“I'm all right,” I said, my voice a whisper.
He lifted me up on Licorice and set me behind the saddle. I gasped for a moment, afraid Licorice might buck, too, since he wasn't used to anyone riding doubles. I had to wrap my arms around Kent as Licorice started off at a trot toward the house. “We need to take you to the doctor,” I heard him say gruffly. I wondered if I were dreaming as I gripped his waist and breathed in his masculine scent.
“I don’t need a doctor; I was just thrown off a horse. Nothing is broken or bruised, and what about poor Tia?” I whispered.
“You don’t know that! I’m taking you to the doctor,” he said with authority. Then he continued, “If she doesn’t follow us, I’ll ride back to get her.” I knew that there was no point in resisting. He had already made up his mind, and he was going to take me to the doctor — come hell or high water.
When he arrived at the stable, he heard hooves thudding behind us. Tia had followed us home. Gently, as if he were handling a newborn baby, he helped me down, and I was grateful that Daddy wasn't around to see me. He would have made a big fuss as well. Quickly, he unsaddled the horses while I sat on an old chair at the back of the stable. When he was finished, he looked into my eyes and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Where's your purse?"
"Inside on the counter by the pantry."
"Let me help you into my truck and you wait there while I go get it,” Kent said, peering at me, bossy as ever. I wanted to roll my eyes at him, and I suppressed a giggle. Kent's behavior was so ridiculous it was humorous. I was perfectly fine, yet, I sensed his panic was genuine. So I did what I was told more out of a need to please him than out of concern for myself.
Chapter 12
Kent
We were both quiet for a few moments. Rachel was looking out the truck window, and I was gripping the steering wheel so hard my fucking knuckles were turning white. I was trying not let my PTSD render me a blithering idiot, but I was losing the battle.
My head was racing, reviewing the mental images of Rachel lying limp on the ground with a rattlesnake coiled up, ready to strike, only feet away from her head. For a few moments, I stayed focused on the situation, helping Rachel up, but soon after my PTSD took over.
The accident reminded me of Marcus lying limp in my arms while I watched his life ooze out of him and how my efforts to help him were useless. A renewed fear had driven my desire to get Rachel to the doctor to ensure no serious injuries lurked under the surface.
I could sense Rachel looking over at me from time to time, but I kept my eyes on the road, cruising just over the speed limit toward Cody's West Park Hospital. I didn’t want to face her and chance her noticing the fear in my eyes. What I needed was for her to trust me, but so far I figured I had failed miserably.
“Kent…” she breathed my name softly and waited for a response. So I gave her one. I clenched my jaw and tromped the accelerator, racing pass a truck pulling a horse trailer. Just as the cab of my truck came even with his, I flipped him off, and hollered, “Don’t you know how to drive, you stupid mother fucker?”
Rachel shook her head and probably rolled her eyes, but I wasn’t looking at her when she said, “Really, I’m fine! You don’t need to be in such a hurry. Settle down, Kent!”
I knew she was okay. Earlier my eyes had scanned over her body for bruises and broken bones. There was no swelling, no blood, and she wasn’t dazed or concussed. Yet, I couldn’t help but imagine what could have happened to her — a broken leg or a rattlesnake bite. I knew if the accident had been serious, though, there was no doubt I would have gone crazy!
As I pulled under the covered entrance to the emergency room, I turned to face her, and said, "Stay right there, and I'll get a wheelchair."
Rachel grabbed my hand before I got out. Her eyes were wide, and her voice was kind when she said, "Kent, I can walk. Go on and park and meet me inside." I felt my face flush with both anger and embarrassment as I walked around to her side of the truck and helped her out, slamming the door. I could park the damn truck later.
When we got inside, I pointed to a nearby chair and indicated I expected her to sit there. Then I stalked up to the counter, palming my hair, rang the bell, and whispered, "Unbelievable; I need to ring a little fucking bell before getting attention in the emergency room!"
Moments later an obese woman — she would never have made it in the military — dressed in blue scrubs with her hair pulled back in a tight bun looked over her glasses at me. "How can I help you, sir?"
“Where’s the doctor?” I hissed. Then I turned and gestured at Rachel, and continued, "I have a young lady here that was thrown from a horse." I noticed when the nurse looked at Rachel she squinted her eyes trying to adjust the angle of her glasses as she assessed the situation.
Then she turned and pressed the button to unlock the door and walked around in front of Rachel, and asked, "What seems to be the problem, hon?"
Rachel grinned and glanced down at the floor with her hands in her lap but before she could answer, I growled, "Where the hell is the doctor?"
"Sir, please be patient. There was a bad accident at the Stampede Arena —"
"What happened?" I asked.
"I can't name any names; that would be a HIPPA violation. But two cowboys were gored by a bull."
Rachel gasped and looked up at her. "Oh, my God! I hope they’re going to be all right!” Then she cleared her throat, and continued, “I was just a bit shook up at first, but now I'm feeling fine. I don't want to take up the doctor’s time.”
