Blades of Bluegrass Read online

  Blades of Bluegrass

  Synopsis

  Captain Britt Story lost more than her left arm in Afghanistan. She lost faith in honor and humanity when her command’s failure to act cost a young soldier’s life, turning Britt into a ticking political time bomb the U.S. Army and her father, an influential senator, are desperate to disarm.

  Occupational therapist First Lieutenant Teddy Alexander was thrust into the national spotlight when she successfully petitioned to receive survivor’s benefits after her wife was killed in Afghanistan days before DOMA was repealed. Six years later, she remains safely cocooned in the past by her military family until her assignment to rehab Captain Story drags them both into a confusing battle between duty, consequences, and hot attraction.

  What Reviewers Say About D. Jackson Leigh’s Work

  Ordinary is Perfect

  “There’s something incredibly charming about this small town romance, which features a vet with PTSD and a workaholic marketing guru as a fish out of water in the quiet town. But it’s the details of this novel that make it shine.”—Pink Heart Society

  Take a Chance

  “I really enjoyed the character dynamic with this book of two very strong independent women who aren’t looking for love but fall for the one they already love. …The chemistry and dynamic between these two is fantastic and becomes even more intense when their sexual desires take over.”—Les Rêveur

  Dragon Horse War

  “Leigh writes with an emotion that she in turn gives to the characters, allowing us insight into their personalities and their very souls. Filled with fantastic imagery and the down-to-earth flaws that are sometimes the characters’ greatest strengths, this first Dragon Horse War is a story not to be missed. The writing is flawless, the story, breath-taking–and this is only the beginning.”—Lambda Literary Review

  “The premise is original, the fantasy element is gripping but relevant to our times, the characters come to life, and the writing is phenomenal. It’s the author’s best work to date and I could not put it down.”—Melina Bickard, Librarian, Waterloo Library (London)

  “Already an accomplished author of many romances, Leigh takes on fantasy and comes up aces. …So, even if fantasy isn’t quite your thing, you should give this a try. Leigh’s backdrop is a world you already recognize with some slight differences, and the characters are marvelous. There’s a villain, a love story, and…ah yes, ‘thar be dragons.’”—Out in Print: Queer Book Reviews

  Swelter

  “I don’t think there is a single book D. Jackson Leigh has written that I don’t like. …I recommend this book if you want a nice romance mixed with a little suspense.”—Kris Johnson, Texas Library Association

  “This book is a great mix of romance, action, angst, and emotional drama. …The first half of the book focuses on the budding relationship between the two women, and the gradual revealing of secrets. The second half ramps up the action side of things. …There were some good sexy scenes, and also an appropriate amount of angst and introspection by both women as feelings more than just the physical started to surface.”—Rainbow Book Reviews

  Call Me Softly

  “Call Me Softly is a thrilling and enthralling novel of love, lies intrigue, and Southern charm.”—Bibliophilic Book Blog

  Touch Me Gently

  “D. Jackson Leigh understands the value of branding, and delivers more of the familiar and welcome story elements that set her novels apart from other authors in the romance genre.”—Rainbow Reader

  Every Second Counts

  “Her prose is clean, lean, and mean—elegantly descriptive…”—Out in Print

  Riding Passion

  “The sex was always hot and the relationships were realistic, each with their difficulties. The technical writing style was impeccable, ranging from poetic to more straightforward and simple. The entire anthology was a demonstration of Leigh’s considerable abilities.”—2015 Rainbow Awards

  Blades of Bluegrass

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Blades of Bluegrass

  © 2020 By D. Jackson Leigh. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-638-4

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: August 2020

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

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  eBook Design by Toni Whitaker

  By the Author

  Cherokee Falls series

  Bareback

  Long Shot

  Every Second Counts

  Romances

  Call Me Softly

  Touch Me Gently

  Hold Me Forever

  Swelter

  Take a Chance

  Ordinary Is Perfect

  Blades of Bluegrass

  Short Story Collection

  Riding Passion

  Dragon Horse War Trilogy

  The Calling

  Tracker and the Spy

  Seer and the Shield

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a huge, sincere thank you to Tracy Dice Johnson.

  Her open and candid answers to my very personal questions about the loss of her wife, Army National Guard Staff Sgt. Donna Johnson, to a suicide bomber in Afghanistan gave me a much deeper understanding of grief than I could possibly convey in a romance novel. As I explained to Tracy, there are only bits and pieces of their lives in Teddy and Britt’s story, but the underlying sense of devastating loss, and having your grief on display for all to see is the same. Tracy was also an invaluable source of information about military life and deployment, and all the things that aren’t easily found through Google searches.

