Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [24]
“Will we ever get to the point where we can live together as a family?” Sara asked as she killed the engine.
Kerney avoided Sara’s questioning look, removed Patrick from his child’s seat, hoisted him into the front of the SUV, and put him on his lap. The last thing he wanted was to start the weekend with an argument.
Sara put the SUV into reverse and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not picking a fight. Patrick has a brand-new book he’s been saving for you to read to him, and guess what? It’s about a horse.”
Patrick grinned and tugged Kerney’s hand. “It’s about a pony,” he said emphatically, “not a horse. I’ll show it to you.”
Kerney opened the door. “Let’s go, champ. I’ve got to see this book.”
As Sara drove away, Patrick scooted toward the cottage, urging Kerney to hurry. He followed Patrick up the path, delighted by his smart, self-confident son and disconcerted about Sara’s situation. Would new orders place her in harm’s way, separated from Kerney and Patrick for the duration?
Except for Kerney’s pending retirement all plans were now on hold. There was some solace knowing that at least he’d be free to be a full-time parent if circumstances required it. But the thought of not seeing Sara for an indefinite period of time was gut wrenching.
“Come on, Daddy,” Patrick said.
Kerney smiled and hurried to his son.
Brigadier General Stuart Thatcher delighted in keeping subordinates off guard and anxious. He routinely called his staff in for impromptu meetings or one-on-one confabs without specifying an agenda, and took great pleasure in making them wait interminably outside his office.
To deal with the man, Sara tried hard to control her feisty nature but at times found it impossible to do so. With appropriate deference to his rank she would occasionally point out to Thatcher that she would be better prepared to meet with him if she knew in advance what he needed to talk to her about. The suggestion always brought color to Thatcher’s cheeks.
Additionally, Sara had taken to asking Thatcher’s secretary to buzz her when the general was ready to meet, so she could work at her desk rather than waste time cooling her heals outside his office. Although it raised Thatcher’s ire, he couldn’t fault her working instead of waiting.
How Thatcher had earned his one-star rank had always confounded Sara, until she’d learned he was a third-generation West Pointer with a senior U.S. senator in his extended family.
Sara shared an office with three other officers. She sat at her cubicle desk and listened as her colleagues got ready to leave for the day. Twelve-to sixteen-hour workdays were not uncommon at the Pentagon. But when Friday came, everybody who wasn’t scheduled for weekend duty bailed out as soon as possible.
On her desk stood a photograph of Kerney and Patrick astride a horse at the Santa Fe ranch. From the grins on their faces both of them looked like they were in heaven. Sara marveled at how much Patrick and Kerney were alike in personality, temperament, and looks. They had the same square shoulders, gentle strong hands, and narrow waists. They shared a dogged determination to do things well and a capacity to be bullheaded.
Two sides of the same coin, she thought with a smile.
She said good-night as her office mates filtered out, wondering how long Thatcher would keep her waiting. An hour later, after she had cleared out some routine paperwork, Sara’s phone rang and she was summoned to Thatcher’s office, where she found him sitting ramrod straight in his chair, hands clasped on the obsessively tidy desk.
Sara snapped to and said, “Sir.”
Thatcher raised his egg-shaped head that was punctuated by a pointy nose, thin lips, and a seriously receding hairline. “You are to be held over at the Pentagon pending reassignment.”
“Sir, I am aware of that,” Sara said, wondering if Thatcher had called her in to repeat old news simply as a way to jack her around.
Thatcher