Blades of Bluegrass

by D. Jackson Leigh

  The last she recalled, Lieutenant What’s-her-name was massaging her shoulder. That woman had strong hands, and damn, it felt good. But not good enough to want the army living on the farm. She’d come here to escape everything camouflaged and clear her head. The sooner she made that clear and sent the woman packing, the better.

  Britt grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, then stepped out onto the porch. The lieutenant and Lynn stopped their slow rocking and looked up at her.

  “You’re up.”

  Duh. “It would appear that I am, unless I’m sleepwalking.”

  The lieutenant nodded, acknowledging Britt’s sarcasm but still offering a slight smile. “How’s the pain?”

  Britt wouldn’t lie. “It’s good. Gone for the moment. Thank you.”

  Lynn stood. “We were just passing the time. Take my chair,” she said to Britt. “I’ve got beds to change and a load of laundry to fold.” She stopped with the door half open. “You need to eat more than that half sandwich we got into you earlier.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Britt said.

  “I made some of my special soup. I’ll warm up a mug of it for you.” Lynn nodded to affirm her decision. “That’s just the thing you need.” She hustled inside as if she hadn’t heard what Britt had said.

  Britt sighed but didn’t sit in the offered rocker. Instead, she propped her butt against the porch railing and looked down at her visitor. “I’m sorry you drove all the way out here, Lieutenant…” She made a show of peering at the name printed on the uniform. “…Alexander, but you won’t be staying.”

  Lieutenant Alexander stared back for a long moment. “My orders came from a rank higher than yours, Captain Story. And I’m not in the habit of disobeying orders, so, yes, I will be staying.”

  Britt ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation. “Look. I don’t remember much of the two weeks after my patrol was attacked, so I feel like I was in the desert last week, then pretty much woke up at Walter Reed and got the hell out of there as soon as they would release me. I came here to get away from the US Army and clear my head.” She knew her voice was growing louder with each word, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I don’t want to eat breakfast every morning and dinner every night while staring across the table at your uniform. Do you get that?” Her shoulder jerked in an involuntary twitch. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. God knows, she didn’t want to restart the muscle spasms. She opened her eyes again after a few cleansing breaths. “I want to be left alone.”

  Lieutenant Alexander held her gaze and opened her mouth to speak, but Lynn pushed through the door, holding a steaming mug.

  Lynn pointed to the rocking chair and barked in her drill-sergeant voice, “Britt Story, sit your ass down.”

  Despite her righteous anger, Britt’s legs were still a bit wobbly. She sat in the rocking chair and accepted the soup mug Lynn thrust at her.

  Lynn pointed at Britt, then Lieutenant Alexander. “Work it out. Both of you.” She stomped to the door, then turned back to them. “I’ll know if you throw that soup out in the yard. Drink it.” The door slammed sharply behind her, but they could hear her mumbling to herself as she walked through the kitchen to go upstairs.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Britt took a sip of the soup. The chicken-vegetable recipe was as good as she remembered. She took another sip of the rich broth. It was still too hot to fill her mouth with the bits of chicken and vegetables.

  “I can’t disobey my orders to rehabilitate your injury, but I can put the uniform away. I did bring a few casual clothes. I’ll probably need to drive back and collect some other things anyway, once I see what we might need to help you. I can pick up some more clothes then.”

  Britt sighed. Apparently, she was stuck with this rock in her shoe. Damn it. She sighed again. Audibly. To clearly express her exasperation. “That would help, I guess.”

  Lieutenant Alexander nodded and stood. “I’ll get my briefcase, if you don’t mind answering some basic questions while you finish your soup, Captain.”

  Britt watched Lieutenant Alexander start down the steps. “Britt.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Lose the uniform and the protocol. Addressing me as Captain and saluting won’t help me forget that the army has infiltrated my home.”

