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Wait. What? I don’t have a fiancée. And legs, plural? Is he confusing me with someone else?
“It would have been easier to die than to realize your military dreams were dead and that you had no idea what to do next, but you damn sure weren’t crawling back to your father’s farm in Pennsylvania after he disowned you for enlisting.”
My brows pull together as I stare, confused.
“It would have been infinitely easier to die in the desert than spend three months in a bed beside your best friend, injured by the same bomb, only to watch him die from an infection after you’d made plans to start somewhere fresh together as soon as you were both well enough to leave.” He pins me with an unblinking gaze, his blue eyes intense. “It would have been much, much easier to die in that desert, but it wouldn’t have fulfilled your purpose, just as dying in Iraq wouldn’t have fulfilled mine, Captain.”
He leans forward, and I think he’s going to reach his hand out to me, but instead, he grabs the ankles of both pant legs and lifts them up.
A pair of flesh-colored prosthetic legs peek out from under his dress greens.
Holy shit. My mouth falls open, and I can’t stop myself. “You’re an amputee?”
A faint smile curves the corners of his mouth. “I am a fifty-five-year-old Army combat veteran injured during the Gulf War in Iraq, Captain. I’m a healer, a psychiatrist who works every day with our nation’s brave wounded soldiers. I’m a husband to a better woman than I deserve. I’m a father to three incredible kids, one who’s pre-med, one in art school, and one who’s an up-and-coming chef in one of the finest restaurants in San Antonio. I’m a creative soul who plays the sax, tinkers with the guitar, dabbles in abstract art, and secretly writes military fiction while hoping to be the next Tom Clancy. I’m a lot of things. And yes, I happen to be someone who lost both legs many years ago, but that's not who I am.”
I can’t stop staring, open-mouthed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He tilts his head to one side. “Why would I?”
“Because of what I’m dealing with.”
“We aren’t here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, but I would have listened sooner if I’d known –”
He steeples his fingers. “So now that you know I’m an amputee, my words have value?”
His crisp tone startles me. “It’s not that they didn’t have value before,” I say, flushing. “I just didn’t recognize their value.”
“So I was only worth listening to if you felt I had credibility?”
Shame washes over me. I dismissed everything he’d said to me for weeks because I didn’t like his stance on medications. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d listened sooner.”
He smiles ruefully. “Perhaps you’ll pay more attention in the future.”
“You can count on it,” I promise.
I make my way back to my room, rocked by the revelation he’s an amputee. I’d never have guessed. He’s so calm, so self-assured, so settled. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.
At least, there might be, if I can pull my head out of my ass and actually listen to the people trying to help me.
CHARLIE
I drag my stuffed suitcase and carry-on off the backseat and wave goodbye to the overly chatty Uber driver. I stand with my back to my house, gazing up into the clear night sky, so different from the intense artificial glow I’ve seen night after night in San Antonio. Hundreds of stars flicker in the silent darkness above me. The pre-dawn air is brisk, bordering on cold, and it reminds me I’ve forgotten my jacket in Texas.
I climb my front stairs for the first time in seventy-seven days. When I left, we were in the throes of a Colorado January, with snow and ice and bitterly cold winds. Now it’s April, and though it’s still chilly, the sun warms the ground during the day, and early bloomers like crocuses and daffodils are poking their heads through the soil. The mountaintops are still white; the highest peaks will have snow for several more months.
I expected my house to smell stale after nearly three months of being away, but I should have known better. When I walk in, the brightly lit interior smells of orange oil. Not only has Lila left every light in the place blazing, she’s dusted.
Ever since my kidnapping, I have… quirks. I can’t stand dust. It makes me feel filthy, which makes me anxious. It’s why I shower at least twice a day. I can’t handle darkness, either, so I have to have lights on, and if I’m alone when I first enter my home or the clinic, I turn on every light and sweep the entire building to ensure I’m safe. Lila’s addressed both issues.
I drop my luggage and retrieve my handgun from the foyer table. Its familiar weight instantly calms me. I clear the house room by room, weapon raised as I scan closets, bathrooms, and corners. I’m baffled to find my office door locked and even more confused to find its furniture in an upstairs bedroom. When I’m certain I’m safe, I lower my gun and flip the safety back on.
I return to the foyer to deal with the luggage, tucking my gun into my waistband at the small of my back. I fire off a quick text to Mark to let him know I’m finally home. After unloading my suitcase directly into the washer, I go upstairs to shower. Being stranded for hours in a crowded airport with strangers invading my personal space has left me edgy.
I linger, bracing myself against the wall as steamy water courses down my body. I’ve been awake since my last nightmare at three o’clock Wednesday morning. It’s now Friday. I’d assumed I’d be home last night, but thanks to nasty storms, I was stuck in Oklahoma. I’ve been awake for over forty-eight hours, and I’m feeling every minute of it.
I’d never have survived these last three months without Lila. She’s managed our clinic with minimal remote assistance from me, and she really hasn’t dealt with the financial aspect of our clinic in the past. She’d rather take on more clients to free me up to handle the business side. When this crisis hit, Lila took the reins, hiring another massage therapist to cover the gap left by my departure. Not only that, but she dealt with things at my house that demanded attention, like making sure my pipes didn’t freeze and emptying my fridge when its contents evolved into science projects. And when I asked for help finding a contractor, she took on the work herself. Lila’s my lifesaver, more sister than friend.
