The Widow and The CEO.

Prologue 1. Oasis in the Desert.

The Widow and The CEO.

This book is a retelling inspired by the book of Ruth from the bible. It is a romance story, brought up to date. It will have lots of love, heartache, and, of course, romance, but it will be very PG-friendly, as my amazing Mother is reading it. So do not expect any detailed, explicit scenes. This book has four prologues to set up the main story. So, there will be some tears at first. However, the real romance begins after that, so do not be disheartened, and stick with it.

If you liked The Ruthless Kings Replacement King, then you are sure to love this one. JN x

Prologue One - Oasis in the Desert.

The heat of the scorching sun relentlessly beat down on Staff Sergeant Clay Miller’s back, as he lay atop the large sand dunes. His parched throat was desperate for some reprieve, but with his water rations limited, he knew to take a gulp now would only lead to regret later, during the laborious journey back to camp. It would be a long stag, under the hot Afghanistan sun, especially for one, with such fair skin as he. This was his first watch since he had returned to these lands three weeks prior. After a three-year absence, after he was called back to good old blight, in the mass relocation of troops.

Now he was back, and when the opportunity arose to come to scope out the small village once more, he jumped at the chance. He pulled out his military-issue binoculars, scanning the small village that was an oasis in the barren desert lands. This little outpost was one of the village’s his unit was commanded to watch over. They had freed the villagers from the control of the regime that used religion as a way to control and abuse. Five years ago, Clay had been part of the strike force that had won the three-day firefight that had driven them away, giving the villagers a reprieve from their tyranny.

As he lay looking over the vast expanse of rippling sand, Clay remembered fondly how the kids of the village had all welcomed the western soldiers with warm smiles. He had given the kids his ration of chocolate, much to their delight. But one girl around 13 years old, with big black eyes, her head covered in a black veil had stood back, she had been shy, fearful of what these western men armed with weapons, dressed in desert combats would do to her. With his rations all gone, Clay looked over at the girl and offered her a small smile in an attempt to reassure her.

“Tell her we will not harm her,” Clay remembered informing his translator.

The girl had looked up at him then, uncertainty swirling in her eyes. Something about her spoke to Clay in a deep way, he wondered what abuse she had suffered, and rage that someone could have hurt this innocent child knotted in his stomach.

Clay had cursed himself that day. Lamenting that he had not thought about bringing more sweets from his rations, hating that the young girl would not receive the sort-after, delicious goodies. He had turned to his brother, who served alongside him at that time, asking if he had anything left for the girl.

“Sorry Bro, they took the lot,” James Miller had shrugged, laughing light-heartedly, as he ran off to play a game of football with the boys of the village.

Back then, it had taken over four visits before the youngster began to trust him. Clay had persevered, over the months of his tour, and always ensured to visit the girl and her mother. Slowly he built a brotherly bond with the girl.

Her name was Ruth. During one of his many visits, her mother opened up via the translator who always accompanied the soldiers on their missions. Clay’s fears had been confirmed, both mother and daughter had suffered at the hands of men. Ruth had been beaten twice for daring to read a book. Anger had almost engulfed him that day, but he had schooled his features into a stoic mask so as not to frighten the family. Clay had breathed a sigh of relief though, it could have been worse, so much worse than just a beating. Clay had discovered during his many open and honest conversations with Ruth’s mother, that she was a widow. Her husband was lost two years previous, at the hands of the evil men who had ruled over them with an iron fist for allowing his then eleven-year-old daughter to learn reading and writing. He had continued to build a strong friendship with Ruth and her mother, but as with all things in the Army, his tour came to an end, and he had returned home to England, to a new post, stationed in a new barracks.

Clay had learned on his last visit to the village before the journey back to England, that Ruth was a strong young girl, despite all that had befallen her. She still had a thirst for knowledge and a determination to learn. That day, five years ago, he had gifted Ruth something more precious than chocolate. He had brought her pens and notepads, along with some textbooks he had requested his mother sent, in her care package he received each and every week. Ruth had looked with longing in her eyes at the supplies Clay had provided. A copy of The Pilgrims' Progress, the book his mother Naomi had gifted him when he had made his first holy communion at just seven years old peaked out of his inside pocket. Clay fondly remembered how the young girl had hesitantly reached out, gently touching the book he carried with him on every tour. It was his talisman, a good luck charm. Clay pulled out the small blue paperback book that had traveled with him during his time in the Army, that had stayed with him on many a tour, and passed it to Ruth. Her eyes grew wide with wonder as she opened it and began to read. Clay had been stunned that day. Not only did she read the text in almost perfect English, but she seemed to have an understanding of the words that were written in a tongue not her own.

“You can keep it,” Clay had told the girl through his translator.

Ruth looked at her mother, who simply nodded, and told her to keep it hidden. Ruth had jumped from her sitting position on the dusty floor of her small humble home and hugged Clay. It was a memory he had clung to over the past three years when he prayed for the young girl and her mother, along with all the villagers, that they would be safe.

That was five years ago. So much had happened, but not a lot had changed in this desert land.

A bead of sweat ran down the back of Clay as he lay close to the ground, scoping out the area. Lately, the land they had freed was facing increasing attacks. Although the official line was that the old regime had been ousted, and they had the victory, as the new government worked towards a fair society, outposts like this village were increasingly coming under attack from the re-banded regime rulers. Thankfully, all was quiet, and Clay turned his attention to the village, to see if he could find Ruth, hoping the young girl was safe, and had continued her studies without being harmed.

His eyes scanned the small huts that were the homes of the villagers which surrounded a fountain in the middle. The delighted shouts of children broke the otherwise silent solitude of the desert, as they played. Water was scarce this time of year, but still, a trickle dripped from the top of the rusted water pipe into the bowl below. The women of the village had gathered, taking a small amount in their makeshift utensils, and returning to the shade of their small homes. Clay looked, wondering if he would even recognise the young girl he once knew. She would be 18 now, and in this culture probably married off to a man who was deemed worthy enough to protect her, especially as she had no father in her life. He just hoped the girl was safe, although the thought of a youngster being forced into a marriage to fetch and carry for her husband and bare him children did not sit well with him. Clay had learned a long time ago, to not judge what happened in this land. After all, he was a visitor, who came to give the people a choice, and if they chose this way of life, who was he to complain? A small breeze wafted some sand up into his face, burning where it touched. Clay lay unmoved, thankful for the scarf that he wore around his neck, that he had pulled up over his mouth.

“Alpha One, Sit Rep,” the crackling voice in his ear from the officer in charge of his unit of soldiers sounded.

“Alpha One, all clear, Over,” Clay answered the captain.

Danny, one of his unit, flopped down beside him. The squaddie from the small village of Edensor was new to his unit, but as far as Clay could gather, he was a good lad.

“This heat is a killer, Staff,” Danny grumbled as he took out his own binoculars.

Clay suppressed a chuckle; it was Danny’s first time in the desert and acclimatising to the scorching heat was never easy.

“What are you looking at?” Danny asked, watching Clay as he scoured the village.

“A friend,” Clay answered.

Danny knew better than to pry into a man’s situation so he simply nodded and continued his watch over the dunes, as the sun relentlessly beat its rays onto the pair of soldier’s backs.

“Alpha One, get ready to move out. We are going into the village,” the captain said via the crackly comms.

“Roger that,” Clay answered, then packed up his stuff with a bubbling in his stomach of nervous excitement, that, soon he would find out just what had happened to the young girl Ruth, and her mother. Giving the order to the small troop of men under his command to move to their positions.