Promise Me: A Second Chance Romance

by Willow Winters

  It was a place deeply steeped in the rituals of farm life and family-almost 7000 miles from the heat, dust, and civil unrest of the Middle East.

  After six years in the dust and churning violence of Afghanistan, Sawyer thought that Bear Creek should have seemed like some kind of shining oasis. He couldn’t decide if he should have been disappointed that it didn’t beckon to him, or glad that he’d grown out of his Atchafalaya roots.

  After all, no one in Catahoula was going to tear the whole town down with a remotely-activated grenade launcher. No helicopters falling out of the sky to rip down the walls of already-crumbling apartment buildings. No need to constantly look over his shoulder, wondering not if but when hostiles would creep up behind him.

  Sawyer looked out the window as ashy brown fields dotted with green blurred past. It was August, so the sugarcane was low and bright green, the new growth just beginning to poke up from the ground.

  Though Sawyer’s family raised cattle and horses, growing up in south Louisiana had burned the life cycle of sugarcane into his mind forever. Planting, tilling, burning, harvest…

  Sometimes when he was laid up in his bunk at Camp Leatherneck, he’d try to reconcile the current date with life back in Catahoula. The seasons barely changed in Afghanistan, not like they did back in the States.

  He’d drift off to sleep as he tried imagine his high school friends walking amongst the tall green sugarcane stalks, wondering if the season was rainy enough for a good harvest.

  He hadn’t been back for almost four years, too busy burying himself in the high-stakes missions of a Navy SEAL. He’d sort of thought, in the back of his mind, that he’d be a Lifer. That he’d just stay in service until he got killed, or got discharged due to injury or age.

  Never in his service days had Sawyer taken more than a handful of moments to contemplate the future. If he was truthful with himself, he’d always just sort of vaguely planned to stay the hell out of Louisiana.

  Yet here he was, leaving the interstate behind and cutting onto smaller and smaller highways. His phone buzzed, and when he checked it he saw a text from Amy, a sex-crazed management consultant back in D.C.

  Where are you right now?

  Blowing out a breath, he ignored the text.

  When he turned into downtown Catahoula, the size of it shocked him. Two restaurants, two bars. One grocery store, one large animal veterinarian. A granary and feed store, a post office, a tiny K-8 school on one end of town, the miniature high school on the other. Aside from a few other small retail spaces and a few fancy faux-plantation homes, that was it.

  Sawyer drove through the whole of Catahoula in no more than five minutes. Funny, considering that it took him over 24 hours to fly from Tehran to New Orleans. Not bad considering the length of the trip, helped immensely by the private plane hired out by the military contractor that Sawyer had been working for over the last year.

  His phone buzzed. He didn’t even have to look at it to know it was Amy, again.

  I’m bored. :(

  Shifting in his seat, he considered texting her back. What would he say, though? Amy wouldn’t be interested in the fact that he was out of town. She didn’t care about anything other than when he was going to show up and fuck her.

  Props to Amy, for being a magnificent lay, but he wasn’t really in the mood to chat. This visit home was about business, or at least that’s what his brother Colt hinted at when they had talked on the phone.

  The drive from Catahoula out to Roman Ranch was so familiar to him that he went on autopilot. All he noticed were the landmarks of his childhood.

  The bumpy little stone bridge that crossed over Cur Creek, marking the boundary of the Roman family’s lands. The sharp left turn that led to a sharp incline. The place where the paved road gave away and the land flattened, spreading out to the wide acreage of the ranch.

  The light forest around him vanished, replaced by grazing pastures which sprung up on both sides of the road. The pastures were lined by thin, barbed wire fences. Sawyer drove under the huge, knotty oak tree that sprawled across the gravel driveway in an arch.

  The 15-minute drive went by in a blink, and soon he was passing the twin barns. One was for cattle, while the other was for horses and smaller livestock. Each barn was on its own side of the ranch, with the property split neatly down the middle by the driveway. He passed several small utility sheds, then went under the big wooden sign post that his grandfather had carved and put up.

