by Karina Bliss
“Bulls bulk up more quickly.” Dan ran a pro’s eye over the pens. “The trick to managing them is to keep the mobs small—around twenty in one paddock—and separate troublemakers like this one.”
“Sounds like SAS selection,” Ross said.
Dan grinned. “Except, fail here and you’re shipped to the slaughterhouse. No second chances for this prima donna.”
He and Ross snickered.
Lee rolled his eyes. “Really, guys? You’re still bringing that up?”
Applying for the SAS hadn’t been on his radar when he’d joined the army for adventure and a free education. But he’d become intrigued by the folklore. SAS troopers were best of the best. Only the top one percent made it through the military’s toughest selection process. Yada, yada.
As someone who’d never had to exert himself beyond ninety percent, Lee figured he’d be a shoo-in. As it turned out the SAS demanded one hundred and ten percent.
“Are you kidding?” Ross said. “If you’d had a headstone we would have engraved it.” He drew big air scrolls. “Here lies Lee Davis for whom it took two attempts to get into the SAS.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Make fun of the one-hundred-thirty-pound weakling.” The unit gave Lee two things he hadn’t known he lacked—a goal and an ability to learn from failure.
Dan assessed him as thoroughly as the cattle. “I expected you to look better.”
“Sweet talker...when does the bidding start?”
As Lee hoped, his buddy dropped his sharp gaze to his watch. “We should think about finding seats.”
“Meet you inside,” Ross said. “I need caffeine.”
Lee followed Dan into the sales shed, a modified barn with a unique aroma equal parts hayseed, dirt, sweat and animals, where they found seats among the tiers of wooden benches set up around the show pen. Along a walkway running above it, a row of stock agents in short-sleeved business shirts and ties pored over clipboards.
Lee started to feel uneasy. Maybe it was the glances he was getting from the few who recognized him. Or the hangover trying to override the Tylenol. It couldn’t be claustrophobia in this vast building.
The first auction started for a dozen Hereford bullocks, and the lyrical yammer of the auctioneer echoed off the corrugated iron walls. The man’s gaze darted among the crowd, swooping in on a laconic nod or a briefly raised hand.
Bang went the gavel.
Lee jumped.
“So-o-old to bidder number six.”
“You okay?” Dan asked.
“Fine.”
A second bunch of cattle were guided in and another round of bidding started. Why the hell was he sensitized here of all places, at a country stock sale?
Flashing surreptitious glances around him, he understood. The weather-beaten faces of the surrounding men—with their stoic, patient expressions—reminded him of the Afghani villagers who’d sheltered him for the first five months after the ambush. Both lifestyles revolved around animals, were attuned to the seasons and subject to the whims of nature. And in the Afghanis’ case, the vicissitudes of war.
He suffered a pang for Ajmal, mule-stubborn, loyal to his God and with a two-thousand-year-old code of honor. By invoking Pashtunwali law, Lee had made himself the man’s tribesman, and the old man’s honor, and that of all his family and his village, depended on keeping a military heathen alive. Or to die trying.
Ross rejoined them, carrying three paper cups. “Vending machine’s only doing tea. I added extra sugar.”
“Thanks.” Lee accepted the hot drink and slid along the wooden bench to make room.
Ross sat down. “What have I missed?”
“Two lots,” Lee guessed.
“More like five.” Dan glanced at him curiously. “The animals I’m interested in are next.”
“So is it like poker, we have to keep a straight face?” Ross’s long legs nudged a man sitting in front of him. “Sorry, mate.”
“I’m done here, anyways.” The farmer stood, tucked his purchase number into the breast pocket of a faded plaid shirt and tipped his hat back to reveal a white strip of untanned forehead. His eyes were bright in his wrinkled face. Lee had to look away.
In hospital he’d made discreet inquiries about Ajmal. The headman and his family were no longer in the village. Which meant they were dead.
Ross took a casual swig of his tea, then dug in his jacket and produced a protein bar, which he held out. “You haven’t eaten in what...five hours?”
“What are you, my babysitter?” Hemmed between his friends, he felt like he was being observed, watched. Notwithstanding their benevolent motives, Lee had to keep reminding himself they were on his side. His nerves only recognized that they were elite soldiers.
Ross waved the bar in front of his nose. “Take it.”
“You’re being anal.” Reluctantly Lee accepted. “How the hell did you get a free spirit like Viv to say yes anyway?”
“I’m loose in bed.”
“Ice,” Dan growled, his gaze fixed on the cattle currently being auctioned. “No sexy talk about my sister, remember?” He used a curt nod to signal a bid.
“Look at you being all laconic and salt of the earth,” Lee said admiringly.
“Screw you” was the affectionate response. “Now quit squirming in case the auctioneer thinks you’re making an offer. I don’t want to pay more for these bulls than I have to.”
Ross raised his arms in a big stretch and pretend yawn. The auctioneer hesitated. Dan shook his head and the man’s lightning gaze moved on.
