On His Bended Knee

by Shanae Johnson

  On His Bended Knee

  The Brides of Purple Heart Ranch Book 1

  Shanae Johnson

  Copyright © 2018, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.

  Edited by Alyssa Breck

  Cover design by Ines Johnson

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2018

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Hand Over His Heart Sneak Peek!

  Also by Shanae Johnson

  Chapter One

  The sound of the hooves impacting the earth brought to mind the sound of artillery fire. It was a sound Dylan Banks knew all too well. He'd spent the last five years in a war zone. Any day during that time he might look up and see skies of azure blue, rolling hills of sand, or fields of pastel blooms. It was a cruel joke. War wasn't supposed to be pretty.

  The sky was blue in this place. Farmland stretched out. The sound of the horses trotting and galloping wasn't the only thing reminding him of war. His men were there too. The ones that had made it out alive, anyway.

  Those who escaped with their lives had lost many things. Family, friends, a part of their body, a part of their soul. But this place, the Bellflower Ranch, was healing them.

  He looked over and caught the sigil of the ranch. It was a purple flower with rounded petals. The flower clearly resembled a heart. The veterans who now inhabited the sanctuary had taken to calling the ranch the Purple Heart Ranch, in honor of the scars and wounds they'd each brought home with them.

  Dylan pushed his horse and himself to go faster. The sweet spring air hit his face. He pushed his body past what the doctors told him he was capable of doing. His hips had to work to absorb and control the movement of the horse. He felt the horse's powerful muscles stimulating his own, giving him the strength he needed to heal.

  He hadn't believed healing was possible when he'd awakened in a military hospital and found himself no longer a whole man. But he was getting a part of himself back now on the Purple Heart Ranch. They all were.

  This place had become a sanctuary for the wounded. A place where they wouldn't need to hide from their sleeping or waking nightmares. He hadn't been on good terms with God after his discharge. But when he had set foot on the ranch and climbed atop his first horse, he realized that God had given him a new purpose.

  The military doctors had saved his life, but hippotherapy gave him his life back. The practice of using horseback riding as therapy for impaired movement had been what truly brought Dylan back to life after the war and his injuries.

  He loved riding horses. He loved being on this ranch. He loved that he no longer had to take cover under a beautiful sky. After the hell that he and the other men had seen, the Purple Heart Ranch was the closest to heaven he'd ever get.

  With a pull of the reins, Dylan urged the horse to a slow trot. They made their way back into the training area where Dylan dismounted. If he'd felt a pang of pain before, he felt a definite pounding as he lifted his thigh up and over the horse's back. The prosthetic stuck out like a sore thumb as he did so, and the muscles of his hips and thighs screamed.

  The trainer, Mark, held back. He knew better than to offer a hand to the proud warriors. But he also knew when to ignore their pride and step in to give them extra care.

  Although Dylan was sore, he didn't need the extra care today. He carefully lowered himself to the ground using mostly his upper body strength. He stood awkwardly for a moment until he had his bearings, and then he nodded to Mark.

  The trainer only shook his head. He hadn't bothered arguing or offering commentary. But another man did.

  "You went a little longer than you were supposed to, soldier."

  Dylan stared Dr. Patel down. But even though Dylan had a good foot and a half on the older man, Dr. Patel still had a commanding presence. He smiled, but his eyes were stern and sharp, missing nothing. His voice was chiding, but at the same time paternal with the lilting accent of his homeland of India.

  "I can take it," Dylan said as he moved toward the man. He tried to hide his grimace as his prosthetic leg tried to buckle.

  Dylan knew he hadn't fooled the psychologist who watched him with a raised brow. "Just because you can take it doesn't mean you should."

  The older man moved closer, but like Mark, Dr. Patel knew better than to offer assistance unless absolutely necessary. Dylan made sure it was never necessary. The problem didn't require a hand, just a readjustment of his load.

  The socket of his prosthetic had likely loosened. He stood still and bared down, pushing his stump until he heard the telltale clicks of the socket reconnecting with the liner.

  "The old ball and chain and I are getting along fine," said Dylan as he straightened to his natural height. The prosthetic leg gave him an extra inch. That was a benefit, at least.

  "Your body is healing," said Dr. Patel. "All of the men here are doing well in body. But you also have to heal your hearts. Love heals the internal wounds."

  Dylan had heard this speech from the man before. He'd agreed to the therapy for his mind. After all he'd been through, he recognized that he needed someone to talk to about the horrors of combat. But he didn't like it when the good doctor aimed for the heart.

  "Maybe you should get your family up here?" Dr. Patel suggested.

  Dylan shook his head. He had no desire to see his family. And they'd made it clear that, now that he was half a man, they were just fine without him.

  "Or maybe leave the ranch for a date?" offered Dr. Patel.

