Hidden: Part 1

by Linda Berry

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Excerpt from Hidden Part 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Linda Berry paints a picture with words. A dramatic story filled with complex relationships, emotional growth, and external conflicts that move with perfect pacing, Hidden is a gem not to be missed.”

  —Marie Harte, New York Times bestseller

  “A great novel that makes you want to keep turning the pages! Hidden has a cast of richly detailed characters—some we instantly empathize with, others we loath with a feral intensity. Berry combines the beautiful Oregon scenery with a tense and compelling plot. Five stars and highly recommended!”

  —Dave Edlund, author of the award-winning Peter Savage action/political thrillers

  “Linda Berry brings the rugged characters and landscapes of Central Oregon to life with detail and emotion. She has an uncanny knack for revealing the soft underbelly of the hardest individuals.”

  —Paul Bacon, author of BAD COP: New York’s Least Likely Police Officer Tells All

  This publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This work is protected in full by all applicable copyright laws, as well as by misappropriation, trade secret, unfair competition, and other applicable laws. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner without written permission from Winter Goose Publishing, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. All rights reserved.

  Winter Goose Publishing

  45 Lafayette Road #114

  North Hampton, NH 03862

  www.wintergoosepublishing.com

  Contact Information: info@wintergoosepublishing.com

  Hidden Part 1

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Linda Berry

  First Edition, January 2017

  Cover Design by Winter Goose Publishing

  Typesetting by Odyssey Books

  ISBN: 978-1-941058-60-2

  Published in the United States of America

  To the men and women in uniform who put themselves in harm’s way

  to preserve the freedom of our great country,

  and to the talented athletes who compete so fearlessly in rodeo

  CHAPTER ONE

  March, 2006

  A strong wind buffeted the cab as it bumped down the ice-rutted backroads of Wild Horse Creek. Sully slouched in the backseat, his muscles tight with fatigue. The frozen landscape didn’t match the memories of home he’d carried through his last tour of duty. Familiar landmarks had been resculpted by ice and snow. There was no delineation between meadow and pasture, just endless white, interrupted by pockets of ice-glazed trees. Even the snowcapped peaks of the Cascades jutting into the crimson sky looked different, dwarfed by his memories of the Hindu Kush Mountains of Afghanistan. His pulse raced and he leaned forward in his seat when Dancing Horse Ranch came into view. “This is it on the right.”

  The cabbie turned onto the gravel driveway and the car shuddered as the tires played over frozen ridges.

  “Could you pull up around back?” Sully asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  The driver carefully negotiated the curve to the rear of the house and eased to a stop. In the paddocks off the barn, several horses lifted their heads and eyed the cab with interest. Despite his weariness, Sully felt a smile tug at his lips. He couldn’t wait to get back in the saddle, feel the speed of a powerful animal beneath him.

  “Beautiful animals.”

  “Thanks. We breed champion reining horses.”

  “Hmmm. I remember a famous rodeo star lived out in these parts. Bare bronc rider. Bred amazing horses. Won a few world titles. Joe … something.”

  “Joe Sullivan. My dad.”

  “No kidding?” The cabbie whistled and caught Sully’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I saw him when I was a kid. Got his autograph. He was a force of nature. Could stay on anything. You follow in his footsteps?”

  “Dad started training me the day I popped out of the womb.” Sully nodded toward the gable-roofed barn. “My rodeo winnings paid for that, and the last thirty acres we added.”

  “Sweet.” The cabbie looked at Sully over his shoulder, his face half-hidden in shadow. “You must be decent.”

  Sully shrugged, feeling no connection to his old rodeo triumphs. That glory was all in the past. “I held my own. The armed forces owned me the last four years. Cut my rodeo career short.”

  “Marine?”

  “Just got out.” Sully ran a hand over his buzz cut that had grown out a bit during his three-week hospital stay. Though dressed in jeans, western shirt, and denim jacket, he felt like a Marine. An undercurrent of anxiety buzzed beneath his calm composure. Cut loose from the Corps, out on his own, he felt like a satellite spinning out of orbit. He patted his pockets, searching for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

  The driver tapped the meter.

  Sully handed him some folded bills. “Keep the change.”

  The cabbie smiled his appreciation.

  Sully grabbed his duffel and moved carefully as he exited the cab. Still, he grunted from the sharp stabs of pain in his arm and gut. The meds were wearing off.

  The cabbie rolled down his window. “Thanks for your service to our country.”

  Caught off guard, Sully half saluted. Civilian life would take some getting used to.

  The cab backed out of the driveway in a cloud of exhaust, the headlights momentarily illuminating the two-story ranch house Sully grew up in. It pained him to see it needed paint. A couple railings sagged on the porch, and a loose shutter clapped in the wind, but the construction was rock solid. Built tough, to last. That’s how things were done on the Sullivan ranch.