“Don’t make me come over there, Ice,” Dan warned.
Odd, thought Lee, that bickering could be so soothing.
“I figure we’ll organize the groomsman suit for you this afternoon,” Ross commented to Lee. “And make allowance for weight gain over the next three weeks. How much do you reckon you’ve put on so far? I’ll calculate an average.”
“Pre-wedding jitters,” Dan confided, signaling another bid. “It’s just so darn cute.”
“I’m marrying Hurricane Viv,” Ross protested. “The more I can organize in advance, the freer I’ll be to douse fires on the day.”
“Uh-huh,” scoffed his future brother-in-law.
Lee jumped in as peacemaker. “Viv flies in from New York when?”
“The night before the wedding, with Mum.” Dan kept his eye on the auctioneer. So far no one had matched his bid.
“That’s cutting things fine,” Lee said.
“Going once,” sang the official.
“There’s some redesign needed on one of Johnny Depp’s costumes.” Ross scowled. In hospital Lee had learned that Viv was the chief costume designer for a Broadway remake of the musical Kiss Me, Kate. “I don’t know why she didn’t just put her foot down.”
“Going twice!”
Dan glanced around, checking for late bids. “Even I couldn’t say no to Depp.”
Lee struggled to keep up. “So Depp’s in the play?” He felt like he’d come into a movie halfway through and was still trying to work out what was going on—and how he fit into it.
“Sold to bidder number twelve,” bellowed the auctioneer.
* * *
LEE’S SENSE OF dislocation only increased over the next twenty-four hours.
Dan found him plenty to do from moving the mobs of twenty bulls between the one-hectare cells made by electric fencing to checking on the recently weaned lambs. But the stillness of the countryside, the vast emptiness
that amplified every occasional sound no longer felt like freedom; it felt like loneliness.
Revenge had filled the vacuum following his immediate return. But now that it was gone, desolation seemed to have taken its place. He’d lost Jules twice. If responsibility for the first could be attributed to mutual misunderstanding, bad management and bad luck, responsibility for the second rested squarely on his shoulders.
And they weren’t as strong as they used to be.
Turned out the only manual job he could currently handle was tractor work—driving neat rows across the fields tilling, sowing and rolling in the brassica seed that would grow into forage for the bigger lambs in a couple of months.
Where would he be then? Other than out of Jules’s life.
His first impulse to get the truth out there had been replaced by a desire to wait until as close to his departure as possible. Because he could only handle so much attentiveness and he was already close to his limit.
“The SAS needs instructors of your caliber,” Ross said over a roast beef dinner the second night. His mates kept dropping casual suggestions like this into the conversation, thinking they were helping.
Lee considered telling Ice that sitting this close to men he considered brothers was all the military he could stand. “I’m weighing all options,” he said instead.
“Don’t discount a noncombat role,” Ross persisted. “I never thought I’d say this but there’s something incredibly satisfying about shaping young minds.”
“God help them.” Jo smiled at Lee at she passed the potatoes, her auburn hair glinting under the pendant lamps above the table. The baby bump might not be showing yet but she gave away her condition whenever she touched her flat stomach. Her hazel eyes were luminous. Only Jo seemed to sense his discomfort discussing a future career. She turned to Dan. “Honey, why did we ask Ice to be our baby’s godfather again?”
“Because you owe me,” Ross reminded her. “I helped you spin Shep into husband material in return for your firstborn. It’s the Rumpelstiltskin clause.”
“I did not promise that!”
“Some things don’t change,” Nate commented to Lee across the table. “These two still bicker like siblings.”
Lee realized something. “And when Ross marries Viv you actually will be related,” he said.
Jo stabbed a potato. “Viv may still come to her senses.”
“Shame her brother didn’t,” her nemesis batted back.
The guys looked at Jo expectantly. She sighed. “Dammit, I got nothing. Blame my pregnancy brain.”
“Want me to beat him up for you, honey?” Dan smiled at her from the head of the table but she returned a quick warning frown. Reminding him that someone at the table might find the comment insensitive.
Everyone concentrated on their plates. Knives and forks chinked on china. It had been like this throughout dinner, all of them second-guessing his reactions. The silence grew awkward. “I think I’m pregnant, too,” Lee said, and everyone’s head lifted. “I can’t think of a comeback, either.”
They laughed, a little too heartily.
“You could go to medical school,” Nate said. “Become a doctor.”
Inwardly Lee sighed. “I could.”
As soon as it was polite he cleared the table. “Dishes are still a novelty,” he insisted when his hosts protested. “No, really, stay here, I’ve got this.”
As he scraped plates, rinsed and loaded them into the dishwasher he noted the murmur of conversation developed more flow, got easier. The bursts of laughter came more frequently.
I don’t fit in anymore. So, get over it.