  None of the veterans staying at the ranch left for dates. Well, except for Xavier Ramos. Ramos still had all his limbs and his looks. The women he went out with never saw his wound unless he took off his clothes.

  "Although, I’m still skeptical about dating with phone apps and computer programs," said Dr. Patel. "In my country, we trusted our elders to find us life-partners."

  Dylan had met Mrs. Patel a number of times. It warmed his heart whenever he saw the couple together. They each took such care with one another, offering secret smiles, and fussing over tiny things.

  Dylan had always imagined himself so fortunate. But the woman he'd given his ring to had handed it back before he'd even left the hospital. His injury hadn't allowed him to go after her. His pride would not have let him. His heart hadn't made it a priority.

  "I'm not looking for love right now," Dylan said. He conveniently left off the words at all.

  He wouldn't be looking for love ever again. If his own family couldn't love him, if his fiancée left him after she'd seen what he'd become, how could a stranger ever love the man he would be for the rest of his days.

  "That's the thing about arranged marriage," said Dr. Patel. "You get the partner first. Love comes in time."

  "Are you ready to start our session?" Dylan asked, pointing the way to Dr. Patel's office to get him on a different track. "I've been having some nightma
res."

  Unlike some of the other vets on the ranch, Dylan never had nightmares. His sleep was dreamless and dark.

  Once again, Dr. Patel wasn't fooled, but he let Dylan lead him to his office. Dylan knew the old man meant well, but this wasn't a road he wanted to go down. He'd been hurt enough in this life.

  Chapter Two

  Maggie looked down at the sleeping animal on the surgery table. The bright lights of the surgical theater illuminated the room, casting no shadows on her performance. The blade in her hand wasn't working its normal magic, and she had no more tricks up her sleeve. The dog would lose both its hind legs.

  Though the dog was asleep, his lower lip trembled as though he knew what was about to happen to him. It looked as though he was trying to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of adversity. She, of all people, understood that. Life had beaten the little guy up and spit him back out to deal with it on his own.

  He had no tags. No collar. He'd been left on the doorstep of the veterinary clinic sometime in the early morning. Maggie had arrived to see the animal bleeding on the pristine steps. He'd eyed her warily, too tired to snarl. His eyes had simply closed in resignation while he waited for her to try and do worse to him. What she did was scoop him up and set down to work.

  The dog could tell Maggie's own life story. Though she'd never been physically beaten, she'd taken more than her share of emotional hits. She'd been abandoned by her parents while in elementary school. Literally, while she was in elementary school. They had simply left her there and never picked her up.

  She'd gone into the foster system to wait them out. They never came back.

  At first, she took it as her due. She knew that many animals abandoned their children at young ages. But that reasoning hadn't stuck long as she continued to see parents picking up their kids from school, loading them in their car, and taking them home. She watched as siblings and kids from the same neighborhood or kids with the same interest formed packs and stuck together, preying on anyone who was a lone kid.

  Maggie was alone. The other kids in the foster system either hadn't accepted her into their group or they got adopted and never came back. Maggie had never had a pack; not a human one at least.

  No adult had ever advocated for her. She'd been left to rot in the system, never finding a family to adopt her as their own. She'd been fostered, another word for used for a paycheck or cheap labor, until she came of age and picked herself up and out of the vicious cycle.

  But this poor dog could no longer stand on its own four feet due to its injury. It would never run again. No one would want a disabled dog. It had no one to stick up for him and now it would be put down permanently.

  Maggie put down the blade and picked up the needle filled with blue juice. The pentobarbital would be a mercy to the poor creature. She knew that. She'd seen countless cases that began with a different wound or illness and ended up right back here on this table, under these lights, in the middle of a surgical theater with no one watching or caring about the show.

  "Maggie, let's hurry this up. I have a 2 pm tee time on the golf course."

  Dr. Art Cooper was the owner of the theater Maggie was currently performing in. He had a script for times like these, and the story always ended the same way.

  "Just prick the mutt already so I can close shop." He said the words without glancing up at her or the animal at the end of his life.

  A sound on the other side of the door had Dr. Cooper glancing up. He slipped on his interested face as one of the new vet nurses walked by. Of course, he smiled at her. He had to keep up the facade that he was a decent human being.

  A second later, his interested face turned over to his excited face as a client presented her ancient, smelly, arthritic cat to him. She was a very good client; coming for every screening he suggested, buying the most expensive brand of pet food that he was pushing that month, and always ready to take a look at the newest pet insurance offerings. The moment the cat lady and her cat were gone, the animated expression melted off his face and was replaced with disgust.

  Maggie hated the man. How could anyone work with animals and have no care for them? They were all nothing but a paycheck to him. As a vet tech, she had the luxury of not making enough to be so callous.