  ROMAN RANCH was carved across the top, with old horseshoes hung up and down both the side posts.

  He pulled into the big circular driveway, gravel crunching under his tires. Walker’s Escalade and Colt’s antique Ford pickup were parked ahead of him, though there was no sign of them in the front yard. The big oak tree had been cut back, the ratty tire swing removed.

  Somehow, the yard looked strangely bare without it. The sound of his car brought a dozen big dogs to the yard, black and brown-mottled beasts local to the area. The breed was called Catahoula Cur, big water-loving working dogs meant for herding cattle.

  His phone buzzed again, making him scowl. When he checked the screen, he smirked. This time, Amy had sent a photo of her tits, while she reclined in bed. Nice, but it wasn’t the moment for that kind of thing.

  Sawyer climbed out of his car, wincing at the heat after riding up to Catahoula in his Range Rover with the air conditioning on full blast. Instantly, a few of the bolder curs were on him, sniffing his polished black boots, and nosing at his fingers. The Romans had always raised curs, so Sawyer didn’t give them a second thought, patting one on the head as he looked around for signs of his brothers.

  He glanced between the ancient, three-story clapboard main house and the squat bunkhouse, all rough wood walls and low clay roof. Though this was high ground for the area, both houses were raised on a series of wooden stilts, to prevent flooding during storms and floods.

  At one time, Roman Ranch had been a bustling operation, home to a dozen or more Romans and up to 20 hired hands at once. In the 1980s and 1990s, Sawyer’s mother had run a successful dude ranch. But during Sawyer’s senior year of high school, his mother had died. After that, his father had closed the whole thing without preamble.

  More recently, his father had lived in the main house alone, with his employees driving in from elsewhere every day. When all three of his sons had left the military in a year’s span, Arlo Roman had apparently decided to give the farm over to Sawyer, Walker, and Colt. As far as Sawyer knew, his father was now living in one of those big white plantation houses in Catahoula, happy as a clam with his mistress of 20 odd years.

  The dented metal front door of the main house swung open with a bang, and Walker and Colt strode out onto the wooden deck. Sawyer couldn’t help but grin at them; it’d been too long since the Roman brothers were together all at once.

  The three men were nearly identical. Each was well over six feet, with dark hair, tanned skin, proud noses, and glittering hazel-green eyes. They all even wore plaid button-ups and dark jeans, meaning that their haircuts were the only thing that set them apart. Well, Colt also walked with a serious limp, but he barely seemed aware of it most of the time.

  Sawyer climbed the creaking, weathered front steps. He opened his arms and hugged both of his brothers at once, the contact brief but satisfying.

  “Welcome home,” Walker rumbled. He was never one for words, which Sawyer often appreciated. Especially during the times when Colt felt the need to run his mouth every minute of the day.

  “You still rockin the buzz, huh?” Sawyer asked, running his hand over the short prickle of Walker’s dark hair.

  “Yup,” Walker said. Short and sweet, the simple word had an unmistakable South Louisiana twang to it.

  Talking to his brothers made Sawyer painstakingly aware of his Southern drawl, which always seemed stronger when he saw Colt and Walker.

  “I’ve been trying to get him to grow it out a little,” Colt said, looking amused.

  “Y
eah, grow this fancy cut like you got?” Sawyer asked.

  Colt’s hair was done in an undercut, buzzed on the sides but long on the top, swept over to one side.

  “Hey, this is cool right now,” Colt said mildly.

  “It looks like you started to get a haircut, and then quit halfway through,” Sawyer said.

  “Funny. Women like this haircut,” Colt informed him with a laugh. Clapping Sawyer on the back, he gestured toward the house. “Let’s go inside.”

  He stepped into the front entrance, the spot that his mother had always touted as the foyer. He could imagine her standing in a faded calico apron, dark hair swept up into a high ponytail. Hands on her hips, she’d overpronounce the French as she scolded her sons. Y’all know better than to track dirt into my foy-yay!

  “Where’s the furniture?” Sawyer asked, stopping a few steps in.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen for a beer,” Colt suggested, sounding impatient. “Things have changed around here since the last time you were home.”