He leaned on the counter and stared out the kitchen window at the stars, so much brighter away from civilization. Afghanistan had a spectacular night sky. Lee had seen it often in the early months as he was hustled from cave to cave to escape the night raids on Ajmal’s village. Raids intent upon seizing him.
The headman’s standoff with the rebels had worsened when the Taliban’s regional commander arrived and Ajmal could no longer rely on his son’s grudging protection. It was one of the old man’s great sorrows that his boy had eschewed the old ways for political power.
“The stars are beautiful, aren’t they?” Jo bustled in, carrying condiments. “They’re one of the things I love about living in the country.”
“I’m enjoying seeing southern hemisphere stars again.” He used to long for the Southern Cross, pointing the way home. Another burst of laughter came from the dining room. Lee returned to stacking the dishwasher.
“They’re as giggly as schoolgirls since you’ve come home,” Jo commented as she returned the salt and pepper shakers to the pantry. “High on happy.”
Nice try. He smiled politely. “Yeah.”
She hesitated. “All the career suggestions...they’re only trying to help.”
“And I appreciate it,” he said. His friends had gotten on with their lives. And it was mean-spirited to feel resentful, left behind because he lacked direction. He’d never have with Jules what Dan had with Jo.
“They’ve all struggled to find their feet since the ambush. It does get better.”
“Dan’s enjoying this lifestyle, isn’t he? Taking over the family farm.”
“Very much.” Nudging him away from the sink, Jo began rinsing the plates. “Particularly now that Herman’s loosened the reins and is making more of his retirement.” Dan’s father was currently touring golf courses on Australia’s Gold Coast.
Lee stacked the last of the dirty dishes. “I still can’t believe his parents have separated.” Pat Jansen had hightailed it to South America to learn the tango. Find herself. Maybe he should join her in Buenos Aires.
“The wedding’s going to be challenging.” Jo added soap to the dispenser and turned the dishwasher on. “It’s the first time she and Herman will be together since she left. No doubt she’ll be vocal about the changes I’ve made to her former home.” The reception was being held here, at the family homestead.
Lee shook his head, trying not to grin.
“What!” Jo demanded, but she was already half laughing.
“You,” he said. She’d been one of the guys when he’d left, Dan’s best friend in civilian life. A tough cookie and astute businesswoman, she owned the local paper. “Not just married, barefoot and pregnant—” she’d kicked off her flats in the heat “—but scared of your mother-in-law.”
“Not scared,” she protested. “Invested... You’ll have a mother-in-law soon who’s way more work than mine.”
He took a couple of seconds to process what she’d said. “You’ve met Jules’s mother?”
“No, but Claire gets worked up about her on Jules’s behalf.” She put the kettle on, added tea bags to mugs. “You guys would have talked about this, right?”
“Oh, sure,” he lied, encouraging her.
“It’s not that we expected her mother to cancel her wedding because it was a week after the funeral and memorial services.” Jo placed the mugs on a tray with a sugar bowl and jug of milk. “But she could have tried to postpone the honeymoon cruise and given her daughter emotional support. God knows Jules gave her plenty over the years.” Curious, Lee waited for more, but she seemed to recollect herself. “Hey, it’s none of my business.”
“You’ve always been a crusader,” he said. “Righting wrongs, fighting for the underdog.”
“Like your fiancée,” she replied. “It’s a shame Jules had too much work to catch up on t
o come with you.” The kettle boiled; she filled the mugs.
Lee replied with a noncommittal murmur.
“I’ve never met anyone who devotes so much time to their career.” Jo waited for the tea to brew. “And that’s coming from someone who was back at work within weeks of a mastectomy.”
“What?” he said, stunned.
“Oh, dear. I thought Dan told you my big secret. It’s okay,” she reassured him, removing the tea bags. “I’ve been clear over two years. That’s why we’re having this baby.”
“Are you...cured?”
“Time will tell. So far so good.”
“Jesus, Jo.” Forgetting his own troubles, he hugged her. “Dan was with me at the hospital for five days. Why in hell didn’t he tell me?”
“He’s Shep, remember? You’d just been rescued. You were recovering. And like I said, we’re good now.” Opening a cupboard, she pulled out two packets of biscuits.
Following her lead, he kept his tone light. “So what other secrets are my friends hiding because they don’t believe I can deal with them yet?”
Something close to guilt flashed in her eyes. Smiling, she held up the packets. “Choc chip or peanut brownies?”
“Both,” he said, interpreting her guilt. So everyone knew about Mark. Though what the hell difference did it make now anyway?
Jo plated the biscuits. But she must have read something in his expression, because her gaze was troubled as she passed him the tray to carry.
“Wait.” She stopped him as they were leaving the kitchen. “I understand what it’s like to go through the motions when you’re wondering if things will ever be normal again. Hang in there, because it will get better. And you’ve got Jules. You two have settled that future—it makes things easier.”
Lee sighed. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you all.... Grab the guys, let’s go sit outside on the porch.”
He needed the space, and the dark might make this easier.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN