Today he’d been braced for the dynamite blasting and had been able to keep his reaction in check. In his own way, he was making progress, too. But not enough.
How easy it would be just to keep walking—down the trail to a road, and down the road to a highway, where he could catch a ride to anywhere. He’d done it before—simply walked away, without a word to anyone, or even much of an idea where he was headed. Now, as the blackness inside him deepened, he was tempted to do it again. So easy . . . no entanglements, no complications.
But he had promises to keep and people depending on him. It was time to turn back before the compulsion to escape drove him too far. With the dog at his heels, he climbed the trail and passed under the ranch gate. The motion-sensor light flickered on as he crossed the yard to the guest cabin. Attempting to sleep might be a bad idea, but come morning, if he hadn’t rested, he’d be in even worse condition than he was now.
The dog was still with him. When he opened the cabin door, the animal trotted inside and lay down on the cowhide rug next to the bed. Maybe it sensed that this troubled human needed some company. Jake left the door slightly ajar in case the dog changed its mind about staying the night. Then he brushed his teeth, stripped down, crawled between the sheets and closed his eyes.
* * *
Watching from the kitchen window, Kira had seen Jake cross the yard and head down the trail. She knew better than to follow him. He wouldn’t want that. But she couldn’t stop herself from worrying. He’d seemed fine when they were joking and sharing s’mores. Then they’d started talking about Paige, and it was as if a light had gone out behind his eyes. Recognizing the signs, she’d hoped he might open up and talk. But Jake hadn’t wanted any part of talking. Nor any part of her.
Seeing him reappear through the gate, she’d felt herself begin to breathe again. At least the dog was with him, and at least he’d had the sense to return. She could only hope he’d get some rest and be all right in the morning.
But “all right” had taken on a whole new meaning. Jake’s arrival had brought with it a storm of changes—to the ranch, to Paige and to Kira herself. As a therapist, she’d built a wall around her own needs and emotions. But this pain-stricken man stirred feelings she’d long since put to rest. He’d awakened warm, natural urges—like the ones she’d felt with him tonight.
Not that she planned to act on those urges. Jake was like a half-wild animal, scared, hurt and prone to lash out with no warning. The help he needed was beyond anything she could give him here.
Besides, he was still in love with his stunning, flawless wife—the wife he had never truly known.
It would have been better for everyone involved if Jake had never come to Flying Cloud. But he’d already become part of this place and the people in it. Even if he were to go now, Kira knew that nothing he left behind would ever be the same.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Half-veiled by drifting clouds, the moon’s light bathed the desert in silver and shadow. Bats fluttered through the darkness, catching insects in midair. An owl flashed low, snatched a mouse in its talons and vanished into a thicket. From the canyon, the night breeze carried the melancholy sound of coyote calls.
Deep in slumber, Jake was unaware. He had fallen over the edge of memory and into the black pit of a dream.
The night was frigid, the mountain air so thin that every man in his platoon was gasping for breath. Burdened by heavy packs and chest rigs, M240B machine guns, M4 carbines and single-shot grenade launchers, they labored up the rocky slope toward their target—a remote village, situated on a plateau below a mountain ridge. Known to be a Taliban stronghold, the village was little more than a cluster of mud-and-stone huts behind a protecting wall. But the view it commanded made it a constant threat to American troops in the area. Intel had picked up a rumor that a Taliban leader had gone into hiding there. If that was true—or even if it wasn’t—it was time to blow the damned place to kingdom come.
Lungs burning, they bellied over the edge of the plateau. They’d expected to meet some resistance, but the village, a scant fifty yards distant, appeared quiet and unprotected. Strange, Jake thought, but he had his orders, and they didn’t include asking questions.
Right now the wind was in their favor. But its direction could change, blowing their scent to the village dogs. At a barked alarm, all hell could break loose. There was no time to lose. Jake passed the word down the line and gave the order to fire.
Grenade explosions and gunfire blasted the village, lighting up the night like holiday fireworks. Within minutes the place was nothing but dust, smoke and rubble. All that remained for the platoon was to verify the damage and see if the targeted Taliban leader was among the casualties. Weapons at the ready, Jake’s men crept forward, past the crumbled remains of the wall and into what was left of the village. Flashlights came on.
“Oh, my God!” the man behind Jake muttered. Then Jake saw them, too—the burned and blasted bodies of women, children, old people, and babies clutched in their mothers’ arms—all of them dead amid the ruins. This might well have been a Taliban village. But the men and boys of fighting age had gone, leaving their helpless families behind.
There was nothing to be done. Sickened, Jake was about to order his men away when AK-47 fire and rocket-propelled grenades erupted from the ridge above the village. As death rained down on them, the soldiers dived for any shelter they could find. Jake saw three men go down. He and their comrades dragged them along as they retre
ated down the slope, leaving the horror behind.
Jake’s eyes jerked open. The room was dark, with shafts of moonlight piercing the window curtains. Heart pounding, body drenched in nervous sweat, he lay still, struggling to return to the here and now.
The dream had felt so real—he had heard the explosions, smelled the smoke. But he didn’t need a dream to remember the rest of what had happened.
He had lost two men that night—men who’d been like brothers to him. Five more had been so badly wounded they had to be medevaced out. One of them had lost a leg. Then there were the others—the women, the children, the elders. “Collateral damage,” that was the convenient term for dead civilians. But he knew their innocent blood was on his hands. True, he’d acted under orders, and no one had blamed him for the debacle. But he was the one who’d given the command to fire.
Returning to base, he’d reported in and seen to the comfort of his men. After that, all he could think of was calling his wife. He was desperate to hear her voice, calming him, reminding him that there was a better world beyond this hellish war, with loved ones waiting for him to return. If anyone could pull him out of despair, Wendy could.
Still emerging from shock, he’d been about to reach for the phone when he’d remembered. Wendy was dead.
* * *
Something touched Jake’s hand. Fully awake now, he turned his head to see the dog standing with its front paws on the bed. Low, whining sounds quivered in its throat. Seeing that Jake was awake, the creature jumped onto the bed and snuggled down beside him. Its fur smelled like hay and stable dust, its breath like the leftover hot dogs it had wolfed down last night. But Jake had to admit that right now having company, even a scruffy dog, wasn’t all that bad.
Freeing a hand from the covers, he scratched its ears. The dog’s tail wagged ecstatically. “Listen, boy.” Jake’s morning voice rasped in his throat. “Don’t think this is going to be a regular thing. I don’t make a practice of sleeping with dogs.”
The tail thumped harder. Jake twisted his head to see the bedside clock. It was almost four in the morning—too early to start the day, but not worth trying to go back to sleep and inviting another nightmare.