  And, as always, thanks to my awesome editor Shelley Thrasher. I can always trust her to make my stories better.

  Dedication

  Somewhere along the way, the United States of America has forgotten its roots. Our forefathers came here to escape government control over their religious beliefs, they came from impoverished slums and debtors’ prisons with no hope of escape, and they came here with big dreams of new, better lives.

  We’ve had ups and downs. We birthed the world’s great middle class. We fought a war to end physical slavery, then used discrimination to again enslave the same minority in poverty. We put men on the moon, and established our United States as a world power and the leader/protector of Western Civilization.

  Now something has gone terribly awry. Our middle class is dying as the gap between the wealthy and the poor widens. Our democracy is endangered by corrupt policies. Our judicial system has been infected with partisan politics. We are no longer united. We have lost our place of respect in the world.

  We can only heal if we find a way to overcome the fear that makes us bully, hoard, and arm ourselves against our neighbors.

  Non sibi sed patriae. Not self but country.

  This book is dedicated to every American who exercises their most important Constitutional right in
November of 2020—the right to vote.

  Chapter One

  Capt. Britt Story pulled off the two-lane road and stopped with the nose of her truck nearly touching the sturdy metal gate on the other side of the culvert. There was no road beyond the gate, just twenty acres of lush pasture.

  A small herd of yearlings and a few mares lifted their heads to watch when she got out of the truck. Some returned to their grazing once they saw she wasn’t carrying feed buckets. Others abandoned their snacking to chase and race each other in carefree games, as if her presence had energized them. She smiled at their antics. They’d go to work on the racetrack soon enough.

  Britt closed her eyes, listening to their hooves pounding the soft turf and breathing in the clean smell of recently mowed Kentucky bluegrass. Even though the driveway into her grandfather’s five-hundred-acre Thoroughbred breeding farm was another half mile down the highway, this gate and the pasture behind it were her portal to the sanctuary she’d retreated to every summer, spring break, and most holidays during her childhood and college years. Having grown up following her father’s military career from base to base and then his political career from Kentucky to Washington, DC, she had always considered Pop’s farm her real home.

  When she opened her eyes, her gaze settled on a tall, silvery-gray mare watching her, ears flicking back and forth. Could it be? Britt put her fingers to her mouth and let out two sharp whistles. The mare snorted and took a few tentative steps in her direction. When Britt whistled again, the mare tossed her head and charged across the pasture.

  Britt slipped inside the gate to greet her favorite from the last summer she’d spent on the farm with Pop. She’d finished college and was scheduled to begin her military career in the fall. Pop had used that summer to school both Britt and Mysty in the basics that readied the foal to go out in the world of horse racing. He’d also prepared her for what she was born to do after she had served her country. A love for horses and Kentucky bluegrass ran deep in the Story bloodlines. When she left at the end of that wonderful summer, she knew she would return.

  The eight years that followed had been a whirlwind of training and two deployments. Her father had tried to push her toward the administrative branch, but Britt refused to let his influence tie her to a desk job as some colonel’s admin so she would be primed to follow her father’s move into politics. She was physically tough and a natural leader, and her command was happy to deploy her with the troops.

  Mysty—shortened from her racing name Out of the Myst—slid to a stop, her head bobbing as she extended her nose to sniff Britt’s outstretched hand.

  “Hey.” Britt kept her voice soft, inhaling the familiar scent of horse. She stepped closer to run her hand along the arch of the mare’s long neck while Mysty—finding Britt’s hand empty—snuffled at the pockets of her shirt and jeans.

  “Sorry, but I didn’t bring treats. I’m out of practice.” Mysty gave a disgusted snort and lowered her head to push Britt back a step. Britt pushed back, laughing. “So, you’re still a brat, huh? How’d you do on the track?” She instinctively scrutinized the mare’s legs and settled on the long scar running from knee to fetlock on her front right. “Damn. I’m sorry. Looks like you had a bad time of it.”

  Mysty snuffled at the half-filled sleeve where Britt’s left arm should be, and her happy homecoming instantly turned bitter. “Bet my story beats yours.”

  The rolling hills and red-roofed stables that were Story Hill Farm hadn’t changed, but Britt had. She felt like a foreigner in her own country. She’d lost a lot more than her left arm in the Afghanistan desert, and she harbored no hope of ever being the same.

  Damn it all. Damn the US Army. And damn the stupidly idealistic patriot she’d once been.

  * * *

  Lt. Teddy Alexander whipped her 2017 BMW 230i convertible into what had to be the last available parking space at the large Veterans Affairs Medical Center. She took a moment to turn her face up to the cloudless blue sky and soak in the warm, early summer sun. God, she loved this car, and she loved summertime. Enough basking.

