A Hero to Come Home To

by Marilyn Pappano

  “I gotta go. It’s dinnertime. Talk to you later.”

  Therese could actually hear the eye-roll in Abby’s tone.

  Once they were seated at the table, she held out her hands. Nearly three years, and the kids were still reluctant to take her hands, bow their heads or even say Amen to the blessing. Their mother never made them wait when they were starving just to say a prayer. She never made them sit at the dinner table and answer questions about their stupid day, or ordered them to set the table or expected them to clean up afterward or forced them to eat food they didn’t like.

  “This isn’t your mother’s house,” Paul had firmly reminded them. “When you live in our house, you follow our rules.” Even though saying the blessing wasn’t something he’d done, either, before meeting Therese.

  “Amen,” she finished, but kept her eyes closed just a moment longer, silently adding a PS to the prayer. Lord, we’re drowning here. Please throw us a lifeline, at least for the kids. I’m a pretty strong swimmer, but help them, please.

  A little bit of hope wouldn’t go unappreciated, either. Because sometimes it seems mine is running out, and I can’t let that happen. No matter how much they hate it, I’m all they have.

  The somber thought stiffened her resolve as she said another soundless Amen.

  But it also sent a tiny shiver down her spine.

  The Bible might have intended Sunday as a day of rest, but that was rarely the case on the Double D Ranch outside Tallgrass. It wasn’t even noon yet, and so far Dalton Smith had barely slowed down since sunrise. After feeding the cows in the east pasture and the mares with foals in the back field, making sure the new babies were nursing and checking that none of the pregnant cows had wandered off to give birth away from the others, as they tended to do, he’d gone in for breakfast with his brother Noah.

  Right after the meal, the kid had left for Stillwater, where he was a sophomore at Oklahoma State, trying to decide whether a plain old ag degree was good enough for him or if he’d rather be a vet. Raising palominos and Belted Galloway cattle, Dalton figured a vet in the family would be a good thing, but that would mean another four years for vet med school after Noah got his bachelor’s. Seeing that he was paying the tuition, Dalton also figured the sooner he got out and started working, the better. He could use some help on the Double D.

  Thoughts of his other brother, Dillon, stirred in the back of his mind—a place he definitely didn’t want to go. Swallowing the last of the water, he crushed the plastic bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin next to the door and started for the house. He was halfway there when he saw the pickup parked at the side of the road next to the horse pasture. A few feet away, a man rested his arms on the top rail of the wooden fence.

  Though Dalton wasn’t much for socializing, he knew all his neighbors. Hell, he’d lived on the ranch his entire life. This man was a stranger. Probably just admiring the animals. Most people did.

  He had a headache and was ready for lunch, and after that, there was still a dozen things he needed to do before bedtime, including the book work he put off every week until Sunday. He didn’t want to visit with anyone.

  But he also didn’t trust strangers. The man could be just admiring the horses, or he could be up to no good. A rancher in the next county had just lost six head of cattle in a pasture that ran alongside the road to some nut job with a bow and a dozen arrows.

  Dalton changed directions, heading down the yellow grass butting up to the gravel driveway. As he got closer, he saw the truck was so new he could practically smell it. There was an Airborne sticker in the back window and a red Fort Murphy sticker under the Department of Defense decal on the windshield. That fit with the guy’s haircut and the way he stood, relaxed but with the feeling that he could snap to attention in a heartbeat.

  Dalton really didn’t want to visit with a soldier. As much as possible, he avoided everyone and everything having to do with the Army. Not easy when you lived in a military community, but he’d done his best since Sandra…

  Thinking of Sandra was another place he definitely didn’t want to go—worse, even, than thinking about Dillon. At least his brother was alive, as far as they knew. Someday he might even come home.

  Sandra was never coming back.

  “Can I help you?” he asked when he was a few yards away. His voice was gruffer than he’d intended, and he was scowling. Noah had told him just this weekend that he was turning into a scary-looking person, what with not cutting his hair or shaving and always glaring like he hated the world.

