The Bride Wore Red Boots

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “When?”

  “I’m here a good while yet. Anytime.”

  “Well, I’m kind of sick of watching my sister chow down her food like a big pig.” She kissed two of her fingers, flicked the kiss at Joely, and grinned. “How about in fifteen minutes?”

  She almost heard his sigh of gratitude. “That would be great.”

  “See you in a few.”

  When Mia hung up, Joely met her eyes with impish accusation. “I sense a pretty big change in the air around you and my patient advocate.”

  “I know,” Mia said. “It’s disturbing.”

  “He’s adorable, you know. I say grab him.”

  “That’s totally absurd. We live and work more than two thousand miles apart and have nothing in common. He’s just turned out to be not quite as big an ass as I originally thought.”

  “You always were slow when it came to anything but facts and figures. Of course he’s not an ass. Any more than you are.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “Go. I don’t know what he wanted. I don’t want to know. Just go see him.”

  “Fine.”

  “I want details when you’re done, though.”

  “Forget it. No dessert for little girls who don’t eat their supper.” Mia pointed to her sister’s dinner tray.

  “Maybe you are an ass.”

  Mia bent over and kissed her forehead. “We already knew that.”

  IT HAD TO be something about the Brother to Brother program. She’d seen Brewster today, seen the concern in Gabriel’s eyes although he’d brushed it off. Even when they’d first met, when she’d barely been able to tolerate his constant cheeriness, he’d never been without that jaunty, bright personality. The near-depression she’d heard in his voice could only mean something dire had happened.

  But why call her?

  She made her way from the hospital to the administration building a block away and took the elevator to the fourth floor and the Department of Patient Advocacy. One lone secretary still sat at her desk in the small lobby, and she smiled when Amelia approached.

  “I’m looking for Gabriel Harrison’s office,” she said.

  “You must be Dr. Crockett,” the woman, middle-aged and efficiently friendly, replied. “He’s waiting for you. Take the hallway to my left, and his is the second door on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  The lobby was fairly spartan, with just a few upholstered chairs and the requisite odd assortment of magazines. A couple of generic scenery pictures hung on the walls, alongside several signs explaining how and what to present when requesting assistance. Mia didn’t read any of them, instead she entered the hallway, even plainer than the lobby, with attractive slate blue carpeting but plain beige walls and no ornamentation. Nothing intimidating but nothing inspiring either. She reached the second office and found the door open, a simple plaque affixed to its pale wooden surface. Gabriel Harrison, Patient Advocate, Behavioral Health.

  Behavioral Health? That usually meant psychology or social work credentials of some kind. He’d never mentioned any kind of expertise in dealing with mental health issues. She stepped into the doorway and knocked lightly. His head popped up.

  Her heart gave a happy extra thump, and she fought for calm.

  “Hi,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Kick-ass Dr. Crockett doesn’t have the best track record with you, remember?” She smiled.

  “For some reason, tonight I’m not the least bit worried about that. Come on in.”

  The office was as big as a good-sized bedroom, with plenty of room for Gabriel’s desk and three comfortable, modern chairs with red upholstered cushions and wooden arms. The walls contained several random posters—a giant Denver Broncos logo; a portrait of five servicemen, one from each branch of the military; and incongruously, a poster of a woman wearing a headset with the caption “Customer Service: Giving you precisely correct and totally useless information when you need it the most.”

  Mia snorted her laughter and then scanned the shelves lining two walls. Most were filled with books, but others held random items that would probably reveal a lot about Gabriel if she had time to study them. She recognized a set of juggling pins, and wondered over a black box about a foot square covered in stars and moons, with what looked like a magician’s magic wand lying across its top.

  “So,” she said, eyeing the box. “This is the place where all the magic happens. Tell me about the wand there and about that sign on your door saying you’re into ‘Behavioral Health.’ ”

  His color deepened slightly. “I used to do magic tricks at local restaurants when I was in college to earn extra money. A distant but fond memory. I also finished the last year of a bachelor’s degree in clinical social work after I got back from Iraq. I’m a very poor man’s counselor.”

