Wild Montana Skies

by Susan May Warren

  “Hey, that’s a good thing.”

  “Not so much, because, see, she’s also in love with Nate, the kid we rescued, and seems to think he’s her soul mate. If she finds out that you’re her father and that we knew each other in middle school, she’ll suddenly start thinking that Nate is her happy ending. We just need to slow her hormones down a little here.”

  And suddenly he was all nods, on board, clearly remembering himself at that age too. “I hear you.”

  She ignored the slightest twinge at his agreement, that he so easily realized the danger looming before her—their—daughter. Their need to slow her down before she made a mistake she couldn’t fix.

  “So how about we take it one day at a time? I’ll think about the guitar thing, but . . .” She took a breath. “Would you like to attend her last softball game? My mom said it’s later this week. And then we’ll go from there. Will that work for you?”

  He sighed. “It will have to.”

  She looked at him, and he sat there, his hands on the steering wheel, his blue eyes in hers, his mouth a grim line.

  A jet had spooled up its engines, started takeoff. Kacey watched the bird lift into the sky, white against the blue arch overhead.

  “Maybe,” she said quietly, “if we do this right, we can both figure out how to be good parents to our daughter.”

  6

  “Lieutenant Fairing, tango at your two o’clock.” The voice issued the warning in a sibilant whisper, to her left, wheedling through the ink of O-Dark-Hundred. The low-hanging clouds blotted out the stars and any hope of a glint of moonlight on a Taliban weapon.

  But they were out there. She hadn’t moved in hours, her bones burning as she pasted herself to the bunker they’d made just outside a yaw of rock, where five army rangers, she, and her gunner fought to stay alive. She became the rocks, searching her sector for movement.

  “Affirmative, Corporal,” she said under her breath. Ten feet away, her gunner, Cpl. Morgenstern, wore the thermals and was scanning the craggy outline of this pocket of the Spin Ghar Mountains for heat signatures.

  “Duffy, O’Reilly. Sit rep.” She kept her voice barely above a whisper.

  “I count two hostiles,” SPC Duffy responded across the darkness, some six feet away.

  “One in my sights,” said O’Reilly, to her right. He, too, wore thermals. She affixed the NVGs to her helmet, noted her hands shaking.

  Five hours to dawn, and hopefully by then the clouds would lift enough for a fire mission.

  They just had to survive until—

  An explosion lit the far side of their bunker. A scream from Duffy.

  Gunfire peeled back the night. She heard a huff behind her, turned.

  Her NVGs showed Duffy tangling with an unknown tango, his face obscured by his shemagh.

  Duffy had his knife out, fighting, yelling.

  On her other side, O’Reilly unloaded his SAW at the thermal-lit tangos.

  She reacted without thinking; her gunshot blinded her, the kick slamming her back into the rock, even as the enemy jerked, slumped on top of Duffy.

  Duffy raked him off and lurched back to his position, picking up his weapon.

  Pain in her shoulder punched through her adrenaline. She’d cut herself, or—

  “Kacey!”

  She didn’t know whose voice—maybe Captain Johnson, rousing from his wounds in the darkness of the cave—but something hard clamped down on her arm. She reached up, found purchase, a fire in her throat—

  “Kacey.”

  She jerked, scrabbling for her bayonet knife. She wasn’t going to die here on this mountain—

  “Kacey! Wake up.”

  She stilled, and the dream faded as she blinked it away and came to in the lamplight of her living room.

  One hand on the back of the sofa, the other fisted into her father’s bathrobe. He regarded her with some distance, a wary expression, but held her arm in a tight grip.

  “You were whimpering,” he said quietly.

  She let him go. Looked around just to confirm.

  No. She wasn’t fighting for her life in the wee hours of the night deep in the Spin Ghar Mountains, the feral scent of blood and death mixing with dust and the sulfurous odor left by gunfire.

  Although the taste of fear definitely layered her throat, hot and acidic, and her heart thundered.

