Chapter Fourteen
“Get out of here! Get!” Wiley James waved his battered straw cowboy hat at the miserable beasts, but four of the llamas kept right on munching the tops off his carrots.
A fifth stared him down, then spit.
“Oh no, you didn’t...”
Wiley tried charging the damned thing, but with his bum leg, he lost his balance and fell flat on his ass. Adding insult to injury, dust rising from his fall made him cough. It was early June, and his slice of northwestern Montana hadn’t seen rain in a couple weeks.
His hat tumbled off in the breeze.
Frustration and sheer rage tightened his chest—not so much at his neighbor’s escaped llamas, but his own situation. Six months earlier, he’d been at the top of his game—a Navy SEAL who never backed down from any challenge. Then he’d gone and done a Texas two-step with a Syrian cluster bomb and life had never been the same. Hell, he was lucky to even have his leg, but after a string of reconstructive surgeries and months in rehab, to now be stuck on this old run-down ranch instead of working with his SEAL team to do his part in saving the world... Well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly thrilled with his current lot in life.
“I’m so sorry,” a female voice called from behind him. “Chris, Sabrina, Kelly and Jill! Shame on you. You know better! And Charlie—I told you no more spitting!”
The beasts stopped chewing long enough to give her a curious look, but then returned to their meal.
“Can I help?” The woman belonging to the voice stepped in front of Wiley, blocking the too-bright sun. Standing in shadow, he couldn’t make out much of her besides a giant mass of red hair.
She held out her hand.
He refused to take it. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Wiley scrambled back onto his feet, but downright humiliated himself in the process. He had a cane somewhere in the house, but he was only thirty-two. No way would he consider using the thing till his eighties.
“I really am sorry about your garden.”
“Me, too.” It had taken weeks to get his plants to this stage, and her llamas had ruined damn near all of them in minutes. Now that he’d taken a good look at her without the sun in his eyes, he noticed the baby she held on her hip. The little guy had her red hair and even a few freckles. Her sky-blue eyes looked familiar. He knew her—he’d always known her. The realization that this woman was little Macy all grown up made his throat tight and chest ache.
“Henry and I will help you replant.”
“Who’s Henry?” he asked, playing it cool. “Your husband?”
“This is Henry. Wave,” she coached the baby. “Wave hello to our nice neighbor.”
The chubby baby not only flapped his hand, but grinned.
“Doesn’t look like much of a gardener.” Wiley fought to maintain his scowl, but it was kind of hard when faced with this level of cuteness. In another lifetime, he’d wanted to be a father. Wiley’s already battered ego couldn’t help but wonder why Macy hadn’t recognized him. Did he look that bad?
“Oh—he loves digging, but needs help planting.” She held out her free hand for Wiley to shake. “I’m Macy Stokes—well, used to be Shelton. Henry and I live just down the hill.”
“I know. Clem and Dot’s place.”
Her smile faded. He cringed at being the subject of her appraisal. “Wiley?” As if coming in for a hug, she raised her free arm and stepped forward, but then seemed to change her mind and step back. “I didn’t recognize you with your long hair and stubble. Dad told me you were back, but it’s been so quiet over here, I thought he was wrong. It’s great seeing you again.”
“Likewise,” he lied. What was the point of moving out to the middle of nowhere if you weren’t going to be left alone? He didn’t want the social responsibility of making small talk with the neighbors any more than he wanted to clean up after their nuisance animals.
The Veterans of Foreign Wars—VFW, for short—welcome committee had already been out on three separate occasions to invite him for Tuesday night poker, but he’d sent them packing. The last time in what he hoped was a definitive manner. When he said he didn’t want to see anyone, he meant it.
He turned to hobble after his hat.
“I guess you heard about my grandfather?” Time hadn’t changed their roles. She chased after him just as she had when she’d been a little girl.
“Nope. But I wish him and Dot well.”
“That’s just it—my grandpa died.”
He paused. “Sorry to hear it. Clem was good to me. Dot, too. She okay?” Even this modest bit of pleasantry cost. More than anything, he wanted the freedom to be as glum as he liked. Pretending to be civil had proven far too much of an effort, which was why he’d chosen to hide where there were far more soaring pines than people. The ranch was twenty-five miles from town. Macy was his closet neighbor. The next closest was a good five miles down the road.
“Grandma’s alive...” Though her eyes welled, Macy forced a smile and jiggled her baby. “But not especially well. A few years back, she started forgetting things—at first, leaving the teapot too long on the stove or her friends’ names—but when it started getting out of hand, my mom took her to the doctor, and Grandma Dot was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Grandpa was gutted. Honestly, I think the pain of losing her—even though she was right there with him—is what literally broke his heart.”
Wiley knew he should say something. Dot used to make him oatmeal cookies with butterscotch chips. He’d loved those cookies, and he’d loved her. So why couldn’t he move his lips?
He’d reached his hat, but without something to lean on, there was no way he’d be able to grab it without losing what little remained of his dignity.
“You all right?” Macy asked. She’d cocked her head, and the breeze captured her mess of red hair.
Her baby giggled when the curls tickled
