Her Lone Cowboy. Patricia Forsythe
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Mom. Me and Bertie was gonna...”
“Say goodbye,” she repeated, sweeping him toward the door.
“Goodbye—”
The word was barely out of Sam’s mouth before she whirled him out the door and closed it behind them. She hustled him across the porch and down the steps to the Jeep, lifted him inside and strapped him into his booster seat. She jumped in behind the wheel, fastened her seat belt and had them on their way within seconds.
“Is somebody chasing us, Mom?” Sam asked. He tried to twist to look behind them. “Is it the bad guys?”
She laughed and hoped it sounded genuine. “No, of course not. It was time to go, that’s all.”
“Oh, okay.” He sat back. “I love Bertie,” he said with a sigh of happiness.
“Okay, but you don’t go visit him without being invited.” She didn’t know how to tell him that such an invitation almost certainly wouldn’t be forthcoming. All she could do was hope he’d forget about Bertie if she kept him busy with other things.
Her neighbor wanted to be left alone to deal with whatever was bothering him. She would respect that and she would do her best to make sure Sam understood.
As she turned into her drive, though, she wondered how recent the injury to his leg was and how it had happened. Although she was pretty sure it hadn’t been that long ago, the faint scar on his face wasn’t new. What on earth had the man been through?
* * *
CALEB’S EYES JERKED open with a start, his right hand flying out to search for his rifle. When his hand didn’t close on the familiar stock, he came fully awake, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He didn’t need his gun. He needed to find that kid—the little dark-haired boy with the big grin who’d invaded his dreams. He shook his head, trying to free himself from the image of the child waving then disappearing in the flash of a fireball. He groaned, trying to orient himself.
Home. He was home at his own place, not on guard or on patrol in Afghanistan, not sleeping on the ground beneath a Hummer with O’Malley’s stinking feet near his face.
He started to turn over, but a strong twinge from his bad leg had him falling back against the pillows with a sharp breath whistling between his teeth. After several minutes the spasm passed and he was able to sit up, massage his tortured leg for a while, then turn to put his feet on the floor and sit with his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands.
When the pain subsided, he lifted his head to glance at the clock. Midnight. He’d only been asleep a couple of hours. It was those blasted painkillers. Whenever he had to take them, as he had right after Laney and Sam had left, they knocked him out, but then he’d jerk awake too soon, sure he was back in a war zone. He’d be half off the bed, looking for his soldiers, before reason would kick in and he’d know where he was.
Most of the time he could keep the memories at bay, but often they’d plague his sleep, coming in nightmare form, seeping under his defenses like smoke curling beneath a closed door. He knew if he opened the door, the memories would blaze up in a flash fire to consume him.
Taking a painkiller before he slept almost always triggered the nightmares, but they came more often when he took nothing at all.
Caleb rubbed his palms over his face, shoved his feet into the worn-out slip-ons he kept next to the bed and then stood cautiously, waiting for his leg to become accustomed to his weight once again, before walking through the house to work out the stiffness. Down the hall, past the two empty bedrooms, he moved into the living room, where he stood in front of the big window—uncurtained because he had no clue how to go about buying drapes and had no desire to learn.
As he stared out at the yard, he heard coyotes, the bothersome pack that roamed the area and had probably been responsible for the disappearance of many domestic animals. No doubt, the predators had dens in the nearby Mule Mountains, where they hid out, waiting for some unsuspecting cat or jackrabbit to happen by—
A sudden scream split the air, sparking a shiver up Caleb’s spine. That sound wasn’t made by a coyote, but he didn’t know what had made it since he’d never heard it before.
It came again, high and sharp. It wasn’t human, but it ignited a memory of a fire fight, of Mack, wounded, fallen, clutching his side as he tried to swallow cries of anguish that would attract more enemy fire to their position.
Memories overwhelming him, Caleb rushed to the door, grabbing his rifle on his way out. He didn’t know where the attack would be coming from, but he was ready. Crouching, moving stealthily, he slipped off the porch and hunkered down into a shooting stance as far as his bad leg would let him. His gaze swept the yard then the area beyond.
He saw something ahead of him, moving through the low bushes, too fast and steady to be a man doing the belly crawl. What was it?
The creature turned its head. Caleb saw the flash of yellow eyes. It wasn’t human. But what was it? Confused, he stepped forward. The crack of a stick breaking under his foot snapped in the air and jerked Caleb back to reality.
Whatever he’d seen in the yard disappeared with a gentle whoosh of sound.
He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, working to recall why he was standing out in the yard in his underwear. He glanced down. He held a piece of one-by-two-inch board, the one he used to prop open the living-room window.
Hands falling to his sides, he stood for a minute, concentrating on his breathing, letting his waking nightmare dissipate as he shoved the memory back into the mental vault where he kept it under lock and key.
His gaze moved out past the yard and the barn to the pasture where he’d encountered Sam and Laney earlier, then beyond to their house where a porch light speared the darkness. He couldn’t even see the outline of the house, only the glow of the light, a faint beacon of reassurance.
Reassurance? He didn’t need reassurance. He needed to be left alone.
He lifted the board, holding it up in front of his face. He’d thought it was his rifle; that he was going to protect his home with it.
No. He couldn’t be a neighbor. It wasn’t time yet.
He turned back to the house with a sound of disgust, returned the board to the sill of the window, which he double-checked to make sure it was closed and locked.
Bertie, asleep on his favorite rug, raised his head as if willing to commiserate, but then apparently decided that Caleb was doing a good enough job of being miserable on his own. He dropped his head on his paws and sighed.
Caleb looked down at the old dog. “Yeah, buddy, that’s how I feel.”
He wandered into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Leaning against the sink, he drank it down, grateful for the miracle of clean, good-tasting water, so unlike the filtered, never-quite-right stuff they’d had in Afghanistan.
Like all the other military personnel, they’d consumed bottled water by the gallon, along with electrolyte drinks. When he’d come back to the States, he’d never been able to get enough clean water into him and he still drank more than he ever had in his younger years. He set the empty glass down and stood with his hands gripping the edge of the sink. The memories were close tonight and he couldn’t seem to shove them away as he usually could. He’d been back for more than a year and a half, but as his mother had said, he’d left the war but he’d never really come home.
Pushing away from the sink, he wandered back to the living-room window and stood, arms crossed over his chest, staring into the darkness while he thought about his new neighbors.
“What do you think, Bert? You think she ever had a husband?”
He glanced down. Bertie’s gentle snores told him that this man’s best friend couldn’t have been less interested.
In spite of that, Caleb continued with his speculation. “Did the guy abandon