Wind River Lawman

by Lindsay McKenna

Dawson felt as if an invisible bomb had gone off in the room. He didn’t know who Lane was. Sarah’s shoulders had tensed. He could feel and see her trying to control her reaction to his words. Her breathing was less harsh, but he could see her lips moving, tightening and then parting, as if fighting back something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it appeared to be either a scream or a cry. The room felt as if it were shrinking around them, as if it were closing in on Sarah. The pain and terror he saw in her eyes snapped him to attention.

  To hell with it. He was going to sit down on the edge of the bed and face her.

  Sitting gently so as not to disturb her healing leg, he grazed her upper arm with his fingers, trying to calm her. He rasped, “Can you talk about it, Sarah? Who’s Lane?”

  A little cry tore from her and her hands fell away.

  Dawson felt as if he were looking at a Marine with a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. Sarah’s gaze was empty, as if she was physically there with him, but in every other way somewhere else. Another time and place. He slid his callused hand down her bare lower arm, encasing her fingers, which were icy cold and damp. “It’s all right,” he told her in a low, quiet tone. The blankness in Sarah’s eyes scared him. He’d never seen that look on her before. Who was Lane? Obviously someone important to Sarah. Squeezing her hand gently, he felt her fingers curve tightly around his. She was struggling with something so huge that he couldn’t even begin to guess what it might be.

  “It’s all right, Sarah. You’re safe here with King and me. You’re safe . . .” because he thought Lane might have been someone in her military life, a good friend who had been killed in front of her perhaps. He guessed perhaps Lane was so important to Sarah that she was still grieving her. And the way she was reacting? It reminded him of too many of his Marine friends who had PTSD and would wake in the middle of the night with a similar look and reaction. And every time it had happened in their barracks at the firebase? After they had awakened from the claws of the nightmare that captured them, it was about a buddy lost in combat. Dawson remembered that terrified look, the horror plainly written upon taut, sweaty faces.

  He watched her closely, saying nothing. Because other than comforting her, he didn’t know what to do. Maybe later, when she got over the rocky awakening, when the grip of the flashback eased, she might fill him in. At least now he’d made contact with her, and her breathing wasn’t as strident.

  “Keep slowing your breathing, Sarah. Take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Count to ten, breathe in, then slowly let it out. . . .” He felt her fingers tighten a little around his. It felt as if she were clinging to him, afraid he’d let her go. But he wouldn’t. He would be there for her. “That’s it . . . good . . . you’re doing fine . . .”

  Sarah lifted her other hand, hiding her eyes from him.

  He felt a shift within her, but it was nothing outwardly obvious. Her mouth opened, then closed, and he could feel a wall of anguish settling down around her. A visceral sensation washed over him. Her fingers tightened even more around his. She bowed her head, eyes closed and still hidden beneath her hand. She wanted to cry and she was fighting it. Why? He’d cried upon occasion himself, and it had been cleansing, lifting the weight of the trauma or grief, making him feel marginally better afterward. So often, it was drilled in to the military that crying was a sign of weakness. But it wasn’t. He thought it was a brave thing to do.

  Before he could say anything else, he saw two silvery paths escape from beneath her hand and trickle down her taut face. She was still fighting them, but her emotions were stronger than her will. How often had he seen his buddies do the same thing? Far too many times. Pain wrenched across his chest as he sat in the semidarkness with Sarah. She was using every vestige of her strength to combat releasing those stored-up feelings.

  He ached for her, wishing he could cajole her into allowing herself to really cry. Understanding that Sarah probably felt if she invested in her tears, she would lose control of herself.

  “Sarah, it’s okay to cry. Come on, let those tears flow. I’ll be here . . . I’ll hold you if you want . . .” He was speaking from his heart now, not his head. The room felt so tight and knotted up that Dawson could feel the explosiveness of the atmosphere surrounding them. He saw a nearly imperceptible quiver flow through her. What inner strength she had! He marveled at her ability to continue not to give in to the ravaging emotions kicked up by that nightmare.

  There was a low whine from King, his entire being focused on Sarah.