  Lieutenant Alexander’s smile was soft, and her cheeks flushed pink. For the first time, Britt realized her therapist was a very attractive woman. She held out her hand and waited while Britt settled the soup mug in her lap and accepted her offered handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Britt. I’m Teddy.”

  Chapter Three

  Britt rolled to sit on the side of her bed when she smelled coffee and heard someone opening cabinets and clinking pots in the kitchen downstairs. Pop always rose at five thirty and was cooking breakfast by six.

  She’d slept only a few hours and wanted nothing more than to stay in her bed and hide from the world.

  When she was in the desert, she’d hated the relentless glare of the sun, constant sweat, and the fine sand that permeated everything. It was in your ears and nose, in your bed and clothes, even in your food if you didn’t eat fast enough. But she felt snatched from that world and dumped in another so abruptly that she almost missed the familiar labored wheeze of the air conditioner in the container unit she shared with another female officer. She caught herself listening for the continuous coming and going of military vehicles, and the loud voices of men everywhere at all hours. She’d grown used to snatching short hours of sleep between patrols and other daily duties that kept her busy sixteen hours a day, every day.

  The relative silence of the farm at night was unsettling, the soft periodic hum of the central air-conditioning too quiet.

  Still, duty called. And if she didn’t get up, they’d come find her. She dressed slowly, pulling on jeans and a soft, long-sleeved Henley. She wasn’t ready to face the world in short sleeves that would expose her stump. Thankfully, her old ankle-high barn boots had a zipper, rather than laces that would need to be tied. She made a mental note to order several pair before that design went out of style. She was grateful she kept her hair short—pretty much a necessity now that she had only one hand to brush it into order. She regarded herself in the mirror. Nothing she could do about the dark circles under her eyes. She shrugged and headed downstairs.

  * * *

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” Teddy wasn’t comfortable sipping coffee at the table while a man at least forty years her senior cooked breakfast.

  “You’ll mess up his system if you try to help,” Britt said from the doorway. “Trust me. You are helping by staying out of his kitchen while he cooks.”

  E.B. pointed at Britt with the spatula he was using to flip the eggs. “You better stay out of my way, too, or your eggs will be the ones full of shells.” His threat was softened by the affection in his voice and the way his gaze drank in his granddaughter. Their connection was palpable.

  Britt reached for one of the dozen white diner-style mugs from the overhead shelf. “Just getting a cup of coffee.”

  He pointed with the spatula again. “Lynn put your mug in that corner cabinet. Said I might accidentally knock it off if she left it up there with the others.”

  “And it can stay there.” Britt’s curt tone was a knife slicing through the warm mood of the morning ritual. E.B. wordlessly turned back to the eggs he was frying, and Britt’s shoulders slumped as she poured coffee. She replaced the coffee carafe but then clasped her grandfather’s arm in a brief squeeze. “I’m sorry, Pop. Didn’t sleep much last night, but that’s not an excuse to be rude.”

  He nodded. “Go sit down. Eggs are up.”

  Teddy watched the exchange, cataloging the information revealed during the interaction. Britt wasn’t sleeping well. Physical pain, PTSD, or just the general disorientation soldiers experienced after deployment? Or was something deeper keeping her from resting? Also, Capt. Britt Story had amazing control over herself. She’d witne
ssed many bouts of volatile anger from soldiers in her situation—suddenly thrown back into their old lives, but with broken bodies—and had never witnessed anyone rein it in so quickly. She wasn’t ready to credit the about-face to Britt’s relationship to her grandfather. It was possible but unlikely. Friends and family closest to suffering soldiers were usually the ones who became targets when they lashed out at the unfairness of their circumstances.

  That self-control, however, was going to be a big fence Teddy would need to climb over to sign off on Britt’s case and get back to her own life.

  E.B. placed plates piled with bacon, fried eggs, and toast in front of her and Britt, then retrieved his own.

  “So, you know much about racehorses, Teddy?” E.B. asked between mouthfuls of food and slurps of coffee.