  No lights were on in the house and the windows reflected the last bit of color from the dying sun. An ache of loneliness tore at his gut. If his parents were here, the lights would be blazing, and the two would be out on the porch welcoming him home with open arms. He still couldn’t believe they’d separated after thirty years of marriage. His mom moved to town; his dad was rotting in a nursing home. The weight of running the ranch now fell squarely on Sully’s shoulders.

  He glanced across the yard. No lights on in the bunkhouse, either. Travis Blackwolf, the sole occupant of the ranch, was somewhere off site. Sully had notified no one of his homecoming, but still, the feeling of isolation that enveloped him was unnerving.

  He dropped his bag on the porch and crunched through the snow to the trail be
hind the house, the icy air brittle in his nostrils. Sucking the cold deep into his lungs and panting out white vapor, he hiked to the vista above the hayfields. Ponderosa pines towered at his back and the black tarp of sky rose out of the mountains before him. Oregon, USA. No other place in the world like it. He soaked in the beauty of home with all his senses—the raw, wild land beyond the hay fields, the scent of pine and wood smoke, the wind rustling trees. Peaceful. No distant explosions. No rat-tat-tat of automatic fire. Life was simple here. Everything out in the open. A man lived his life by the cycle of seasons—planting, harvesting, raising livestock—not waking up each morning wondering if he’d survive the day. Sully felt naked standing out in the open without his body armor and assault rifle. The undercurrent of anxiety pulsed steadily. He hiked back to the house, his boots stamping holes in the snow, his body now screaming for meds.

  He picked up his duffel and switched on the light as he entered the kitchen. On his last leave, he was greeted by friends and family. Big hugs from the women, claps on the back from the men, cold beer, home cooking. Now he was greeted by dirty dishes, pizza boxes stacked around the trash can, and car parts sitting on oil-stained cardboard on the table. The smell of something burnt lingered in the air.

  Sully didn’t hold the state of the room against Travis. When managing a ranch this size solo, housecleaning fell to the bottom of the priority list. Travis deserved a medal. Sully should give him his Bronze Star. He didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. Squaring his shoulders, he walked through the house to his bedroom, which he found stuck in a time warp. High school and college pennants still hung on the walls, and rodeo trophies lined the overburdened bookshelves. He stood motionless, trying to connect with the person he used to be, the man who needed all these pathetic declarations of self-worth. Anything of true value, he’d come to realize, a man carried within himself. Honor, courage, commitment.

  Sully plucked his sweat-stained Stetson from the bedpost and settled it on his head. It felt light compared to his combat helmet with the night vision goggles. He fished his pain meds from his duffel and made a pit stop in the bathroom. He tapped two pills onto his palm, knocked them back with a swallow of water, and studied his reflection in the mirror. Two tours of duty had changed him. At twenty-eight, he felt fifty. A pattern of shrapnel scars marked the right side of his face like pink tattoos. Stress lines were etched on each side of his mouth, and his brow was creased into a permanent frown. Only his blue eyes were unchanged, hiding images of horror behind their blank stare. Here I am back home, safe and sound, while my buddies are still over there, risking their lives every day. Guilt rubbed raw inside his gut like crushed glass.

  Sully heard the clopping of hooves outside heading for the barn. Travis. He left the house and crossed the clearing, hearing ice crackling underfoot in frozen puddles. As he entered the barn, he was immediately struck by the serene beauty of the place; the orderly tack room, stacked bales in the loft, horses jutting their heads above the stall doors, soft liquid eyes checking him out. He breathed in the smell of oiled leather, sweet hay, and earthy manure. Incense for the soul. A well-run barn was as close to a temple as a cowboy could get.

  Dressed in jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and scuffed work boots, Travis Blackwolf stood brushing down Diego, a well-muscled bay quarter horse. After thirty years of working the Sullivan ranch, the old Paiute’s body was all knobs, angles, and lean muscle. Sully flashed back to his boyhood when the gray braid that fell down Travis’s back was black and shiny.

  “Travis.”

  No response.

  Sully entered the stall, touched his shoulder.

  Travis turned abruptly, pulling iPod buds from his ears. His face, as craggy as a chunk of volcanic rock, cracked into a wide-toothed grin. He pulled Sully into a fierce bear hug.

  Sully heard western music pulsing from the iPod tucked in his breast pocket.

  Travis held him at arm’s length. “Christ almighty, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Wasn’t expecting you till next week. When did you get in?”

  “Sixteen hundred hours. Grabbed a cargo flight from Germany. Made a few pit stops stateside. Thirty hours flight time.”

  “Military express.” Travis chuckled. “They spare no frills. You get good medical over there?”

  “I’m alive. Can’t complain.”

  “Your gut? Arm?”