  “No kidding,” Sawyer grumbled. A quick glance to the right proved that the parlor was similarly empty; what little furniture remained was draped with big white sheets. For some reason, it reminded Sawyer of a funeral parlor, and gave him a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Seeing the kitchen, though… he didn’t startle easily, but his jaw dropped.

  Gone were the worn kitchen table, the chipped ivory stove and fridge that his mother had cherished, antiques from the previous generation of Romans. The knickknacks, the beloved cast iron skillets hanging on the wall. The bright border of wallpaper that his mother had painstakingly installed by herself, saying that the room needed some cheerful colors to match her spirits.

  Vanished.

  Instead, the whole room was white walls and dark, glossy floors. Huge stainless steel appliances, with matching stainless steel countertops. New dark wood cabinets, a gleaming stainless steel range hood right in the middle of the kitchen.

  “I…” Sawyer started, then stopped.

  “Two sinks,” Walker mumbled, shaking his head as he moved to the big double fridge. “Beer?”

  Walker was right, there were two sinks.

  “What happened?” Sawyer asked Colt, as if it was somehow Colt’s doing. “Was there… damage?”

  He even looked up to the ceiling as he asked, checking for signs of water damage.

  “Marilee happened,” Colt said, sitting at the huge, dark wood kitchen table.

  “Where’s the damned table?” Sawyer asked, staring at the sleek, expensive-looking replacement.

  “The Colonel,” Walker grumbled, using the old nickname they used for their father.

  Walker handed Sawyer a beer and took another chair, breaking Sawyer out of his momentary bafflement. Colt snorted, then relayed the story.

  “Yeah, The Colonel moved Marilee in here. She lasted long enough to redecorate most of the main house and get rid of all of Mom’s stuff, then she demanded that they move because she thinks Mom haunts the laundry room.”

  “Come on, sit down and tell us what you’ve been up to since you shipped back stateside,” Colt encouraged.

  Sawyer glowered at the new kitchen table as he took a seat, twisting the cap off of his beer.

  “I’ve been working for the Greystone Group.”

  “Contractors. They do work mostly in Iran and Iraq, right?” Walker asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bet the money’s great, huh?” Colt asked.

  “Yeah. Never saw myself as a six-figure earner, but…”

  “Now we’ve all got that prized military experience,” Colt said, amused. “In my first interview to pick up some work, the person interviewing me shook my hand and called me a hero. Never been so embarrassed in my entire life.”

  “I don’t know, remember the year you did Baby Got Back at the talent show?” Sawyer challenged.

  “Yeah, and Mrs. Parsecki chased me off stage, waving her Bible,” Colt said with a grin.

  They all laughed.

  “Well, it’s nice to know that at least we’re all earning big. Or I was, until I let The Colonel sweet talk me into going part time and moving back here. He told me the house would be empty, that he’d let the farm go wild if one of us wasn’t here.”

  “Funny, that’s almost exactly what he said to get me back here,” Sawyer mused.

  “I’m not too worried. If there’s anything that Granddad taught us, it was to stack bills in our war chests, right?” Colt said, glancing at them. “I bet you two have barely spent any of your inheritance, much less your contractors’ salary, hmm?”

  “You looking for a loan, brother?” Walker joked.

  Colt grinned. “Hell no. I invested my inheritance, played the stock market. I never have to work another day in my life.”

  “You’re a Roman,” Sawyer intoned, mimicking their father.

  As one, all three brothers recited their father’s motto: “Romans work hard until they drop dead.”

  He took a long sip, then looked at the label.

  “What is this?” he asked. “Best Brew.”

  “It’s a local microbrewery,” Colt said.

  Sawyer turned his glare from the bottle to Colt, who only shrugged. “Hey, don’t blame me. If you came home more, you wouldn’t be getting it all at once.”

  “I was busy,” Sawyer said.

  “Hey, Walker has the same kind of hotshot contractor’s job as you do, and he gets home for Christmas every year.”

