of a joke.

  Unamused, Mom shook her head and walked off, muttering something about sons and early graves.

  “I gotta tell ya,” Grif said, “it’s never dull with you.”

  From the floor, Mac let out a groan. “Fuckers, shut up.”

  Gage gave him a not-so-gentle toe tap. “Watch your mouth. Miss Joan is here. And get up. We got a bridal party showing up—” he checked his watch, “—in less than thirty minutes. If there’s anybody outside, we need to get them to the hotel to sleep it off. Because, hell or high-water, Reid is getting married today. If for no other reason than to save me from the whipping I’ll get from Micki.”

  “Dude,” Mac said. “Get your nasty feet off me.”

  He shoved at Reid’s legs, then rolled, letting Reid’s feet crash to the floor. Getting to his knees, Mac checked out Gage’s handiwork. “I see things are right on schedule.”

  “Yeah.” Reid said. “Your phone’s driving me batshit, though. Who the hell wants to talk to you so bad?”

  “Who do you think? She’s probably pissed I didn’t make it back to the hotel last night.”

  “Did you tell her you would?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well,” Gage said, “she’s got a right to be mad then, doesn’t she?”

  “Hey, you try dealing with her. It’s easier to tell her what she wants to hear and deal with the fallout later.”

  “Brilliant,” Reid said.

  Blowing out a breath, Gage sat on the arm of the sofa and crossed his arms. “Mac, neither of you can be happy.”

  Their friend shrugged. “We’re not. But we’ve got the kids.”

  “Call me crazy, but they’ll probably be better off seeing their parents happy and separated than miserable and married.”

  And, right on cue, Mac’s phone honked. “All right,” he said, “I gotta go. Y’all good here?”

  Reid waved him off. “Go. Make nice. I don’t want any drama. My girl is gonna get a perfect day.”

  No matter what it took.

  * * *

  Finding all going according to plan with the table setup, Brynne and her mother left the yard and, rather than walk to the front of the house, used the kitchen entrance.

  In preparation for the bridal party brunch, Miss Joan’s farm table held catering trays and sternos. The smell of fresh baked bread and pies mingled with the pungent aroma of pecan coffee. Brynne breathed it all in, mourning the pies and bread. For a week she’d avoided carbs. If she intended to fit into her dress, it had to be done.

  But after the ceremony, she was eating. Cake included.

  Not finding Miss Joan in the kitchen, Brynne turned to her mother. “She’s probably in her room.”

  Male voices carried from the living room. One of them most definitely Reid’s.

  Oh, no. Knowing she’d planned the brunch for the bridal party so they could do all things glamour related, he’d promised he’d steer clear.

  Call Brynne a romantic traditionalist, but she wanted to avoid them seeing each other prior to the ceremony. They had, in fact, discussed the schedule in detail. Extreme detail, since Reid didn’t necessarily like doing things other people’s way. Keeping him away from his mother’s home on his wedding day took a little convincing. Had Brynne resorted to certain sexual positions before handing him a typewritten schedule for the morning?

  Why, yes, she had.

  And she dared anyone to call her out on it. Some would say she’d used her body to get what she wanted, essentially prostituting herself. She called it knowing what motivated her soon-to-be husband.

  The one who’d better leave through the front door—immediately—before she wound up on some true-crime show about brides committing murder.

  “Good morning,” she called from her spot.

  Seconds later, Grif filled the doorway leading to the front of the house. “Hey, Brynne. Good morning.” He nodded at Mom. “Mrs. Snodder, good morning. Big day ahead.”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “We’re awfully excited.”

  More voices sounded, this time in hushed tones. Slick-agent smile in place, Grif nodded then glanced behind him, muttering something she couldn’t quite make out.

  When he turned back to her, she waggled a finger. “I know Reid is in there.”

  “Uh, yeah. We’re just leaving. We weren’t expecting you this early.”

  Nice try. “He promised me,” she said nice and loud so her ape of a fiancé would hear, “he wouldn’t be here this morning.”

  She tipped her head back, stared at the ceiling and took a few deep breaths. All she’d wanted was this one thing. One little, silly tradition she’d neglected on her first trip down the aisle. What Reid failed to understand was it would be specific to this marriage. Something special that belonged to just them.

  And, of course, he had to test her on it. While her mother stood beside her.

  Maddening.

  Grif offered a winning smile. “No worries. We’ll clear out.”

  “Reid,” she called, backing toward the door so she couldn’t be seen from the other room. “We talked about this. At length.”

  “I know, sugar,” he said, his voice sounding more hoarse than she’d like on their wedding day. “You’re early.”

  Wa
it one second. Lately, the only time he called her that was when he’d done something wrong. Which, with Reid, happened a lot.

  In spite of herself, she moved closer to Grif. “Hold on,” he said, looking over his shoulder again.

  What were these boys up to?

  Mom stepped up beside Brynne. “Is everything all right?”

  Brynne didn’t necessarily want to know the answer. “Reid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you even doing here? You said you were sleeping in the bunkhouse.”

  The one just down from here that he’d commandeered after moving back to Steele Ridge. He didn’t stay there very much anymore, opting to be with her in her little apartment in town, but he still had it to unwind when he needed space.

  “Uh,” he croaked. “Yeah. I was, then wound up staying here.”

  More noises came from the other room. Footsteps, a shuffling noise, a grunt.

  “Watch it!”

  Was that Gage?

  A loud crash sounded and, tradition or not, Brynne was on the move. “What was that?”

  “Incoming,” Grif said.

  He shifted right, body blocking her so she couldn’t see beyond him.

  She stopped, gave him the evil eye that usually sent Reid into either an attempt at reasoning or a fit of stammering. “Grif, this is my wedding day. You’re a married man. I know you understand the weight of that.”

  “Yep,” he said, “sure do.”

  “Then get out of my way.”

  She made a move to shove by him, but bless his loyal heart, he set one hand on the doorframe, further blocking her. “Give us a second.”

  He made the mistake of looking back again.

  Go.

  Quickly, she ducked under his arm, scooting by him.

  Gage was bent low, lifting Miss Joan’s coat rack off the floor. What was that about?

  Her gaze shot to Reid on the sofa, taking in his dark, rumpled hair, pale skin, wrinkled T-shirt, and cargo shorts.

  And an IV sticking out of his arm.

  3

  “Well, shit,” Reid said.

  How the hell did he always wind up in these situations? If something fucked up happened, it was generally to him.