  A pang of surprise turned swiftly into admiration. “No wonder helping your experimental men is so important to you. That’s impressive.”

  “I don’t know. I’m beginning to wonder if even an actual psychiatrist could handle this.”

  “So—we come to the crux of the matter. What happened?” She sat in one of the chairs and leaned across his desk surface. “I get the impression it’s nothing good. Did they pull the plug on your project?”

  He smiled with a touch of wistfulness. “No, they didn’t pull the plug—but Brewster is on probation along with Damien Finney. They have two weeks to find jobs or something that occupies work hours, or they’re out. The top brass does not seem to find their frat boy pranks as charming as I do.”

  “ ‘Charming’ you say? Not sure I blame the brass.” She smiled, hoping he knew she was joking.

  “Of course they aren’t charming. But I’ve told you before that I find their antics hopeful, and I see them as letting off steam. But it’s true, a person can’t bring a cow into the Veteran’s Administration. Nor can he blow up a can of whipping cream in and on the director’s car. A flashing sign across from an office or a fake can of peanuts with a spring-loaded snake maybe. I’m out of ideas for incentivizing these guys. It’s like telling them to behave when the people in charge don’t have to do the same.”

  “Might it be time to let them go?” she asked. “Maybe they can’t be helped.”

  He stood, his face a thundercloud. “Everyone can be helped. I absolutely will not let them go. Not when they’re making such great strides everywhere else.”

  “Okay,” she replied calmly. “That answers that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No need to be. I can see your passion.”

  “You’re not the first one to suggest I’m a little too obsessed. But it’s no different here than it is in the field. You don’t leave anyone behind.”

  “So why did you call me here?”

  “What’s the toughest thing I can do to them? Where can I send them? You must see a lot of crap working where you do—worse than this.”

  “I’m not an ER doc.”

  He sighed and nodded. “I know. In truth, I’m not sure why I’m asking you. Wit’s end, I guess.”

  “You probably thought of me because I can be mean and rude.” She offered a curled-lip smile.

  “Those are not the words I’d use.”

  “Really?” One brow arched upward. “What would you use?”

  “Tenacious. Smart. Clever.” He sat back in his chair.

  “Smart and clever are redundant.”

  “No they aren’t. Smart is figuring out what the problem is. Clever is knowing how to solve it.”

  Once again she found herself staring at him in wonder. He had ways of phrasing things that made the most mundane words twist into compliments. Compliments that weren’t false praise.

  “I wish I was worthy of that,” she said, finally. “I don’t know anything about veterans and their issues. I think it takes more than a casual doctor or a doctor who’s really a specialized surgeon.”

  He sat back in his chair and smiled. “I can’t believe
I ever thought you were self-centered.”

  “Oh, I am. I admit to being pretty career focused. And knowing how to get done what I need to do.”

  “Obviously. You wouldn’t be where you are at your age if that wasn’t true. But I’m beginning to think that’s a façade.”

  “And so the therapist comes out.” She folded her arms and fixed him with a knowing look.

  “Nah. Just trying to say thanks in a very awkward way. I appreciate you bothering to come. I never think out loud—I’m not one for hashing things out over coffee. Make a decision and see it through, that’s my motto. So, it’s hard to admit I’m lost, but I am.”

  “Then you’re a very evolved male.”

  “Nope. Just a desperate Neanderthal.”

  She uncrossed her arms and leaned on one elbow, thinking. “Is it possible to find Brewster a job? Or Finney? What do they do?”