  Sawyer turned back to his beer. “It hasn’t been home for a long time. I don’t think I should have to explain that to you two.”

  His brothers lapsed into silence, looking at each other. After a full minute, Sawyer started to feel a little guilty. He wasn’t mad at Walker and Colt, after all. They were as trapped as he was; Colt by his forced medical discharge, and Walker by internal Navy politics. Both Sawyer’s brothers had left the service against their will, essentially. It wasn’t as if they wanted to be here so badly.

  Circumstances, he thought to himself.

  “How’s the leg?” he asked Colt.

  Colt flinched for the barest second, then shrugged. “Still busted. Gonna be a gimp forever, I guess.”

  “Right,” Sawyer said, shaking his head. “Sorry I asked.”

  Colt shrugged again. “You should be asking Walker about his new position. He’s making bank as a recruiter now.”

  “Are you?” Sawyer asked.

  Walker pulled a face. “I told them that I wanted to travel less and make more money. They offered me a satellite recruiting position. I can telecommute for most of the year. It’s a good gig.”

  “Huh,” Sawyer said. “I hadn’t considered something like that. You just use email?”

  “And text, and video calls… there’s no shortage of ways to connect online, as long as I have a fast internet connection. You should look into something like what I have set up,” Walker said.

  Sawyer crossed his arms. “Is there a reason I’d need to telecommute?”

  Again, Colt and Walker looked at one another.

  “Well…” Colt said.

  “I knew it,” Sawyer said, shaking his head. “I knew you two were up to something. That’s why you wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone when you called to say that The Colonel wanted us to come home ASAP.”

  “Wait a second,” Walker said, holding up a hand. Walker was quiet and reserved, but he didn’t take crap from anyone, not even his brothers. “None of this is Colt’s doing, or mine. Dad’s got a proposition about the ranch, apparently, but he wanted all three of us to be here to hear it. That’s all there is.”

  “Yeah. Don’t let him make us fight,” Colt said, picking up his beer.

  Sawyer regarded them for a second, then nodded. “Right. Sorry. I’ve been traveling for a full day, I’m just… done.”

  “Coming from overseas?” Colt asked.

  “Yeah. Some negotiations in Tehran, working for the Greystone Group,” he said.
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br />   “If you were traveling abroad, that must mean that Greystone cleared your medical and psych exams,” Walker said, looking curious.

  “Yeah, finally. Only took them 11 months after I got my discharge papers from the Navy.”

  “Well…” Colt said, then frowned.

  “Go ahead, say it,” Sawyer said, waving a hand and picking up his beer. “I went nuts for a while.”

  “You choked out a gangbanger in a D.C. diner at three in the morning,” Colt said.

  “He came at me the wrong way,” Sawyer said. “But… yeah. I had a hard year.”

  “You’re cleared now, though,” Colt said.

  “Yep. If I exercise enough, I can even sleep through the night without sleepwalking or terrifying my neighbors by shouting in Farsi.”

  Walker snorted, but Sawyer could see that his brother perfectly understood the dark humor of it.

  “Hell, I have bad dreams, and none of what happened to you happened to me,” Colt said.

  Sawyer narrowed his eyes at Colt. “Yeah, but you did almost die in a godforsaken field hospital in the middle of nowhere.”

  Walker shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, and Sawyer knew he needed to change the topic again. He tried to think of something, letting silence fall again. To his surprise, Walker picked up the slack this time.

  “Johnsons sold their farm,” he said.

  “Out on Crickle Creek Road?” Sawyer asked. “Man, never thought they’d sell out.”

  “I heard they were in debt up to their eyeballs,” Colt said, looking sympathetic. “Barely broke even on the sale. Sugarcane isn’t doing so well these days.”

  “It’s cheaper to import it from Southeast Asia than to pay an American farmer to grow it, I guess,” Sawyer said.

  “Yeah. If you look at the farms around here, almost all of them are looking pretty sorry. I can’t imagine what the books look like, but profits are decidedly thin.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not affecting the Rivers’ farm like that,” Sawyer said.