Honors refuge, p.1
Honor's Refuge, page 1
Praise for the Love and Honor Series
“Hallee writes with such authentic detail that I felt the sweat drip off my brow, heard the buzz of the African jungle, and ran for dear life with Cynthia and Rick. A rich story of courage and seeing the world with new eyes. Riveting, this book will get under your skin and into your heart. Absolutely fantastic.”
Susan May Warren, USA Today bestselling author, on Honor Bound
“What a fabulous story with perfectly crafted characters who grab your heart from the opening page. I loved everything about it—from the witty dialogue to the breath-stopping suspense to the tender romance. Once I started, I couldn’t put it down. I highly recommend this book and can’t wait for the next one.”
Lynette Eason, award-winning, bestselling author of the Extreme Measures series, on Honor Bound
“Hallee Bridgeman weaves a military suspense with romance for a fast-paced adventure. Word of Honor kept me turning pages all night long.”
DiAnn Mills, author of Concrete Evidence, on Word of Honor
“This book has something for everyone—action, adventure, romance, and true-to-life sadness and grief. Hallee crafts a complex story infused with spiritual truth, wrapped around intriguing lead characters with complicated personalities and backgrounds. Phil and Melissa will have you rooting for them the whole way through.”
Janice Cantore, retired police officer and author of Breach of Honor, on Honor’s Refuge
BOOKS BY HALLEE BRIDGEMAN
LOVE AND HONOR
Honor Bound
Word of Honor
Honor’s Refuge
© 2022 by Hallee Bridgeman
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3890-7
Scripture quotations, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, are from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
Contents
Cover
Praise for the Love and Honor Series
Books by Hallee Bridgeman
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Discussion Questions
Recipes
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
This book is dedicated to the EMTs and paramedics who are on our streets every day—first responders who go into unknown and at times dangerous situations with the single mission to help those in need. Thank you for your dedication to your calling.
Prologue
Missy huddled with three-year-old Lola between the nightstand and the bed, praying her little sister would stay asleep. Her father’s fist hit her mother’s face with a sickening thud, and Missy’s stomach rolled. She really shouldn’t have let the macaroni and cheese burn. This was all her fault.
Her mom landed on the floor, clutching her big round belly with the new baby. Her father yelled and kicked her with his boots. Her mom reached forward, and for a moment, Missy was terrified that she was grabbing for her. Instead, she grasped the cord of the telephone. It landed next to Missy as her father stomped on her mom’s arm.
She stared at the phone. 911. She’d learned that on Sesame Street yesterday. In case of a fire, call 911. Even though this wasn’t a fire, maybe a fireman would help her mom. She reached out, pressing the buttons very carefully.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a woman said.
Missy trembled, afraid her father would hear her speak, so she said nothing. Pulling Lola closer, she kissed her curly black hair. Her sister started to struggle against her, and she worried she would start crying. Just as Lola broke free, her father stormed away and slammed the bedroom door.
Eyes closed, Missy waited for him to come back. Her mom gave a long cry, and Missy cracked open one eye to make sure the door was still shut. She shifted out from her hiding place. Her mom lay with her arms around her stomach, panting. Lola walked over to her and knelt down, patting her on the head. Her mom let out another long moan.
With a loud bang, the door slammed open. Missy’s whole body froze in fear. Her hands tingled and her breath wouldn’t move past her chest. Her father filled the doorway. He looked at Missy, then at Lola, and walked toward the bed. Missy ducked out of the way, grabbed Lola’s hand, and ran to the door.
Her father picked the phone up and stared at it. “What did you do?” he shouted at her mom. He bent and grabbed her by her hair, putting his face close to hers. “What did you do?”
Her breath ended on a hiccup, and she panted, “You better run. They’re coming and they’ll find it all.”
Missy clung to Lola’s hand and crouched in the hall, trying to decide what to do while her father hung up the phone and then dialed a number. He turned his back on them and spoke in Spanish. “Cops are coming.” After a pause he said, “Whatever you think is best.” He looked over his shoulder at Missy and narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes, sir.”
Missy’s heart leapt into her throat. She kept a firm grip on Lola’s hand and ran down the hall and through the living room. In the kitchen, she could still smell the burned macaroni and cheese.
“Come on, Lola,” she whispered, pushing open the dog door.
Lola hesitated, giant tears sliding down her face. “Mommy said no,” she said, pushing her hand against the door.
“You have to go!” Missy looked over her shoulder. Her father must still be on the phone. Thinking that Lola would follow her if she went first, she pushed her hands and head through the small door. Little pebbles on the patio dug into her palms, and the front of her leg scraped against the metal frame, but she didn’t cry.