  Dawson barely flicked a glance to the dog when he heard a terrible, tearing sound pulling so deep from within Sarah, it sounded like a wounded animal moaning. She yanked her hand out of his, both hands across her mouth as if to stop that tortured sound from clawing up and out. All he could do was sit there watching her begin to crumble inwardly.

  Without thinking, he moved closer to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, urging her to lean on him. It was instinctive and had had nothing to do with any thought process. At that moment, she was a human being who was hurting terribly, and he wanted to somehow give her the strength and support to work through it. Her features tightened, eyes squeezed shut, tears splashing fiercely down her cheeks. Easing her forward, guiding her brow against his shoulder and jaw, he felt Sarah collapse against him, wrenching sobs making her shake and tremble. The sounds made him wince as he rested his head against hers, his palm moving slowly down her spine, and his other arm wrapping around her shaking shoulders as the sobs continued.

  He absorbed her cries, his T-shirt quickly dampening with the flood of tears that were finally released. How he wished he could absorb the endless anguish that came with those tearing sounds, but he couldn’t. All he could do was give her support and, maybe, a little sense of safety. Hopefully enough for her to surrender her pain, loss or grief instead of continuing to carry it so deeply within her. Her hair smelled faintly fragrant, the silky strands cool against his sandpapery jaw. Gown damp and sticking to her back, he continued to slowly ease his hand up and down her spine, silently encouraging her to allow the weeping to continue. He kept murmuring soft words of encouragement, cradling her, feeling her lean fully against him. Sweetness filled him; never had he wanted more than at that moment to make a positive difference in Sarah’s life.

  His mind tumbled over the possibility that this reaction was due to her nearly being killed. He’d seen other Marines who’d been hit by a bullet and, days later, hit a wall and break down just as she was right now. What bothered him, was the big question mark: Who was Lane? Unable to make sense of why Sarah was sobbing her heart out in huge, tearing gulps, he had no answer. When she placed one hand against his T-shirt, her palm connecting with his flesh beneath the fabric, his whole body tightened. No, this wasn’t sexual or anything near it. Tempering himself as her hand ranged over this chest, across his shoulder, curving around his neck, he was once more totaled by her trust in him. His heart, bruised and wounded by his failed marriage years earlier, opened up. Dawson was stunned by the sensation, the heady, almost euphoric joy threading through him as Sarah wept without reserve in his arms.

  * * *

  Sarah hiccupped, embarrassed by it as she slowly eased out of Dawson’s protective, wonderful arms. His face was deeply etched and shadowed, the glitter in his eyes filled with concern for her. He opened his arms, allowing her to sit up. Wiping her wet face, her fingers trembling, she choked out, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened . . .” She felt his roughened fingers moving lightly down her arm, feeling the peace he was feeding her.

  Leaning over, he picked up a box of tissues from the bed stand and placed them between himself and her. “You were having a flashback or something,” he offered quietly, handing her a couple of tissues. “King came into the kitchen and whined at me and then ran back into your room. That was unusual behavior for him, so I came in here to see if you were all right.”

  “A dream? I had a dream?” she managed, dabbing her eyes repeatedly, tears still falling, although at a
much slower rate. Inwardly, she felt as if someone had taken a wire bottlebrush and viciously scrubbed her stomach and chest until they both hurt. She watched Dawson nod. Wanting his hand to remain on her arm, she felt alone when he removed it. Being in his arms was like being in a cozy nest. Maybe a cradle. He was a tall, strong man, but he hadn’t used his strength against her. Instead, he’d shown his softer side, the one she needed so desperately.

  “Yes. You were muttering. I think if your leg wasn’t wounded, you’d have been tossing and turning, too.” He motioned to the messy sheet and blanket beside her. “You kept gripping and loosening your hands on the bedding. I couldn’t hear what you were saying because I was near the door. I was afraid if you woke and saw me there, I might scare the hell out of you, on top of whatever you were experiencing.” He managed a one-cornered twitch of his mouth. “It looked like you were in a flashback or maybe a nightmare. At first, I thought it might be a reaction to you being shot and nearly dying. Everyone has those kinds of flashbacks days or even weeks after an event like that.” Sighing, he said in a low tone, “The only words I could understand were about someone named Lane.”