  Only fair, since he did hate it. At least, parts of it.

  The man hadn’t given any indication that he was aware of Dalton approaching, but he wasn’t surprised, either. He straightened but didn’t move away from the fence and didn’t startle guiltily. “The horses are beautiful. When I was a kid in Texas, my grandparents had a little place out in the country. Most of their horses weren’t anything special, just for working, but they had one palomino I used to ride.” He got a distant look, as if he were somewhere down south in a good memory.

  Sometimes Dalton forgot he had good memories, too—a lot of them. It was just that the last few years had been so damn hard that he didn’t know whether it would be good or bad to remember better times. On the one hand, it might give him hope that things would improve again, but on the other, the way his luck was running, it would be false hope.

  The man focused on him again. “Name’s Dane Clark. I’m assigned to Fort Murphy.”

  “I figured.” Dalton leaned against a weathered section of fence, almost directly under the arch that identified the Double D. “I’m Dalton Smith. This is my place.”

  Clark’s gaze lifted to the sign. “And here I had visions of pretty female ranchers…”

  Everyone Dalton knew, knew the story of the ranch’s name. He didn’t owe a stranger an explanation and usually didn’t give one when asked. But Clark hadn’t asked and didn’t seem inclined to go beyond the one comment he’d already made.

  With a shrug, he said, “My family settled here before statehood back in 1907—two brothers named Donald and Dooley. They thought ‘Smith Ranch’ was too plain, so they chose to use their initials. Little did they know that someday that would be used to refer to women’s breasts, though, from what I hear, they wouldn’t have minded the association. Every generation since then that’s had sons has named at least two of them to fit.”

  “There’s worse ways to get a name.” Clark’s gaze shifted back to the horses.

  They weren’t doing anything—just grazing, a few of the younger ones occasionally kicking up their heels—but watching them was one of Dalton’s favorite ways to pass the time. “Do you still ride?”

  If he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed the stiffness that spread through Clark, the way he shifted his weight and leaned on the fence for support. He freed his left hand and swiped it down the leg of his jeans—new, creased, ending in a crumple above a pair of running shoes so new the white hadn’t been scuffed yet. “Nah. Not in a long time.”

  “I don’t think you forget.”

  “I don’t know about that. It was another lifetime.” An abrupt change of subject. “You run this place alone?”

  Dalton might not know much about human behavior, but if Clark were a horse, he’d say he’d caught a whiff of something fearful. Though he was standing motionless, there was a sense that he’d bolt at the first chance.

  But it wasn’t Dalton’s business why and, more, he didn’t care. “My younger brother’s in school at OSU. He comes home on weekends to help out, but I do most of the work.”

  “Is he the other D?”

  No. That would be my twin brother, who abandoned the ranch and the family because he’s a self-centered, irresponsible sonova— Breaking off before he could insult his mother, he smiled tightly. “No.”

  This time he was the one who changed the subject quickly. “What do you do at the post?”

  Clark’s smile, if that was what it was, was stra
ined. “Train. Prepare.”

  “Are you deploying?” There had been a time when Dalton’s knowledge of things military was limited to what he’d read in books and papers and seen in movies. Marrying a soldier had changed that. It’s like we’re both learning a new language, Sandra had joked. Ranch speak and Army speak.

  That was before she’d gotten orders to Afghanistan.

  “No,” Clark said. “I’ve done four tours in the desert. I can’t go back.”

  It was hard to tell if that can’t meant “I’m not allowed to” or “I won’t.” It seemed to Dalton that one combat tour per person was plenty. Sandra had already finished one round in Iraq before he met her. She’d been assigned to a hospital, more or less out of danger. It was like a baseball game, she’d told him: long hours, even days, of tedious routine interrupted by moments of pure excitement. She’d figured Afghanistan would be the same.

  Clark pushed away from the fence, moving carefully over the ditch to the driveway, then extended his hand. “Sorry for keeping you from your work or your time off or whatever.”

