Page 3 of The Moment He Couldn’t Walk Away

Finch wasn’t sure he would ever do that. You didn’t plan your career as a child, knowing it would be the one for you until you hit your sixties and possibly older, depending on advancement, then simply move on when it was taken from you.

Now he had nothing. No direction, no goals, no plan B. He was a civilian and had no clue how to deal with what life had thrown him.

He’d failed at the one thing he’d built his life around and couldn’t blame anyone for that but himself.

The bark of laughter drawing closer told Finch he should have followed his gut and left the country after the army discharged him.

“He needs our help because he’s home for ages and rarely leaves the property.”

That was Blue Jay speaking, the older of his two sisters. Recently a mother of twins, she’d moved back to Lyntacky to be with her man.

“It’s winter, and he’s allowed to hibernate. Finch needs to do things in his own time, Blue. We can’t force him.”

“He’s not that Finch anymore, Birdie. He’s more like Sawyer used to be.”

Finch interpreted that to mean grumpy and openly hostile, which his brother-in-law had been before he’d fallen in love with Birdie.

She was the youngest and gentlest of the four McAllister siblings, which begged the question of why she’d married the grumpiest man in Lyntacky.

The humming came from his mom, Meadow McAllister. Hippy, eco warrior, and a woman with firm beliefs and morals who was a champion to everyone.

I can’t do this today.

Grabbing his old trainers that were by the back door, he didn’t take the time to pull on a sweater, just moved right and stepped out of sight of the living area.

After pulling on the shoes, he ran along the side of the house toward the driveway, ducking under the next window.

“Finch, we’re coming in!” Blue Jay called to him.

He ran to the drive and down it. His muscles protested, and he coughed, muffling it with his hand, as the cold air hit the back of his throat. Finch knew this was the first exercise he’d done in months, so it was possible his head would hurt and his vision blur in minutes if he wasn’t careful.

Reaching the end of the drive, he glanced at the stand his parents sold all kinds of produce and homemade herbal remedies from. Repurposed ribbons had been used to wrap a few items, making them appeal to Christmas gift buyers. Nothing displayed there would help the oldest McAllister sibling. Nothing could.

Finch had prided himself on his fitness, but he’d lost most of it after the accident. He would do something about that soon.

“Small steps,” his therapist had said.

Slowing to a walk minutes later, disgusted, he watched the puffs of white air his harsh breathing created. The dark glasses helped keep out the light, as his eyes had become more sensitive since the accident, but they didn’t help the headaches.

His mother made him do yoga most mornings, and he’d caved in to the relentless pressure, but only if she didn’t talk at him the entire time. So he was improving physically, but the mental stuff would take longer.

Post-concussion syndrome. Three simple words, and his life had changed beyond recognition.

Walking down the roads he’d biked as a kid with his siblings, he reached the main street and then headed into Lyntacky.

Since he’d been home, he’d barely come into town unless one of his family members forced him. Everyone knew him here, and they would ask how he was doing, and Finch knew their concern would be well-meaning, but he didn’t want it or their pity. What he wanted was to be back in the army.

But even Santa wasn’t capable of making that happen.

Lyntacky came alive at Christmas. Yards of twinkling fairy lights were strung across the main street and in shop windows, along with colorful decorations and gifts. The scent of cinnamon and spiced fruit wafted up his nostrils as he passed the waffle place.

The small town of Lyntacky was growing. Houses had gone up fast, and there were more cars and people on the streets these days. Finch used to know most of the locals, but not anymore, which suited him just fine. Anonymity and solitude were two things he craved now.

Keeping his eyes down, he headed along the left-hand side of the main street. Shops and eateries lined both sides, and he had spent time in most of them over the years.

Finch nodded at the statue of Shelly Lyntacky, aunt to the current mayor Tripp and the entire reason for the town’s obsession with square dancing. Behind her was a huge tree that would have the lights turned on soon by whoever’s name was drawn. He had a bad feeling his family would put him on the list, but he’d deal with that if it arose.

“Morning, Finch.”