I slammed my clenched fist into the palm of my other hand, but when the nurse raised an eyebrow and shook her finger at me, I figured I had pushed things to the limit. Then she threw her shoulders back and peered into my eyes. “Do I need to call security?"
“Kent! Let’s go! I'm okay!” Rachel’s voice was pleading this time. Then she turned to face the nurse, and continued, “I’m sorry ma'am, it’s no big deal. If I don't feel well in the morning, I'll make an appointment with my family physician.” Rachel reached down to grab her purse before she stood up.
The nurse nodded and brushed a lock of hair out of Rachel's face before she said, "You seem fine dear. I believe your friend here is a bit overprotective." Rachel grinned and nodded her head. Then without waiting for me to defend myself, the nurse turned and retraced her steps. After swiping her identification card through the lock, she disappeared inside and the door banged shut behind her.
“Let’s go,” Rachel said, and even though she had a grin on her face, her eyes were narrow and stern, almost like she was giving me an order. This time I didn’t argue. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and followed her back to the truck. After I had reached the driver’s side, my heart was pounding so hard I wondered if I was the one who needed to see a doctor. Just after I pulled the key from my pocket and slid behind the wheel, I felt Rachel's delicate hand on my knee.
“Kent…I’m fine. I’m not hurt…please, just calm down,” she said. I gazed over at her beautiful brown eyes and noticed how her hair cascaded down behind her back — in silky waves. Her lips were a dull, rosy color. I gulped and sat dumbstruck as I admired her beauty both inside and out. “I think what I need is a drink!” she exclaimed in a lighter voice as a smile washed over her face. I couldn’t stop looking at her. I was impressed at the way she had handled our situation with the nurse. If it had been left up to me, I probably would have been arrested.
“Why don't you drive us over to the Silver Dollar Saloon? I think we could both use a drink and something to eat,” she suggested. I blinked, as I began to feel my panic and anger subside. She was right. She wasn’t hurt. I was overreacting — my damned PTSD reared its ugly head again and made a fool out of me.
“Okay,” I said and started the truck.
It was happening to me all over again. As much as I had tried to resist Rachel, she was taking hold of my emotions, and this time I wasn't going to run away. I felt we might have a second chance if it weren’t for my PTSD. I was falling d
eeper for Rachel than I had ever dreamed was possible. Now that I had tasted her and felt her sweetness, I had come to the same conclusion I had in high school — Rachel was the only woman for me.
Suddenly, I wanted to tell her everything — I wanted her to see straight into my soul. But I had to get help with my PTSD if we were ever going to have a normal relationship
Chapter 13
Rachel
By the time we finished at the hospital it was late afternoon. I watched Kent as he walked back from the bar and sat a Coors for each of us on our table. Soon after Kent sat across the booth from me, Chad walked over to us, smiling. He wiped his hands on his apron and extended his palm. “Hi Rachel, long time no see.” I nodded, but before I could answer he asked, "How's your father doing?"
I explained that Daddy was doing as well as could be expected, and said, "Thanks to you we're fortunate to have Kent. He's a great ranch hand." After a moment of small talk reminiscing about our high school days, Chad reached over to a nearby empty table and gave us both a menu.
Before Chad excused himself, he nodded over at a waitress, and said, "Bonny will be right with you. She'll take your order — sirloin steak with fresh corn on the cob is today’s special."
While Kent was glancing over the menu, I peeked over mine, and I couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders and the way his pecs were bulging under his plaid cowboy shirt. My eyes were drawn to the cobra tattoo, and I wondered if it had a special significance. His handsome, chiseled face was set in a scowl, and his green eyes looked intense — he was studying the menu carefully. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him smile. I wondered again, like so many times before, what had happened to Kent to cause such a dramatic personality change.
By the time Bonny came around to take our order we were on our second bottle of beer. "I'm starved," I said glancing at Bonny. "I'd like the special, cooked medium rare."
Kent looked up and nodded. "I'll take the same...and...oh, bring us an order of cheese nachos."
I noticed how his eyes glanced down at my breasts but soon darted away. Then he licked his lips and took another few gulps of his beer. I placed my hands in my lap and drew in a deep breath. I was ready to take the plunge and come right out and ask Kent what had happened to cause his dramatic mood change. But before I could form the words to express my concern he broke the silence between us. He glanced around the room, and said, "Chad's old man is dead, but the place looks the same as it did ten years ago.”
I nodded, but I was not going to be drawn into chit-chat about the decor of a famous Cody landmark, so I blurted out, "Kent, where did you go when you left home after graduation?”
Kent’s eyes widened at first then narrowed when he looked down at the bottle he cradled in his hands. After a second or two he looked up at me with furrows between his brows, and I could see that he was struggling with something inside him. He took another quick chug of his beer and smacked his lips. "I joined the Navy."
"Yes, I knew you had become a SEAL, but what happened after that? Where were you stationed? It must have been fascinating?" I was trying to ask the right questions — hit the right nerve to make him talk — and was hoping the beer would remove some of his inhibitions.
