Badge of Honor

Milly

My mud-brown Mazda spluttered along the oak-lined driveway and whined and groaned its way up the pristine concrete rise toward the Sullivan country estate. The Sullivans were one of the wealthiest families in the small New Zealand town of Clare, and I was their newest employee. I gripped the wheel and tried to ignore the mid-morning summer heat and the prickle of perspiration beneath my nurse’s uniform.

Everything would be fine once I arrived.

It had to be since I was out of options.

A set of wrought-iron gates appeared before me when I rounded the corner. The woman at the employment agency had warned me about the high level of security and given me instructions.

I coasted to a stop and lowered my window to a blast of fragrant foliage and parched grass. My sweaty forefinger stabbed the call button.

“Yes?” a harsh male voice said.

“I’m Millicent Jones. The nurse for Connor Sullivan. The agency sent me.”

“Follow the signs for the staff car park. The housekeeper will meet you.”

The intercom clicked off abruptly, and the gates slid open, so I hurriedly drove through and tried not to gawk at the mansion before me. It was an architectural marvel designed to integrate with nature. All sexy angles and sparkling glass, the building reminded me of a confident modern miss who knew her worth. In my imagination, she raised her eyebrows and sneered at me.

Hired help.

A carved wooden signpost guided me to the staff car park, where my poor Mazda was as out of place as me. Too bad. I grabbed my handbag, my introductory letter, and climbed from my car. My suitcase could wait until later. Nothing about this job would send me fleeing.

Nothing.

I was too desperate to earn the generous wage promised with this job.

My chance to start over. I’d rebuild my life and…

Aware of my thoughts drifting, I straightened my agency uniform and strode to the door. It opened before I grasped the ornate lion knocker. A tall brunette woman smiled at me. She had impeccable makeup and wore black pants and a white blouse with a lace collar. A subtle floral perfume wafted from her.

“You must be Millicent Jones. Come this way, and I’ll show you to Connor’s room. Mrs. Sullivan is expecting you.”

“Call me Milly,” I said with an answering smile.

“Carolyn Fielding. I’m the housekeeper.” Her gaze settled on the half of my face that bore a network of scars. “I think you’ll please Mrs. Sullivan.”

I sucked in a breath, unsure of how to take this conversational gem. People always stared at me. My scars weren’t pretty, but I was alive. My parents and older brother hadn’t been so lucky.

Carolyn set a rapid pace, leading me through a pristine kitchen, equipped with gleaming gadgets and copper pans, into a carpeted passage, and up a curved set of stairs to the second floor.

What the heck had the housekeeper meant by her comment? My mind groped for understanding while attempting to take in my luxurious surroundings. Nerves over the new job jumped to the fore. As I trotted after the housekeeper, raised voices broke through my unease.

The housekeeper slowed at an f-bomb explosion before squaring her shoulders and continuing. A woman’s voice broke the silence, the words indistinct. A succinct reply lobbed back, and it became clear my presence wasn’t required or welcome.

Adrenaline shot through me, and my breath caught in my throat. The beads of sweat that had dried in the air-conditioned atmosphere burst into prominence again, making my stiff tunic top plaster to my spine.

The urge to flee zipped to life, but I rooted my feet and fought to remain calm. No, this couldn’t happen. No matter the obstacles, I would not falter. I refused to sleep in my car for yet another scary night.

“I am going back to the army, dammit, and none of you can stop me,” the f-bomb dropping voice roared.

“Calm down, Connor.” It was the woman again, presumably his mother.

A third voice, also masculine, spoke up. “How can you return to the army when you can’t see? You’re blind. That makes running around in camo gear and aiming guns difficult, don’t you think?”

The callous remark had me bursting into the room. I marched toward a king-size bed and planted my hands on my hips.

My patient sat on the edge of the bed, pristine white bandages covering his eyes and winding around his head, while a platinum blonde with a jaunty jaw-length cut stood nearby and wrung her hands. The redness of her eyes suggested recent crying, and her bottom lip still wobbled. A suit-clad man with black curls stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and glaring at my patient.

After my brief scan of the room, I turned to Mrs. Sullivan. “Hello, I’m Millicent Jones, the agency nurse.”