  “Not really. I think they’re beautiful. I’m a military brat so we moved a lot, but several of the bases where my dad was stationed had horse stables. He’d had a pony when he was growing up, so he took me riding a couple of times. I didn’t get to do it enough to be any good at it.”

  “My daddy put me in the saddle in front of him before I could even walk, and I did the same for my son.” He waved his fork in Britt’s direction. “That one never gave her father the chance. Her mama had one of those chow dogs, and Britt here was hanging onto that dog’s scruff and using him for a pony when she could barely crawl. She was riding her own miniature pony as soon as she could walk. She can saddle a couple of mounts and show you the farm.”

  “Teddy is here to rehab my arm, Pop. I doubt she’ll have time to stroll about the farm on a horse. We’re going to be working through that protocol as quickly as possible so she can get back to her regular duties.” Britt’s tone was casual, but her eyes dared Teddy to challenge her statement.

  Teddy chewed slowly, giving herself time to find the right words before she spoke. “The purpose of physical and occupational therapy is to help you become comfortable again with your career and personal environment after your injury. Taking a ride very well might be part of that treatment. But we’ll talk about that after breakfast, while we tackle your first session.”

  Britt gave a curt nod and stood to retrieve the coffee carafe. Teddy spread jelly on her last piece of toast, and E.B. used his to mop up the egg yolk left on his plate while Britt topped off everyone’s coffee.

  E.B. popped his last bite into his mouth and settled back in his chair to enjoy his coffee. “So, I’m figuring to pick up a few new mares.” He looked at Britt. “Reckon you might have time to do some research on that?”

  Britt spooned sugar into her coffee and nodded. “I can. Anything you looking for specifically?”

  “I’ve been talking to David over at Lane’s End about breeding to Honor Code. In fact, I like several of the studs they’re standing, and their fees are reasonable.”

  “What’s his fee?”

  “Forty thousand, same as last year. But I’m betting it’ll be higher next year. He’s got a pretty impressive offspring doing well in stake races so far this year.”

  Britt nodded. “Got a mare in mind?”

  “Wish I could breed Last Dance to him, but Gail says she threw her final foal this year. She’ll keep weanlings next year. So, I want you to look for a Dancer mare to replace her.”

  “Keep weanlings?” Teddy was lost. It was like they were speaking another language that she didn’t understand.

  “She’ll be put out with a couple of babies when they’re weaned from their mothers. Having an older mare in with them helps them cope with the initial separation. They feel safer, I guess,” Britt said.

  “That makes sense.”

  Britt looked to E.B. again. “You said a couple of mares. What else are you looking for?”

  “You know what I like. Anything from Secretariat’s line. He produced the best breeding mares of any sire ever. But I wouldn’t ignore something with War in the pedigree. I want to breed for strong legs. I’ve seen too many breaking down on the tracks the past couple of years. My ideal mare…”

  “…would have Secretariat’s oversized heart and Man o’ War’s strong legs.” Britt finished the sentence for him. “You and every other Thoroughbred breeder.” She took her coffee cup to the sink. “It’s late in the year. The mare auctions are mostly over.”

  “I know. I’m looking for mares that didn’t take during summer breedings, so I can breed them early next year.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  E.B. shook his head. “You take care of you first. I’ve managed without you the past couple of years. You don’t need to jump in with both feet until you’re all mended.”

  “Okay.” Britt turned to Teddy. “Where do you want to do this?”

  “Uh. Well…” Teddy hesitated, still digesting the famous Secretariat having an oversized heart and that being a good thing. An enlarged heart in a person wasn’t good.

  E.B. answered instead. “After I talked to Brock, I had a couple of the guys empty out the small bedroom and put your old weights and bench that were stored in the barn in there. Maybe you won’t need them, but they’re there if you do.”

  Teddy smiled at him. “Thank you. We can use the bench for sure.”

  * * *

  “What if I don’t want a prosthesis?” Britt frowned at the harness Teddy was adjusting across her shoulders. The straps were like wearing a second bra, and Britt’s every instinct rebelled against it. She had well-defined trapezius muscles extending from her neck to shoulder. That’s why she wore racerback sports bras, soft and with no straps that kept falling off her shoulder. She tugged at one of the prosthesis straps. “This is going to rub my armpit. And my stump is still sore.”

  “Your arm is a residual limb, not a stump.” Teddy sat back, her face a picture of calm.

  Britt pointed to her shortened limb, then to herself. “We call it a stump.” She looked down at it. “Right, Shortie?”

  Teddy shook her head but didn’t address Britt’s declaration. “The harness will feel strange at first, and you likely will experience some tenderness in some areas until your shoulders adjust.” She picked up the prosthesis and gently slid it onto Britt’s residual limb. “For a few weeks, you’ll need to wear this so you can grow accustomed to the harness and the weight of the prosthesis. It isn’t functional, but it’s about the same weight as the bionic limb you’ll be fitted with when your arm is sufficiently healed. You’ll have other adjustments to get accustomed to when you get the functional arm.”

  “It’s heavy. It feels like it’s pulling my left shoulder down. Won’t that hurt my back posture?”

  “It’s actually weighted comparable to your right arm. It only feels heavy because your muscles have already shifted to accommodate the imbalance caused by the weight of your right arm. If that’s allowed to continue, amputees typically develop neck and spine problems.”

  “How long do I have to wear it today?” Britt didn’t try to keep the irritation out of her voice. She’d gotten little sleep after a nightmare woke her, sweating and heart racing, at two a.m. Always the same nightmare. Afterward, she lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for the house to stir. Guilt, frustration, and finally anger built during those few long hours of ceiling-staring until she could barely tolerate her own presence, much less the company of others.

  “I’d like you to wear it at least until lunch. We’ll take a look at it then to see if it needs adjusting. We can try other styles of harness if you aren’t able to tolerate this one.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What if I don’t want to wear a prosthesis? What if I’m more comfortable with just my stump?”

  “Residual limb, not stump.” Teddy pointed to Britt’s arm. “You mean other than the neck and spine problems I just mentioned?”

  Of course, she did. She wasn’t deaf. “Yes.”

  “The Department of Defense sees your injury as a chance to advance prosthetic technology. You have an additional surgery site on
the inside of your residual limb because a doctor your father flew in for your amputation relocated nerves to just under the skin on the inside of your arm. Those nerves transfer the brain’s signals for movement to the hand and, hopefully, the sensation of pressure, texture, and temperature from your hand back to your brain. When you’re healed enough, you’ll be fitted with a state-of-the-art bionic limb that operates nearly as well as a real hand.” Teddy’s soft, sure fingers that explored the fit of the prosthetic were cool on Britt’s swollen skin.

  Britt frowned at her. “They can give it to someone else. I don’t want special treatment.”

  Teddy continued to check the fit of the harness. “My orders are to make sure you’re in a position to take advantage of that opportunity when it’s presented.” She finally dropped her hands to her lap. “Whether you ultimately take the chance the army is offering isn’t on the table today.”

  Britt gave a curt nod. “Are we done here?” Their session had begun with massage, then progressed to stretching and range-of-motion exercises. She was tired and agitated, her shoulder hurt, and the prosthesis felt like an albatross she had to wear for punishment.

  “How’s your pain?”

  “Fine.” Britt wasn’t going to admit to hurting and ignored Teddy’s challenging stare.

  After a long moment, Teddy seemed to relent. “Okay. I can see that you’re tired.” She laid a small remote control on the table next to Britt. “Those patches I put on before the sock and prosthesis were wireless TENS electrodes that this remote controls. If you start to experience a spasm or phantom pain again, click it on, then press the up and down buttons to increase or decrease the stimulation.”