  She stood in the living room, the night pressing through the soaring windows, moonlight tracing the wooden floor. Her father had flicked on a side lamp and stood, looking old and not a little worried. He wore his pajamas and a blue bathrobe, his gray, thinning hair rumpus on his head. She recognized the signs of insomnia on his face.

  “What are you doing up?” She untangled herself from his grip.

  Shoot. She’d hoped that her string of two nights without sleepwalking might be a sign of progress.

  “I should ask you the same thing,” he said, leaning down to scrutinize her face. “Where were you?”

  She sighed, shook her head. “I’m home now, and that’s what matters.”

  He nodded. “I’ll make us some chamomile tea.”

  She doubted the efficacy of a few leaves to combat her night terrors, but she followed him into the kitchen.

  He filled the copper kettle. Turned on the gas stove as she slid onto a high-top stool.

  “Dad. I didn’t want to say anything tonight, at dinner, but . . . Ben King is in town. He was with me when we went into the park to get the kids. He met Audrey.”

  Her father drew in a long breath, the corners of his mouth tightening.

  “He said”—and she lowered her voice, because she didn’t want it to find its way upstairs, into Audrey’s bedroom—“that he didn’t know.”

  Her father looked at her, frowned. “Didn’t know what?”

  “C’mon, Dad. You told him that I was going to give Audrey up for adoption. He didn’t know that I kept her.”

  And then, because it still felt too loud, she got off the stool, walked around the counter, leaned against it, arms akimbo. “He said you went down to the jail after he’d gotten into that fight with Cash and told him I didn’t want to see him. That he should leave town.”

  Her father turned back to the flame, watching it flicker as a gasping sound emanated from the copper pot.

  She expected a denial—something that would tell her that Ben had lied, that her father would never—

  “Yes. I did.”

  She recoiled, nonplussed.

  He tucked his hands into his bathrobe pockets, turned to her. “You know why he and Cash had that fight?”

  How could she forget the crass word Cash and his cronies had spray-painted on the cute yellow VW bug her parents had bought for her on her sixteenth birthday?

  “To avenge my honor?”

  “That’s one way to put it. And maybe that was his purpose, but I think it was deeper. I think Ben knew that he could never give back what he’d stolen from you, and his fight with Cash was just a reminder of that.”

  He walked over to the cupboard, took out the box of tea.

  “He called the house hoping I’d get him out of his mess. You were just starting labor. I remember thinking his timing was pretty uncanny.”

  She didn’t dispute that she’d been afraid he’d track Cash down. Never considered that he’d end up in jail the night she gave birth.

  And, in her youth, she simply couldn’t forgive him for that.

  She should have talked to him, taken his calls. She blamed herself for that part, at least.

  He took out two mugs, set them next to the tea. “So I went down to the jail. He was pretty roughed up, angry, and frankly smelled like a brewery.”

  “Ben was never a drinker, Dad.”

  “Maybe not, but he wasn’t himself that night. We can agree on that.”

  Maybe.

  He pulled out two tea bags, added one to each mug.

  “I saw him sitting there, and I thought . . .” His shoulders sagged. “This is not the life my daughter wa
nts. I know you thought you did, but how many air shows did we attend? How many times did we sit outside, stare at the stars while you told me how you wanted to fly?”

  She looked away, unable to dispute that.

  “And Ben—I remember listening to him sing. That talent show that he won when he was a sophomore?” Her father shook his head. “That boy had what it took. Clearly.”

  “Dad, please don’t tell me you did this to help—”

  “I wasn’t just thinking of you, Kacey. I was thinking of both of you.” The pot started to whine, and he turned off the heat before it woke the house. He poured water into the cups. “And frankly, I was hoping, back then, that maybe you would put the baby up for adoption.”

  “Dad!”

  He held up a hand. “Not now. Of course I’m so thankful for Audrey. But I remember how thrilled we were when we adopted you. I was overjoyed to be your father, and I thought . . . I just didn’t know how you were going to take care of a baby on your own. I agree that maybe I just didn’t want to see your life derailed.”