  It felt as if the floor had dropped out of the center of her body. The hollowness that had been there for so long ramped up. She stared at him, aware of the sudden silence cloaking them. Searching his eyes, which looked sad and caring, she croaked, “Lane? I called for Lane?”

  Giving her a confused look, he said, “When I went over to your bedside, you eventually woke up. I asked you who Lane was, and you looked like an IED had exploded next to you.”

  “I-I don’t remember. . . .”

  “You were half asleep, so I’m not surprised. But it triggered your crying.”

  Rubbing her face wearily, she said, “I don’t remember.”

  “Do you remember the dream?”

  “No.” She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, looking into the darkness. “I’m a mess . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, taking the damp tissues from her and dropping them in a wastebasket. Pulling two more tissues from the box, he eased them into her hand. “I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t hit the wall and break down after an experience like the one you had. You’re only human, Sarah. And it’s a good thing you can cry. You can’t hold that stuff inside you. I’ve seen others try, and it never works.”

  Dawson’s words hurt, but she knew he was right. Deep down, he was right. “Did I say anything else?”

  “No, that was it.” Cocking his head, he asked, “So? You weren’t dreaming? You weren’t caught in a flashback?”

  “I don’t remember anything.” She grimaced.

  “Who’s Lane?”

  It felt as if he’d just stabbed her in the heart. Catching her breath, fresh tears trailing down her cheeks, she wobbled. “My younger sister by two years.” And a fresh round of tears came. Dawson kept handing her wads of tissue, throwing away the ones that were damp with spent tears. Why couldn’t she stop crying? What was going on? Desperation clawed through her as she felt the ongoing, almost volcanic eruption of missing Lane, of never seeing her again, and it was so hard to bear.

  Her head hurt from crying so much. At least this time, the tears were not wrenching, loud, desperate. This time they were a warm river flowing down her cheeks, so much old, buried grief oozing to the surface. She had no way to control or stop it. The tears just kept coming.

  Finally, they stopped again. Dawson got up, went to the bathroom across the hall, got her a glass of water and brought it back. He handed it to her. Their fingers met. She was ravenous for any kind of connection with him.

  “Thank you,” she offered brokenly, holding the glass with both hands, sipping the water. She watched as he sat down on the bed once more, his hip almost touching her blanketed right leg. “I wish . . . I wish I had the serenity I see in your face and eyes, Dawson.”

  “I’m sure you feel anything but serene right now. Lane was your sister? She was two years younger than you?”

  Frowning, she set the glass on the bed stand. “Yes.” The word stuck in her throat and she gulped. For whatever reason, she did feel more settled inwardly. Maybe crying for a good, long time had freed some of the terrible glue that seemed to stick to her heart and mind, never allowing her to forget Lane or that day that had ended their lives with each other.

  “Look, you don’t need to say anything more if you don’t want to. You’re looking really exhausted. Maybe going to bed and trying to sleep will help?”

  Tilting her head, her vision blurring for a moment, Sarah whispered unsteadily, “Dawson, for so long I’ve wanted to unload a horrible time in my life to someone. But I never found anyone I guess I could trust. Being around you is like me walking out of a blast furnace into a boat that’s on a smooth lake instead.”

  “That’s a nice compliment. Probably my medic side showing. We have to project calm during a calamity,” and he managed a slight twist of his mouth.

  “It’s more than that,” she said, clearing her throat, wiping her eyes. “I feel like there’s an invisible fist pushing slowly up through me. And I feel like if I don’t talk about Lane, I’ll die. I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t judge others, and that you’re a keen listener. You bear witness to other people’s tragedies all the time.”

  “Yes,” he rasped, “that’s what I’ve done in the past, Sarah. If you want? Tell me about Lane. I’ll just sit and listen. Maybe it’s time for you to release your grief about her . . .”