Kent looked down for a moment and rolled the edge of the beer bottle around on the table. "Of course. I started out at Great Lakes for basic training. Then eventually, after a few tours at sea, I had learned a lot about navigational equipment. And during previous firearms competitions, I had scored high in marksmanship and done well through survival training. So when I was promoted to midshipman, I applied and was accepted into BUD/S at Coronado Base in San Diego. After passing that I was assigned to my first SEAL unit."
"That must have been very tough. I heard only the best of the best get in." I was telling the truth. I had great respect for anyone who served our country, but something about the SEALs created a sexy impression. A persona Kent wore all over him.
When Kent chuckled, I almost gasped, but I managed to smile instead. Then he explained, “One thing was for sure. You don't know what you are capable of until you’re put to the test. And being a SEAL continuously tested both my physical and mental abilities.”
About that time Bonny brought our nachos and set them on the table directly in front of me. I took the jalapeño pepper off one, bit down with a 'crunch' and placed my hand in front of my mouth. Nothing was going to stop me from asking more questions. "Were you ever in Afghanistan?"
Kent palmed his hair and replied in a monotone, “Yeah, several times, and Syria.”
I was grateful that he was responding to my questions, and I had to remind myself to take it slow — not push him. But instead, I did it anyway. "What did you see? Did something happen to you?"
“Let's put it this way; I’ve seen more than I ever dreamed was imaginable. War is ugly, Rachel. You don’t need to hear the horrors of my terrifying experiences.” For a moment I forgot how he might reject me and reached out for his hand. When he didn’t respond, I pried his fingers away from the bottle and laced them together with mine. That moment I forgot every rude thing he had ever said to me. I wanted to comfort him and help ease the pain he was suffering.
“I want to know all about your experiences, Kent,” I said in a softer voice as we stared at each other. “I know you think I won’t understand but—”
“I watched my friend die in an ambush.” Kent shook his head, looked down at our hands, and continued. “Blood was streaming out of him...there was nothing I could do.” Then he paused and rubbed the cobra tattoo before he continued. “We had been through so much together, in training and on assignments. Marcus — we called him cobra — his code name. He was my buddy, my brother.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Now I understood why Kent had the tattoo. He was still carrying Marcus with him, embedded in his body; there was no more separation. I wasn’t sure if that idea was helping or was a hindrance to Kent’s emotional recovery. But one thing was sure, he was still grieving.
Taking another swig of his beer Kent went on with his story. “Marcus was so brave, even when he knew he was dying.” He looked down and squeezed the bridge of his nose before he continued. “He thanked me for helping him in the end. But I hadn't really done anything except hold him in my arms and watch as his life slipped away.” Kent looked up at me with wet eyes. “Sometimes I wonder why it was Marcus instead of me.”
I looked into his green eyes and squeezed his hand, "It just wasn't your time…there are things left here on earth you haven't accomplished yet. You have no reason to feel guilty. You did what you were trained for.”
Moments later Bonny came up to our table and sat our dinners in front of us. I placed my napkin on my lap and picked up my steak knife. I was prepared to sit there in the bar and listen until Kent had everything off his chest. But when I glanced back, he had a vacant stare in his eyes. I could tell he was replaying in his mind Marcus' death over and over again.
“Did you leave the military after that?” I asked.
I watched him take in a deep breath. “I couldn’t be there anymore, not after Marcus’ death. I couldn’t bear to watch another one of my friends die. I was a coward,” he said and pressed his eyes closed. “Soon after, I was diagnosed with PTSD and given an honorable discharge.”
“Don’t say that. You served your country for years. You were a brave soldier who had suffered a terrible loss. None of this is your fault. You are not a coward.” I was leaning over the table, trying to reason with him.
When he opened his eyes, I could see that the fire had returned. Then he let go of my hand and gulped down the last half of his beer. “Why did you stay here, Rachel?” he asked.
I swallowed hard, not expecting his question. “We were talking about you,” I said. Then Kent leaned over the table and peered straight into my eyes.
“And now we’re talking about you. Why didn’t you go to college?” Kent asked.
I pushed a piece of meat around my plate. "Just a we
ek or so after graduation, right before I had planned to leave for New York City, I found Daddy unconscious on the floor of the stable. At first, I had hoped he would get better and so had he, but as time went on his condition got worse. So I had to stay behind to take care of the ranch. There was no way I was going to leave Daddy in his condition, so I just stayed and kept putting off my plans.”
Kent peered out the window for a moment before he faced me. "So I guess we are just two people who’ve lost out on our dreams, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded. He was right. My plan of going off to the big city and then to college had dramatically changed, but at least I had Daddy and the ranch. Kent was left with nothing. And I figured he didn’t realize he could still have me. “I’m alive, and I'm still here, even if it wasn't my initial choice.”
"Yes, you are," Kent said. Then all of the sudden he threw down his napkin and stood up. "I should take you home. Your father will be worried." Before I could say a word, he was motioning to Bonny to bring him the check.
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