  He lifted his mouth in a sad smile. “But it wasn’t—not really. You’re an amazing pilot now, and Audrey is a wonderful young woman, despite a few recent missteps.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. Except, “But Dad . . . Ben said that you threatened to put him in prison.”

  He drew in a breath. “I’ll cop to that. I was pretty rattled, and yeah, I might have overstepped. But in my defense, the next day I released him on his own recognizance and later dismissed the charges.”

  “He missed Audrey’s birth.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  No, to be fair, it wasn’t. Ben would have had to sit in jail until his court appearance anyway.

  “Ben deserved to know about Audrey.”

  “I know.”

  His response brought her up, swept away her anger. “Then why?”

  “I never said you shouldn’t tell him, honey. I just didn’t want him in and out of your life. I know how you felt about him, but I also knew he was destined for a different life than you wanted. So, yes, when he called here after Audrey was born—you were so angry and tired and overwhelmed, I just knew that he would confuse you. You needed time.” He stirred his tea, then hers. “I never thought he’d leave town without looking back.”

  Oh.

  He handed her the mug. “And then you left for the military, and I didn’t see any need to involve him in Audrey’s life. Not when his seemed a little . . . he hasn’t exactly lived the life of his Christian upbringing.”

  “Dad—”

  “I’m just saying that he’s made some choices that I wasn’t thrilled to bring into Audrey’s life. I’m still not. He’s got fans and paparazzi and a very public life, and you and Audrey . . . well, you don’t need that. Especially if you want to keep flying missions in Afghanistan.”

  He sipped his tea.

  She considered hers. “What if I don’t want to? What if, I don’t know . . .” She’d let her thoughts float to the surface, bubble out, and now wanted to take them back. “It’s just that coming home this time has been harder.”

  He took another sip. Drummed his fingers on the mug. “Or perhaps leaving it behind is the problem?”

  She looked at him, at the tight, sad smile on his face. “Yeah.”

  He surprised her then, by putting his mug down, reaching out for her.

  She put hers down and walked into his embrace, feeling the comfort, the safety of his protection as she closed her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get better,” she said. “And if I don’t, I can’t go back. They can’t have a pilot who walks in her sleep.”

  “Then maybe you don’t go back,” he said quietly.

  She sighed. “I don’t know what else to do. I look into my future, and . . . it looks blank.”

  He ran his hand down her hair. “Just take one day at a time.” Then he kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to decide today.”

  She leaned back, drawing away. “And in the meantime, what do I do about Ben?”

  His shoulders rose and fell. “I think you need to consider the evidence you see. Can he be a dad—a real dad—to Audrey? Or are you setting her, and you, up for heartache?”

  “But she needs a father.”

  His mouth tightened. “One who will only disappoint her?”

  “A case could be made for the fact that Ben only left because you told him to.”

  “You really believe that?”

  She heard her words on the mountain, about him being scared. Remembered Ben’s apology in the truck—that he should have trusted the person he knew and loved.

  “He made his choice.”

  “And you have to make yours. But remember, whatever you do, it can’t be undone.”

  That she knew all too well.

  He picked up his mug. “Don’t let the what-ifs from the past cause you to make a mistake today.”

  Then he touched her cheek, a gentle good night before he headed upstairs.

  She stood at the counter, sipping her tea. She thought about Ben in the truck earlier today, assuring her that he wouldn’t leave, that he deserved to be a father.

  She finally put the cup in the sink, turned out the light, and headed upstairs.

  She stopped, however, at Audrey’s door. Eased it open.

  Moonlight cascaded through the window, along the carpet, illuminating the row of stuffed animals at the foot of Audrey’s bed—the orca she’d picked up at SeaWorld, a Mickey Mouse, of course, and the worn teddy bear Kacey had brought home after her first deployment, the fur on its belly rubbed nearly clean.