  “They all have different interests. None of them is a professional as such. Finney was a truck driver. Brewster’s family owns a small chain of grocery stores. I’ve had them in the apartments for four months, and four of the men have permanent jobs. Two have part-time gigs that don’t pay much. Brewster and Finney have each started and quit two positions. Every one of these guys have been through severe traumas. They’ve seen death, and they’ve pulled their triggers and killed, quote, the enemy. They’re having a hard time coming to grips with that. These are not your Chris Kyles. These are guys who just wanted to grow up and live normal, boring lives.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The idea of young men living through such hell made her ill. “It sounds like they need to see some normal life. Be around some living things.”

  “Living things,” he repeated. “Seems so simple. But everywhere they turn they only hit dead ends. Pun sort of intended.”

  Her mind raced through a hundred different possibilities for jobs. Greenhouses, animal shelters, dog walking, landscaping. Anything but an office job—

  “The ranch,” she said, almost as shocked as Gabriel looked. “There isn’t much more in-your-face living than at a ranch. Cows, calves, horses, hard work, cold weather. I have no idea if there’s anything they could do, but I’d be willing to ask Harper and Cole if they could use any help.”

  Gabriel’s eyes shone like he’d been given a stay of execution. “Would you really?”

  “I’ll be completely honest. My dad, when he died, didn’t leave Paradise in the best financial shape. Harper and Cole have their work cut out for them. I’m not sure there’s anything they can do. But it can’t hurt to try. Even just some seasonal work—this is a busy time of year repairing things, setting up for winter. Heck, the horses move inside during the day. A little stall mucking is about as real as it gets.”

  He laughed—a relieved sound she hoped wasn’t thoroughly misplaced. “Maybe I’ll wait before I tell them I found work picking up shit.”

  “Wise,” she agreed. “They’d bolt the program on their own.”

  A short silence enveloped them. Gabriel stared at his desk, deep in thought. Mia tried to guess what could possibly be going through his mind. Her guesses weren’t remotely close to what finally came out.

  “You don’t have any mustangs hanging around in that barn you mentioned?”

  “Mustangs?” She laughed. “Hardly. What made you ask that—other than the obvious?”

  “That was pretty cool last night,” he said, allowing himself a moment of distraction to smile and elevate her pulse with the slight dimple in his left cheek. “But it was really something Joely said. About how those horses humble you really quickly. We both joked about how retired vets with too much time on their hands might benefit from being bossed around by a horse.”

  “They don’t nickname the national Mustang Makeover contests ‘challenges’ for nothing.” Mia sent her mind back to the three times she, Harper, and Joely had entered Makeovers. Six horses all together. Four had been straightforward to train—not easy, but not mean. One, humorously named Angel Baby, had turned out to be the horse that had nearly killed them all. In the end she’d come around, but Mia shuddered, envisioning a couple of non-horsemen ending up with a project like Angel.

  Still . . .

  “You know,” she began, and hesitated again.

  “What?”

  “Your guys wouldn’t be chosen to participate in a real makeover challenge. They don’t have any experience or credentials. And, the makeovers take place all through the summer, so it’s far too early to even apply. But. There’s both a privately owned wild horse preserve and a Bureau of Land Management mustang holding facility within half a day’s drive. You can adopt mustangs any time. What if Paradise did its own little mustang makeover?”

  “I keep asking this. Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know. Am I?”

  Her brain raced again, but this time with an actual idea—insane and unlikely to happen as it probably was.

  “What’s going through that clever brain now?” he asked.

  Her heart pumped and her adrenaline made her jumpy in the seat, and it wasn’t even all Gabriel this time. This was beyond a doubt the craziest notion she’d had since she’d been a teenager.

  “I am certifiable,” she said, and gave him a goofy grin she hadn’t used in years. “But if I get the right answers to my questions after I leave here, how do you think Brewster and Finney would feel about a trip to visit some wild horsies?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I WISH I thought this was a really stupid idea.” Harper looked at Mia over the kitchen table and ran her index finger over the handle of her coffee mug.

  Mia nodded. “I know. I do, too. But I can’t shake it. I’m not this frivolous.”