  Chapter Fifteen

  June 23

  The anguish written across Sarah’s face ripped him up inside. He’d only seen such pain when one of his team lost someone they loved. Automatically, his hands moved into fists, and he forced himself to open them. Dawson understood body language better than most. He needed to appear relaxed to silently broadcast that to Sarah. She gripped the covers, took a deep, shaky breath, avoiding his gaze. Finally, he saw her hands loosen a little on the bedding, forcing herself to make eye contact with him once more. He could feel her struggle between running and staying. She moved a pillow behind her back on the headboard and then leaned against it, drawing up her good leg.

  The words came out slowly. “Lane was seven years old. We were walking home from school one afternoon in late September, only four blocks away. I was nine.” Her fingers tightened on the bedspread. Shakily, she wiped her brow.

  “We always took back ways home because it was faster. We were walking on one side of the alley and I heard a truck roaring up behind us. I automatically pressed Lane against the brick wall of a building, standing in front of her. It was a black pickup truck. I recognized the driver, Jethro Elson.” She gave Dawson a significant look and saw shock ripple across his face. And then she saw rage in his eyes, though he struggled to get hold of his escaping emotions.

  “Jethro Elson?” he growled.

  “Brian’s father. He slammed on the brakes, leaped out and grabbed Lane’s shoulder, yanking her out from behind me.” She swallowed and scrunched her eyes closed for a moment. “I grabbed Lane’s arm as he pulled her toward the open door of the truck. I was screaming for help; so was Lane. I was so afraid. I saw the crazed look in his eyes and I was so frightened. I’d never been around that kind of violence. Lane was shrieking, beating at him with her small fists, digging her heels into the dirt and trying to get away. I grabbed Jethro’s other arm. He shook me off. I fell to the ground, then scrambled to my feet, yelling at him to let my sister go. By the time I reached the door of the truck, he’d thrown Lane into the passenger-side seat. He turned around, balled his fist and hit me as hard as he could in the face.”

  She halted and touched the bridge of her nose. “He broke my nose and cracked my cheekbone, plus blacked my eye. But it was nothing in comparison to what he was going to do to my sister. I was knocked unconscious. I don’t know how long I was out, only that when I got up, the truck was gone and so was Lane. My parents had given me a cell phone, so I sat in the alley, my hands shaking so bad I co
uld barely dial my dad, who was at work. I told him what happened. I told him it was Jethro Elson. He immediately got every deputy on duty and called in those who weren’t to help him find Elson.”

  “My God,” Dawson rasped, “that must have been a nightmare.” He saw the sadness, the guilt in her teary eyes. “What happened then?”

  “My mom drove to the alley about five minutes later and picked me up. She was so pale it scared me. Dad had called her and told her to find me immediately. My poor mom. She saw me and started to cry, kneeling down, holding me. I was a bloody mess. My nose was bleeding, and I didn’t realize it, but he’d knocked out two of my teeth and I was bleeding from that, plus there was a cut to the corner of my mouth. I guess my eyes were already swelling shut and Mom told me later the left side of my face looked like a swollen pumpkin because of my broken cheekbone.”

  Reaching out, Dawson gripped the hand that lay across her stomach on top of the bedclothes. “Did she take you to the hospital?”

  “Yes. And Mom was in touch with Dad via cell phone. I was shaking so badly, Dawson. I was so scared. I couldn’t stop crying because I blamed myself for letting go of Lane. But Jethro was strong as a bull and I weighed all of sixty pounds.”

  “You were no match for him.”

  She clung to his hand. “They searched through the late afternoon. And all through the night. Everyone in Wind River was stunned. So many people came over to our house, where Mom and I waited for word about Lane. They comforted us. They stayed with us. The church formed a prayer circle for Lane. There were so many wonderful people who came to help us . . .”

  “Did they find Jethro? Lane?”

  Grimacing, Sarah whispered brokenly, “A rancher, Roy Collins—his land was about twenty miles south of Wind River—found Lane’s body thrown along the side of the dirt road leading to his property. He’d heard on TV and the internet about Lane being abducted. Roy was in his eighties, and a wonderful man. She was dead. He called my dad and gave him the bad news. He dispatched a forensics team and followed them out to where she lay in that ditch.”