Outside, she lifted the flap and motioned for Lola to follow her. Her sister’s lip trembled, but she crawled through.
On the back porch, Missy looked around. Where to hide? He’d look in the fort by the swing set. She took Lola’s hand and ran around to the front of the house, to the big bush by the mailbox. If they sat on the curb, he probably couldn’t see them. The bush would hide them.
Lola covered her ears with her hands and closed her eyes. “Mommy,” she said.
Missy put her arm around her. Her leg stung where she’d hit the dog door. She poked at the bloody scrape as tears fell down her face. “Be quiet, Lola. Let’s wait for the firemen.”
Instead of a fire truck, though, a police car came. Missy didn’t know what she’d done to make the police come instead of the firemen, but she was so happy to see two officers get out of the car that she couldn’t even speak.
The woman spotted them and knelt next to them by the mailbox. She had nice eyes and smelled like peppermint. “It’s not safe out here by the road,” she said, putting a hand on Lola’s head. “Where are your parents?”
“Mommy,” Lola cried, then looked over her shoulder toward the house.
Missy’s lower lip trembled. “Mommy’s hurt.”
“Is your dad here?” the policewoman asked.
“Daddy’s bad,” Lola said. She covered her ears again.
As the policewoman stood up, she talked into the radio on her shoulder, using words and numbers that Missy didn’t understand.
“It’s okay, Lola,” Missy said as the officers walked toward the house. “We’ll be okay now.”
CHAPTER
ONE
25 YEARS LATER
OCTOBER 20
When Melissa Braxton eyed Phil Osbourne’s black truck turning into the parking lot, she snatched up her book and opened it. She settled back into the booth to give a false appearance of relaxation. She didn’t want him to think she’d sat here just anticipating his arrival, watching every car that drove by. He didn’t need or want that kind of attention.
She didn’t put the book down until she felt him slide into the booth across from her. She intentionally looked startled at his arrival. “Oh, hi,” she said with a grin. “Glad you made it.”
Phil had dark blond hair, gray-green eyes set on a square face, and a mouth that didn’t smile often
“You ever going to finish that book?” he asked as he settled into the booth.
She found the gumption to blink in innocence. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been reading that same book for a couple of weeks now.”
She should have given his observation skills a little more credit. She kept the book in her car for the “reading, not waiting” ruse. She shrugged. “I only read it here.”
The diner owner, Delilah Pérez, arrived with a pot of coffee. She was Phil’s mom’s best friend, and Phil had grown up around her. She usually waited on them instead of one of the waitresses.
“Morning, Phil,” she said as she set a container of cinnamon next to his coffee cup.
He smiled up at her. “Delilah. Good to see you.”
“Regular?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Delilah looked at Melissa. “What about you, hon? What’s this morning’s story?”
The Cuban diner had all the flavors she remembered from her grandparents’ kitchen. “Hmm, how about plantain and corned beef hash?” she asked.
“You want spice?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Melissa pulled her braid over her shoulder and toyed with the end of it while she redirected her attention to Phil. “I don’t see how you can eat oatmeal day after day. This place could bring so much flavor to your life.”
“I like flavor. Just not at eight in the morning.” He rested his forearms on the table, linking his fingers. “How are you?”
How was she? She didn’t think “desperately in love with you and wishing you’d notice me” was the answer he sought. So she went to where he would follow. “Rough night. A woman with three kids called at two. The police took her husband, but she was afraid he’d come back before morning, so she wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.”
Melissa operated a domestic abuse shelter. Everyone kept the location mostly a secret. She and her partner had spread the contact information to doctors’ offices, hospitals, therapists, schools, and emergency services. She gave the victims a safe home, provided family and individual counseling, and helped them start new lives—usually away from Miami. Phil provided medical care whenever she couldn’t convince someone to go to the hospital.
“How old?” He sprinkled cinnamon into his coffee.
“Four, five, and seven.”
He shook his head as he stirred the rich brew. “Poor kids.”
“I know. They’re shell-shocked right now.”
He held up the cinnamon as if asking if she wanted some, but she shook her head.
“I didn’t get a lot of time to speak with her,” she said. “I have a meeting with her during lunch to start the initial counseling.”
As Phil took a sip of his coffee, she studied his face. Normally at breakfast, he had a hint of a beard and tired eyes from working the night shift. This morning, he looked rested and groomed, and she could smell the hint of his aftershave. “Big plans today?”