  “Good as new.” In truth, the meds hadn’t kicked in. The pain set his teeth on edge. “Clean shots, through and through. Everything stitched neatly back together.”

  Travis’s eyes traced the shrapnel scars.

  “I’m okay, Travis. Really.”

  Travis sighed. “Man, you must be dog-tired. I put clean sheets on your bed.”

  “Clean sheets. Wahoo. Not used to four-star living.” As a Marine, Sully learned to grab shut-eye when and where he could. Trenches, many times. “The place looks good, Travis. Real good.” Hard work for one old man.

  “I do what I can.”

  “Well, I’m home now. I’ll lighten your load.” Like his father, Sully had been blessed with almost supernatural strength and endurance. Under normal conditions, he could do twice as much as Travis. Now he needed to fully recover.

  Diego looked over his shoulder and swished his tail, hitting Sully full in the chest. Sully laughed his first real laugh in weeks. “Okay, buddy, I see you.” Diego nudged him with his velvety muzzle, searching for snacks. Travis pulled an oat treat from his pocket. After nimbly accepting, the bay raised and lowered his head, saying thanks, just as Sully had taught him. Agile and fast, the gelding had won dozens of reining competitions, and represented well the Dancing Horse brand. “You remember me pretty good, eh, buddy?”

  “Like his own mother,” Travis said.

  Sully stroked the animal’s neck. “He’s worked up a pretty good sweat. What’ve you two been up to?”

  “This and that.”

  Sully watched the old Paiute’s bottom jaw saw back and forth, then tighten. He was stressing about something. “What is it you’re not telling me, aside from the fact that the ranch needs a helluva lot of work?”

  “It can wait,” Travis said calmly, but his eyes looked uneasy. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Bad news. Sully’s gut tightened but he knew better than to press Travis. He’d give up nothing. The forewarning pushed Sully’s stress level up a notch. Picking up a dandy brush, he started brushing Diego’s shoulder while Travis worked the other side. It helped to touch a horse, to fall back into a pattern of work he knew and understood.

  “Your parents know you’re here?” Travis asked.

  “No. I need a couple days to get my head straight.” Sully heard an edge of guilt creep into his voice, but he couldn’t face his parents yet. Not in his current state. He needed time to depressurize. Stepping from the raw violence of war into a world of ease and comfort was like resurfacing from the depth of the ocean too quickly. “I need to check out the ranch thoroughly. Get it ready.”

  Travis arched his brows, a question in his expression.

  “I’m bringing Dad home.”

  “You might want to give that some thought.”

  “It’s all I’ve thought about since I heard about his stroke.”

  “Joe’s still in bad shape. Six months ago the doctors told him he’d never walk or speak again. I saw him last week. There was no shutting him up. Probably just to spite them.”

  Sully chuckled. “Iron will. Nothing ever kept Dad down for long.”

  “He’ll need care, but he won’t let you be his nurse.”

  “Lord, don’t I know it. But he belongs here at the ranch, not in some damned nursing home.” Sully recalled the sterile hospital room he just left in Germany, haunted by the moans of soldiers suffering from ghastly burns, brain injuries, blown off limbs. An ache swelled in his chest. The edge of grief existed just an eye blink away.

  “Bringing Joe home is a good decision, Sully. We’ll make do.” Travis’s brown eyes softened. “We always have.”

>   “There’s no way to thank you for holding this place together.”

  “No thanks needed.”

  Both men knew the ranch would be in dire straits without him. Travis’s name was on the deed. One-third partner. They would all die in their boots working this property.

  “You need to drive your pickup,” Travis said, raking horse hair from the brush with a curry comb. “Sitting in the garage for four years hasn’t done it any good. There’s a can of gas in the tool shed.”

  “It’ll be nice to have wheels.” Sully recalled the foot patrols he and his men endured, carting sixty pounds of gear in both frigid cold and sweltering heat, with big fucking targets on their backs. “I’ve had my fill of foot power.”

  “I hear ya. In Nam, we hiked through endless swamps and rice paddies. Fighting toe rot and leeches. Never stopped raining.” Travis raised his eyes to meet Sully’s. “Terrible things happen in war. It’s not easy coming home. You think nobody here understands. I didn’t talk to anyone when I got back. Just stayed drunk for two years. Don’t do what I did. You got something to say, come see me. We’ll talk.”

  Grateful, Sully nodded and changed the subject. Combat memories were too fresh, too raw. “How’s Mom?”

  Travis shrugged. “Haven’t seen her since she left.”

  “In her e-mails, she said you won’t talk to her. You blame her for Dad’s stroke.”

  Travis bent down to pick Diego’s front hooves. “Your dad was a changed man after she left. Good for absolutely nothing. Had the stroke soon after.”

  “Smoking, drinking, and working too hard contributed as much as anything,” Sully said, tossing the currycomb into the tack box.