  She really had no luxuries at all. Definitely not enough to care for another wounded animal. Maggie looked down on the table at the sleeping dog. A single tear slid down his cheek, and the floodgates opened.

  Maggie looked up at Dr. Cooper and painted on a smile to rival his performance. "Why don't you go ahead and head out. I can take care of this and close up shop for you."

  Dr. Cooper eyed her suspiciously. Then he looked down at the dog. "We're not going to have another problem, are we? You've already had one strike, another and I'll let you go."

  That was one thing about being a doctor, they were some of the smartest people. The last time Maggie had been asked to put a dog down, she'd snuck him out the back door of the clinic. He was now resting comfortably in her home. Probably in her closet on a pile of her shoes.

  "This animal won't have any quality of life," Dr. Cooper was saying. "It would take hundreds of dollars a month to maintain him."

  Wasn't a single life worth that, she wanted to say. But she hadn't. Instead, she told the truth. "I understand. I've learned my lesson. I need this job to take care of the animals I do have."

  She had four dogs, all of whom had severe injuries and illnesses that cost her more than her rent to care for. If she lost this job, she wouldn't have the money to care for them or keep a roof over her head.

  Maggie picked up the needle and gave it a few flicks with her index finger.

  Dr. Cooper looked at the time. Then he looked back at her. His tee time won out like she knew it would. He turned in his expensive gator boots and walked out the door.

  Maggie breathed a sigh of relief and put the needle down. She bandaged the dog. The damage had been done long before she'd gotten to him and healing had already begun. Now she just needed to heal his spirit alongside his body.

  Maggie wrapped the dog up in a blanket, and she made her way to the back. She was nearly out of the door when she rounded a corner. Dr. Cooper looked up from his watch at her. And of course, that's when the dog decided to wake up from his meds and bark.

  It was a low, groggy bark that she might have been able to play off as her own stomach grumbling. She had missed lunch again. But the trickle of liquid that streamed out of the blanket and onto Dr. Cooper's expensive boots, she had no excuse for. In fact, she was quite pleased by it.

  The little dog was a good boy. She wasn't sure how she'd feed and care for him now that she was out of a job, but she was keeping him.

  Chapter Three

  Dylan headed back to the stables after his session with Dr. Patel. The good doctor hadn't pushed him on the fake nightmares. He hadn't exactly pursued the discussion of dating either. What he’d done was far worse. He’d engaged Dylan in a chat about his broken engagement.

  Hilary Weston had been the girl next door. But next door had been one floor down from the penthouse of one of the most exclusive residential buildings in New York City. Living his life on top of her, watching her preen beneath him, it was inevitable that one day she'd end up on his arm.

  Hilary had been Dylan’s first everything. His first crush. His first girlfriend. His first … everything.

  She hadn't been happy when he announced he wanted to go into the military. With his family money and his trust fund, Dylan could've sat on his laurels for a few lifetimes over. But he'd felt called.

  He'd left with promises to do only one tour and then come back for a wedding as grand as she wanted to make it. They'd joked that it would take her the duration of his tour to plan the social event of the decade. But when Dylan returned covered in bruises and missing a limb, Hilary made other plans.

  It hadn't mattered to her that he could’ve taken care of her financially, she was an heiress in her own right. It hadn't mattered to her that he was
a war hero. She was a society darling, constantly in the gossip pages. Appearances mattered to Hilary Weston, and having a wounded warrior covered in bruises and missing a limb was not a good look.

  She’d let the door slam behind her as she walked out of the military hospital room. She'd gotten engaged to another man and married him all within the last six months. Dylan heard the guy was some type of reality star, and now Hilary was too.

  He'd liked to think he'd dodged a bullet. But he'd dodged them in real life. Her rejection stung.

  But that life was over. This was his new reality now. And it was one he thrived in.

  Dylan turned from his sour memories and looked around the ranch. He'd given up high society living for mucking out stalls and tilling the earth. It was the best decision of his life.

  The ranch had been fledgling before he infused it with what amounted to a small portion of his inheritance. His parents had balked at the idea until they realized their deformed son would be safely tucked away out of society's and their eyes. Like Hilary, the Banks were all about keeping up appearances. A decorated soldier serving his country looked good. An amputee hobbling about did not.

  For the second time today, the sound of hooves reminded him of artillery fire. But Dylan didn't suffer from PTSD in the normal sense. It was just the trauma of his family that affected him. So, when he saw Sean Jeffries riding at a trot, he could only smile up at the man.

  Jeffries had come home from war with all his limbs. But like all the men on the ranch, Jeffries had left a piece of himself behind in the war zone. Jeffries dipped his head in greeting, pulling his cowboy hat low over his brown forehead. Dark shades covered his face. The sunglasses cast the dark man on the steed in a full shadow. Jeffries didn't like people looking at the scars on his face.