He put his cup down and smiled. “Actually, I have a couple of friends coming to town.”
“Friends?” She knew his parents and brother from church, but she had never met any of his friends. “Where are they coming from?”
“Alaska and Virginia.”
“From the service?”
He nodded.
“That will be nice. You going to play tour guide?”
Another smile. Wow, two in one morning! “Nah. Drumstick is helping me with a project. Pot Pie is his business partner.”
With raised eyebrows, Melissa repeated, “Drumstick and Pot Pie?”
“That’s what we call them. Those were their nicknames on our team.”
He sounded animated, almost happy. She loved that his friends generated this kind of energy in him. “Let me guess, your nickname was Ozzy Osbourne.”
“No. Close, though.” He took another sip of coffee. “Doc Oz.”
“Right! Of course. Because you’re a doctor.”
“I was the medic. When they first named me, they didn’t know I was actually a doctor. Eventually they did, but I thought Doc Oz fit perfectly. Though, in tight situations, Ozzy took less energy to say, and they often just reverted to that.”
She stared at him in awe. Those had to be the most words he’d strung together in all the time she’d known him. Before she could reply, Delilah arrived with the food. Melissa smiled as the woman slid her hash onto the table. The spicy smell of the peppers wafted up with the steam. Phil glanced at his oatmeal and thanked Delilah, then looked at Melissa. She bowed her head and listened to his voice soften as he spoke to God.
“Father, we thank You for the way You constantly bless us. Thank You for this meal, and we ask that You bless it to the nourishment of our bodies and bless our bodies to Your service. Amen.”
Delilah set a hot sauce bottle on the table before Melissa could ask for it, then winked at her as she walked away. Melissa doused her hash liberally while Phil sprinkled sliced almonds and raisins over his oatmeal.
“So, I’m going to guess Pot Pie’s name is probably Swanson,” she said, “hearing how it works.”
He looked surprised. “Well done.”
“I’m stuck on Drumstick, though. Let me think about it some more.”
“I have no doubt you’ll be able to deduce it.”
They ate in silence for several minutes before she asked, “How long are they here for?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Until they’re done.”
“What’s this project?”
He paused, looking at her for several heartbeats. “Something for a friend.”
“Another elusive friend? Well, you’re just building a village, aren’t you?”
He ignored her like she knew he would. Disappointment tried to cloud her contentment at spending the morning with him. She wanted more, and she wanted him to want more. She’d made the initial step in asking him to breakfast the first time. He’d suggested lunch the next Sunday. That was where it all began and exactly where it all ended.
She’d made up her mind today to just ask him about it. Did he want to see her beyond this? Was he attracted to her? Should she give up?
Not when he had friends coming to town today, though. Seeing how animated he’d become filled her heart. She didn’t want to risk infringing on that.
She took a sip of her coffee and washed down a bite of plantain. “My abuelita used to make this,” she said to fill the silence. “My uncle has always corned his own beef for his deli, and whenever he had some left over, she’d make big batches of hash. She said potatoes made her sneeze, so she made it the way her mom made it in Cuba, with plantains.”
“Oh, right. Your family owns that deli. I still haven’t been there. Work seems to keep me on this side of Miami.”
“Yep. My great-grandfather opened that deli in the late sixties. It’s been handed down from son to son since.”
He chewed on a raisin. “What will happen if there’s not a son?”
“You take that back,” she said with a laugh.
“Did you ever work in the deli?”
Images of customers lined up out the door and meat slicers and giant vats of pickles ran across her mind. “Yes.”
“I’d like to have seen that.”
She couldn’t stop the little tug on her lips in response to his interest. “I worked there all through high school and college.” Her smile faded as memories from her childhood filtered through her mind and her thoughts turned to her sister. Would she ever find her? Her smile faltered as the memories assailed her, but she pushed them aside and said, “So, friends in town today. Will I see you Sunday?”
He ripped a piece of toast in half and spread orange marmalade on it. “I will see you Sunday.” He reclined against the bench while he ate. “I may have my friends with me, but I’ll be there, regardless.”
“Good. I’m speaking.” She finished the last of her hash and took a final sip of her coffee. “I have to run. I have a mom who needs a ride to the bus station at ten.”
As she slid out of the booth, he reached out and touched her forearm. She immediately stilled. “I’m sorry I was late. It’s good to see you.”
Unsure of what brought on the intenseness emanating from him, she stared into his eyes for probably a second too long. Finally, she said, “Drumstick is Sanders, right? For Kentucky Fried Chicken?”