  Her daughter lay on her side, facing away, silvery light sliding over her humped form. Kacey sat on the bed, longing to touch her daughter’s hair, maybe curl up beside her, something she might have done even six months ago.

  Today, however, her daughter bore the hints of womanhood; she was a girl caught between childhood and who she would be, complete with her own decisions, rebellious or otherwise.

  Kacey wasn’t ready for this version of her daughter. She didn’t know this person. Not really.

  Kacey got up, a sheen of unexpected tears rimming her eyes.

  She couldn’t explain why she reached out for the threadbare teddy bear and snatched it from its demotion at the end of the bed.

  Nor could she pinpoint why she stole it back to her room, locked the door behind her, and climbed into bed.

  But she resigned herself to the idea that she simply felt better with her face buried into the fur, holding it tight as she stared into the long night ahead.

  Ben stood outside the PEAK Rescue HQ, the sun on his neck, covered in sawdust and sweat as he listened to his father’s new personal physical therapist give him a rundown.

  “The problem is, Ben, that although your father had inpatient rehab after the accident, and although you checked him into the nursing facility, he wanted to be at home. He checked out way too early—which meant long hours in his bed, the home health nurse feeding him, taking care of him. And then him, in frustration, getting up, falling, and dislocating his hips, again. It wouldn’t be so bad except he had a double fracture—both hips. It’s just going to take longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  He didn’t mean it the way it sounded, and glanced away, toward the guys—Ty, Pete, and Gage working on the ramp to the deck.

  “It’s hard to say.” Pretty, maybe thirty years old or so, Charlotte Teague came highly recommended from Ty, who’d worked with her while getting his knee back in shape.

  “The problem is, people generally don’t do well with at-home rehab. He has plenty of desire, but he’s short on patience. Physical therapy is a day-by-day, small increments type of activity. Your father wants to get up and run, now.”

  “I know,” Ben said. “He’s furious that I’m building this ramp—thinks he’ll be able to vault it in a week or so.”

  “He needs to take his time, get on a schedule, and stay at it. The brutal statist
ics are that within two years of a hip fracture, about half of the patients are either dead or living in a long-term care facility. He also has a higher risk of heart failure, as well as blood clots. Your dad needs to get up, yes, and start using his walker—”

  “Which he hates.”

  “But also needs to give himself time to rest, and that means using the chair too.”

  Ben shook his head. He should have been here instead of leaving his dad’s aftercare to a nurse. Sure, he’d come home after the accident, stayed with him during surgery, checked him into the nicest care center in the valley. And he’d even flown home for a weekend and settled his father back into his house, but that had been two months ago . . .

  Right about the time Hollie had been whining about his lack of inspiration in the studio.

  And then the old man had fallen, ended up back in the hospital, and Ben packed his bags.

  “It’s one day at a time, Ben, and someone needs to be here to remind him of that. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She stepped off the porch, and Ben took off his gimme hat, rubbed his arm over his sweaty face, and debated heading inside to talk to Chet.

  He noticed, however, that the guys had broken away from work. Ty sat on the deck, drinking a Coke, his Stetson pushed back on his head, shouting encouragement to Gage, who’d picked up a rope to lasso the fake steer on a hay bale, a remnant from Ben’s youth someone had dragged out from the barn.

  Ty’s instructions wicked up a memory of himself standing in the yard, his father standing behind him, instructions in his ear as he swung the loop around his head. Keep it angled toward the horns. If you swing too high, you’ll miss the right horn; if you don’t follow through, you’ll miss the left. Keep it tight and fast.

  He shook the memory away and grabbed a drink from the cooler, sat on an Adirondack chair, and watched Gage’s progress. The guy was all hips.

  “You look like you’re slow dancin’ out there,” said Pete, clearly reading Ben’s mind. He’d stripped off his shirt earlier; a slight sunburn layered his shoulders. Gage threw the lasso at him and caught Pete around the arm; Pete grabbed it and pulled.

  Gage skittered across the yard but didn’t fall. “Good try, Brooks.”