  “No, you’re not.” Harper didn’t smile. “And that’s one of the reasons I’m so taken with this. If your brain is working out the logistics, there must be something to it.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t go by that. My brain has checked out completely this trip.”

  “Hah. Your brain never checks out. We’d all kill for your brain.”

  “Please don’t say that.” Mia tamped down the slightest bit of resentment.

  It was half a miracle to be sitting here with Harper having a fairly normal conversation. They’d been polar opposites and mostly adversarial all their lives. Until their father had died and Harper had taken Mia’s old boyfriend—a fact that made Mia happier than anyone would ever understand, since Harper and Cole were perfect for each other. Mia didn’t want this moment spoiled by any reference to the things that had once torn the sisters apart—her “amazing” brain being one of the biggest. Mia had always hated being set apart.

  “It’s a compliment, dork.” Harper finally smiled.

  “It’s never been a compliment.”

  “Mia!”

  “Forget it.” Mia returned the smile. “My brain is a topic for another day. And anyway, I’m not so smart, asking you and Cole to think about a program like this when you’re struggling to get this place back on its feet. You’ve only had a couple of months to take stock.”

  “We did all right selling the cattle this year. Prices were up from the last five years, so the projections were a little more dire than reality has turned out to be. And we have a lot of plans and ideas. Not that it won’t take several years to implement them. The thing is—this place belongs to all of us. I want us all to have ideas.”

  “This isn’t a money maker.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it on the surface.”

  Mia sighed. “They’re good men, just a little damaged.”

  “It sucks,” Harper said. “Nobody should have to go through such trauma.”

  The back door opened, and Cole entered, filling the space with his height and breadth. He looked good—windblown and healthy. Downright happy. He kicked off his shoes and padded stocking footed into the kitchen, winking at Mia but heading straight for Harper.

  “Miss me?” he asked, and bent to kiss her.

  “Oh, believe me, I was a wreck. I didn’t know
how I’d make it through those two hours.” She made a face and kissed him back. “Pathetic.”

  “And proud of it.”

  “Hey, Mia.”

  “Hey, Cowman. You’re starting to look the part.”

  “Like riding a bike,” he said. “All the lessons my daddy taught me are coming back.”

  He’d grown up on the neighboring ranch, now a part of Paradise, since Cole’s father had sold to the Crocketts years before.

  “Seriously,” Mia asked, “is it all going okay? You guys took on a lot.”

  “It is,” he said. “We aren’t going to live like kings for a good long while, if ever, but I think we can pull Paradise out of the doldrums eventually. It’s going to take a combination of things, a little diversifying, and some creative thinking.”

  “Like what?”

  “We don’t know for sure yet. Kelly thinks we should raise organic beef. Skylar wants alpacas—says the fiber, hair, wool, whatever the heck they grow, is worth a fortune.”

  “Skylar.” Mia laughed. She was the spitfire, fourteen-year-old daughter of the ranch’s foreman Bjorn Thorson. “How is she?”

  “Fine. Still whining about homeschooling. Still riding that horse of hers off for days at a time and worrying her parents to death. But she’s really a good kid.”

  Skylar’s horse. Mia remembered the flashy paint named Bungu with a flash of hopefulness. Skylar had trained him herself with guidance from her grandfather Leif, the ranch’s longest-lived employee, and it was an amazing animal. Maybe she could be another resource? “Speaking of horses,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Cole replied. “I’ve been giving that plan you talked about last night some thought.”

  “You have? I was just telling Harper I’m a little embarrassed I brought up such an ambitious idea when you guys are barely getting going.”

  “Well, now, here’s the thing.” Cole pulled a Coke out of the refrigerator and joined the women at the table. “I just went and took a good, long look at the horse barn, the pastures, and the fencing. There’s still that five-acre fenced area with the six-foot fences from back in the day when you guys did the makeovers. It’s in rough shape, but we probably have repair materials already here if the men were willing to fix it.”