  “No problem.” Dalton shook hands with him, then watched as he walked to his truck. Just before he opened the door, Dalton offered an invitation that surprised even him. “If you decide you want to give riding another shot, come back by.”

  An odd expression flashed across the other man’s face, then he nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Dalton watched him leave, then shifted to lean on the fence and stare at the horses. They were beautiful, and they didn’t expect much from him: access to food and water and care when they were sick. Same with the cattle in the other pasture. It was a good thing, because he didn’t have anything else to offer.

  Was life supposed to be this hard? It hadn’t been for his parents or his grandparents, though all of them had been through some tough times. It’d been too easy for Dillon and, please God, it would stay fairly easy for Noah.

  But, damn, he wouldn’t mind sharing the grief a little. He’d just about had his fill of it.

  Tuesdays were Carly’s favorite day of the week, and not just because it meant dinner at The Three Amigos with the rest of the gang. On Mondays, the kids were always a little restless, still longing for the weekend that had just ended, and on Fridays, they were anticipating the free days to come. Wednesdays and Thursdays were average, but Tuesdays were good days.

  Tuesdays were when they visited the soldiers at the Warrior Transition Unit. Her kids were young enough to accept the injuries they saw with curiosity and concern. They weren’t yet self-conscious about hero worship, and they didn’t censor themselves. They were blunt, forthright, and open, and most of the soldiers adored being adored.

  The school bus pulled into the parking lot at one thirty, and Carly, her classroom aide, and two mothers lined up the kids at the door, then walked them out. All the children were on their best behavior, understanding that acting out could cancel the trip and leave everyone, students and soldiers, disappointed.

  The mother who sat across from Carly was new to Tallgrass and Fort Murphy. This was her eight-year-old’s third school, and both she and Mom were taking it in stride. Mom asked about restaurants and kid-friendly activities, and Carly answered as if she hadn’t spent much of her time in Tallgrass at home alone, but the woman fell quiet when the bus turned into the transition unit parking lot.

  “This war is so wrong,” she whispered.

  Carly gave her a startled glance. Her life, and her friends’ lives, had been drastically changed by the war, and they talked about every aspect of it, except whether it was a righteous battle that had to be fought or a tragic waste of American life. Jeff had supported it to the end, and she would like the country to see it through to the end, if that was possible. She didn’t want to think his nation might give up on the conflict that took his life.

  “My son’s kindergarten teacher—her husband died in Afghanistan,” the woman went on. “She’s younger than me, has two kids like me…It’s just so sad.”

  So did mine, and it is sad, but they died doing something they loved for a cause they wholeheartedly embraced. But the words stuck in Carly’s throat.

  “My husband’s enlistment is up soon, and I want him to get out. It’s too dangerous. But he doesn’t want to, and with the economy…”

  The squeal of the bus’s brakes practically obscured Mom’s sigh. Grateful for the excuse not to respond, Carly stood and faced the back. “Remember, kids: No running, no arguing, and lots of smiles, okay?”

  “Yes, Miss Lowry,” most of them chimed. With a gleam in his dark eyes, Paco waited until they were done to energetically add, “You betcha, Miss Lowry.”

  They filed out of the bus and into the building, down the hall and into the gym. For too many of the soldiers, physical and occupational therapy had become a full-time job. The palpable drive and determination in the room always boosted Carly’s spirits but, at the same time, made her just a little ashamed. Some of these guys had lost so much, but they hadn’t given up. They were moving ahead.

  And so was she. Slowly. She hadn’t acknowledged even once today that it had been twenty-five months, three weeks, and three days since Jeff’s death. She wasn’t the hermit she used to be. She had a focus in her life now.

  She would never stop hurting or missing Jeff, but she could live without him.

  The thought brought both incredible satisfaction and incredible sorrow. He was the only man she’d ever loved, the light of her life, but she could live without him.

