Soldier's Promise. Cindi Myers
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any case, he didn’t have room in his life for a relationship right now—he hadn’t had that kind of room for a long time. Before the army, family drama had stolen all opportunity to get close to anyone else. He’d been caught between his concern for his mom and sister, and his anger that they were always so needy. His mother was over forty, and she seemed incapable of looking after herself. She was always in trouble—trouble with creditors, trouble with the law, trouble with drugs.
Four years ago, he had told himself things weren’t that bad. His leaving might even be the kick in the pants she needed to accept her responsibilities and get clean. When he had finally gotten over his anger enough to touch base with her, six months after he’d enlisted, he had been more annoyed than worried when he discovered she had left town. He told himself she would turn up again. She always did.
Then he had been deployed, and time had gotten away from him. It had taken him months after his discharge to find her, months during which he had decided he had been a coward for running out on Sophie the way he had. He had been so eager to escape his problems, he hadn’t thought of anyone else. The knowledge hurt, like a punch in the gut. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He wouldn’t let her down this time.
He approached the camp he had made in a secluded wash, screened from the road by a tumble of red and gray boulders and a clump of twisted pinions. He froze when he spotted the Jeep parked next to his pickup, secluded behind some trees. He doubted anyone had accidentally chosen that place to park. As carefully and soundlessly as possible, he reached back and eased the gun out of his pack, then unfastened the pack’s straps and let it slip to the ground.
Unencumbered, he moved stealthily toward the camp, keeping out of sight behind the screen of boulders. Warmth from the rocks seeped into his palm as he braced himself to look through a gap into the camp.
An older man with a barrel chest, dressed in khaki shorts and a white, short-sleeved shirt that billowed over his big belly, bent over to peer into Jake’s tent. When he straightened, Jake studied the jowled face with mirrored aviators perched on a bulbous nose. This guy was no cop—he didn’t have that aura about him, and he was seriously out of shape. Jake could hear him wheezing from across the camp.
The man spotted the cooler that Jake had shoved deep into the shade of a pinion and waddled over to it and popped the top. Smiling, he pulled out a beer, condensation glinting on the brown glass. Nope, not a cop. Just a common thief. Jake rose from behind the rock, his gun trained on the intruder. “Put that back where you got it,” he barked.
The man inhaled sharply, and the bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the rock below, beer fountaining up and onto the man’s hiking boots. He looked down at the mess, frowning. “Shame on you for making me waste a good beer,” he said in heavily accented English. Was he German? Austrian?
“What are you doing in my camp?” Jake asked.
“I was looking around.” The man was red-faced from too much sun, but he didn’t look nervous.
“And you were helping yourself to my beer,” Jake said.
“I was thirsty. Isn’t that the rule of the outdoors—to always offer refreshment to a fellow traveler in need?”
Jake took a step closer, keeping the gun trained on the intruder. “You don’t walk into someone’s camp and help yourself. That’s called theft.”
The man spread his hands in front of him. “I did not mean to offend. Perhaps things are done differently here in the wild west of America.” He nodded toward Jake’s gun. “You are making me nervous, waving that around.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them, and turn around.”
The man hesitated. “Why do you ask this?”
“I’m not asking. Do it.”
The man slowly raised his hands and turned to present his back. Jake moved from behind the rock and checked the man’s pockets and waistband. No gun. He relaxed a little and lowered his weapon, though he kept it in his hand. “You can turn around now.”
The man did so. Up close, he looked even older—close to sixty. “What are you doing out here?” Jake asked.
“I am on vacation.”
“From where?”
“From Germany. Munich. I come to the United States every year.”
Jake looked around at the austere landscape. Not the kind of thing he would expect a city guy from Munich to be attracted to. “Why?”
“I embrace the wild beauty of this land.” The German spread his arms wide. “I find it endlessly fascinating.”
“Really?”
He dropped his hands. “Also, I have a great interest in the flora and fauna of the American wilderness.”
“Are you a botanist or something?”
“I am a hobbyist. My name is Werner Altbusser.” He extended his hand, but Jake didn’t take it. He didn’t for a minute believe this guy was as innocent as he pretended to be.
“Where are you camped?” Jake asked.
If he had been on the receiving end of these questions, Jake would have told the guy his campsite was none of his business, but Werner had no such qualms. “I am staying in a motel in Montrose,” he said. “I do not enjoy camping. And I realized when I was out here that I had not brought enough water with me, hence I was doubly glad to see your camp.”
Werner hadn’t just “seen” Jake’s camp. Jake had made sure it wasn’t visible from the road, and there were no nearby trails. “So you figured you’d wander over and take a look,” Jake said.
“I hoped someone would be home, and I could ask for a drink.”
Jake opened the cooler and took out a bottle of water. “Here you go.”
If the German was disappointed not to receive a beer, he didn’t show it. He twisted the lid off the water bottle and half drained it in one gulp. So maybe he was thirsty. Jake took out a bottle of water for himself.
Thirst slaked, Werner looked around the camp. “This is a remote location,” he said. “What brings you here? Are you, like me, a lover of nature?”
“I have business in the area.”
Werner’s eyebrows arched in unspoken question, but Jake didn’t elaborate.
“I met some other people camped in the area,” Werner said. “A group of young people, who said they are part of a large family who live here.”
Jake stiffened. Was he talking about Metwater’s bunch? “Where did you meet them?” he asked.
“Oh, while I was out walking.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Very nice young people.” He grinned, showing white teeth. “Very pretty women. Do you know them?”
“No,” Jake lied.
Werner drained the rest of the bottle, then crumpled it and set it on top of the cooler. “Thank you for the water. I will be going now.”
Jake couldn’t think of a good reason to detain the man. “Next time you come across an unoccupied camp, don’t wander in and help yourself,” he said. “The next person you meet might not be as understanding as me,” he said.
“I will remember that.” He gave a small bow, then turned and walked unhurriedly to the Jeep. After a few moments, the engine roared to life and trundled back to the road.
Jake waited until the vehicle was out of sight, then retrieved his pack and carried it into his tent. Out of habit, he checked the contents, searching through the spare shirt and socks, extra ammo, energy bars, sunscreen and water. But the item he was looking for wasn’t there.
He upended the pack on his sleeping bag, and emptied out the side pockets as well, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing to Grand Canyon