  She twisted the rearview mirror for a quick check—her cover was still snuggly positioned on her head and her tight bun intact—as the car’s roof emerged from its nook in front of the trunk and stretched toward the windshield. She checked that it locked down securely, then gathered her briefcase and climbed out of the low-slung sports car.

  She felt like skipping into the medical center, where she worked as an occupational-slash-physical therapist. The past month had been a career whirlwind. Her commanding officer, Col. Tom Winstead, had been selected to head a team assigned to liaise with various civilian research projects exploring advanced prosthetics. And, he wanted to take her along as his admin and occupational specialist.

  The first steps included attending a week-long conference on prosthetic research and development. It was heart-stopping to see in person what was now possible, and what was almost in reach. Next, they’d traveled to Washington and New York City to meet with other potential members of Winstead’s team, and they’d spent an amazing week checking out the labs of the civilian researchers at MIT and Duke University, who were making unthinkable advances in bionic limbs.

  The question of where they’d be based once the team was fully formed hadn’t come up, but she hoped it would be Walter Reed in DC. The team’s mission was to examine the feasibility of bionic prosthetics that could turn wounded warriors into productive soldiers again. They’d also be key in examining the ethics of bionic warriors, a subject that world leaders were reluctant to address. What would keep a military power or terrorists from building an army of soldiers with bionic limbs that contained military technology and weaponry? How would other nations respond?

  It was a slippery slope, and she was thrilled to be included. Also, this experience would certainly rocket her up the military career ladder. She’d likely make captain within the year.

  When she entered the gymnasium-sized room that was the department’s work area, a few patients were already being coached at various therapy stations. Teddy breezed through on her way to her small office, flashing a thumbs-up at a soldier who was grinning broadly after taking his first steps using a new, multi-jointed prosthesis.

  Yep, the sun was shining and her future was looking bright…until she saw the single rose on her desk, placed next to a steaming mug of cocoa, and then the envelope on top of the mail in her inbox. It was addressed in a familiar scrawl—My dear daughter-in-law.

  Teddy set her briefcase down, sank into her chair, and closed her eyes. Guilt and shame flooded her. She didn’t have to look at today’s date on the calendar. Sure, it’d been five years, but she’d never forgotten before. Never. She’d been so busy, so selfishly happy about this project, she hadn’t noticed the calendar date. Truthfully, she hadn’t thought or dreamed of Shannon in months. God, she was such an ass. Such a selfish ass.

  She was instantly transported to her old office at Fort Bragg. Shannon stood in the doorway, smiling and fingering the buzzed hair at the base of her skull.

  “What do you think, babe? That long hair was a pain when I deployed last time. So I thought I’d go short while I’m gone. I kind of like it. If you hate it, I can let it grow out again when I get back.”

  Only Shannon hadn’t come back. Well, she did, but in a casket that remained closed after the chaplain explained the suicide bomber had grabbed Shannon a second before the explosion.

  A soft knock on Teddy’s open door jerked her from the unwelcome memories.

  “Hey. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Colonel Winstead stood in the doorway, his expression solemn.

  Teddy stood and offered a weak smile. “I’m afraid you caught me wool-gathering, sir.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “I’ve been so busy dragging you all over the East Coast to get ready for this project, I lost track of the date until Tess reminded me this morning. It’s fine if you want the day off, Teddy. I’ve been working you pretty hard.”

 
Teddy shrugged. She didn’t want to go home and dwell on her memories. Not another year. It wasn’t like she was still stationed at Fort Bragg and could visit the cemetery. “I’ve got a lot of notes from our trips to organize. I’d rather work, if that’s okay.”

  He nodded. “If you change your mind, you have my permission to slip out.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He ran his hand over his graying buzz cut as if he wanted to say something more, then turned to leave.

  “Colonel Winstead?”

  He turned back to her and smiled. “Change your mind already?”

  This time, her answering smile didn’t feel forced. “I was wondering if you have a timeline for what’s next. With the project, I mean.”

  He tilted his head, a sign that Teddy knew meant he was considering a decision, then waved for her to follow. “Grab that cocoa Tess made for you and come into my office.”

  “She really didn’t need to do that,” Teddy said, picking up her mug and a notepad.

  His wave was dismissive. “I told her that, but she wouldn’t have listened even if I was commander in chief.” He settled into the leather chair behind his desk, and Teddy set her mug on the far corner of his desk, then pulled a straight-backed chair close in front of the desk so she could reach it while she took notes. “I don’t have to tell you who wears the stars in the Winstead household. In fact, the general picked that rose from her own garden this morning.”

  “Does she know you call her ‘the general’?”