  It was hard to say who was happier to see whom, the kids or the troops. The children flitted like butterflies around sweet blossoms, greeting old friends and introducing themselves to new ones. Robin, the aide, immediately sought out one man in particular. What had started as a class project was evolving into a romance. Carly wished them well and tried to imagine herself in the same place, but it was tough when her heart kept projecting Jeff’s face onto the nameless man in the fantasy.

  She wandered the perimeter of the room, speaking to everyone, occasionally nudging a shy child or soldier to make contact. She was halfway back to where she started when a tall, lean figure standing next to the seated hamstring curl machine caught her attention. He wore sweatpants and a gray T-shirt and was drinking from a bottle of water while talking to another man straining to maneuver the machine’s heavy weights.

  It was Dane.

  She closed the dozen feet, leaving the machine between them, and lightly touched the second man’s shoulder. “Hey, Justin, how’s it going?”

  “Aw, I’m just playing here. You want me to get up so you can hop on?”

  “Are you suggesting that my legs need work more than yours?”

  The younger man grinned. “I don’t know. Hike that skirt up a few inches and let me see.”

  She gave him a chastening look before slowly shifting her attention to Dane. “If it isn’t the caveman. Fort Murphy is a smaller universe than I thought.”

  For a moment, he had the same deer-in-the-headlights look that he’d gotten in the cave Saturday when he realized he was trapped with six women. Then he took a breath and his fingers relaxed around the bottle. “Carly, isn’t it?”

  “Carly Lowry.” Hesitation held her motionless a minute before she followed Jessy’s lead from the weekend and extended her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  His fingers were long, strong, callused, the nails clipped unevenly, and heat emanated from his skin. How could men’s hands, so similar to women’s on the surface, feel so different to touch? There was strength in his hand, solidity, control, and just holding it briefly sent a hint of a shiver along her arm.

  It was just a handshake, one that he ended a few seconds too early, a few seconds too late. Her fingers tingling, she drew her hand back when he released it, then didn’t quite know what to do with it. Finally, she wrapped her fingers around the cool metal of the machine.

  “Where’s Trista?” Justin asked, twisting to look over one shoulder.

  “She is…�
�� Carly scanned the room, locating the girl against the far wall, her own hesitant gaze sweeping around, dropping, then sweeping again. “There. Looking for you.”

  Justin slid to his feet, steadying himself for a moment, then Dane handed him the crutches that had leaned against the wall. “See you guys.”

  “Abandoning me for a younger woman?” Carly teased.

  “Aw, you’re sweet, but Trista’s got my heart.” Using the crutches with ease, he waited until he’d reached the middle of the room to call the girl’s name. A smile swallowed her entire face as she launched herself toward him.

  Smiling, Carly leaned against the wall. “Trista is as timid as a mouse. Justin paid attention to her the day they met, and she’s been attached to him ever since.” She gestured toward the machine. “You waiting to use this?”

  “Nah. Just talking to Justin. Go ahead and hop on. But I’ve seen your legs. I don’t think you need it.”

  Did Caveman just compliment her? It was impossible to tell from his expression. He wasn’t looking at her—his attention was directed toward the room—but there was a faint hint of pink tingeing his cheeks.

  He did compliment her—her legs, at least. That was the first time a man had said something flattering to her in…Carefully avoiding the natural thought of Jeff, she finished: in a long time.

  She continued to gaze at him long enough that his eyes flickered her way once, then twice. He shifted to lean against the wall as she did and indicated the room with a sweep of his water bottle. “What’s the deal with the kids?”

  “We come over every Tuesday afternoon to visit. At any given time, half of my class has one parent deployed—a few mothers, mostly fathers. This gives them something to look forward to, a little time with someone like their daddies, and the soldiers enjoy it, too.”

  “It doesn’t scare them?”

  “Maybe a few, but we assure them the kids don’t bite. Though there was that time JayLo took a nip out of Hannah for making fun of her name. The joys of being named after a celebrity.”