before Wiley could stop him, the animal let out a sound signaling he was in pain.
“Damn it,” Wiley said under his breath, limping to the rescue as fast as his bum leg allowed. Seeing any creature hurting was awful, but knowing this big lug was a favorite of Macy’s made the situation all the worse.
“Calm down...” The rusty wire had looped around the right fetlock and knee. The more Charlie struggled, the more his heartbreaking moans dragged Wiley back to another time, another attempt to avert injury that had ultimately failed.
But not this time.
Wiley clenched his jaw, working the wire loose while somehow not getting his head stomped by one of Charlie’s angry kicks.
“Hang tight, Crow, I’ll have you out of here in no time.”
“I’m already gone,” his SEAL teammate said from between gritted teeth. “Get out of here—save yourself.”
“No way, man. Let me—” BOOM!
The final bomb’s concussive force killed his buddy, Michael Young—called Crow by his friends—and threw Wiley backward a good fifteen feet. The blast rendered him deaf for days—although he still had some ringing in his ears that sometimes kept him up nights. His protective gear saved him from extensive burns—at least everywhere except his leg. He had a few faint scars on his chin and left cheek, but that was nothing a few day’s beard growth didn’t cover.
The internal wounds hurt most. The mental images of the countless other lives taken. In the dark of night, those were the souls haunting him, clawing at his heart and mind until he damn near felt dead himself.
“There you go,” Wiley said to Charlie, stroking the animal’s back while taking gentle hold of his bell collar to lead him from danger. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get the vet up here to clean you and give you a couple shots and you’ll be right as rain.”
Wiley’s soothing words earned him a grunt.
When it came to horses, Wiley would have understood this noise, but llama-speak might as well have been Martian.
Wiley led Charlie to the barn, then found a lead rope to loop around his neck, only Charlie wasn’t having it. Even with his leg scratched, he dug in to the barn’s dirt floor, refusing to budge.
“Looks like we’ll play this your way.”
He slipped the rope off the creature’s stubborn head, then limped back into the sun, closing the barn door behind him. He’d long since given up on his cell having a reliable signal, so he made it to the cabin and dialed the vet’s number on his grandfather’s old-fashioned black rotary-dial phone. Affixed to the wall with yellowed tape was a sheet filled with numbers written in Buster’s familiar scrawl. The vet’s office was just one of the numbers his grandfather had jotted down for eight-year-old Wiley to use in case of emergency. The next number happened to be for Clem and Dot’s—only the voice on the other end of the line was the last he wanted to hear.
“Macy...” Wiley said. “Don’t get upset, but Charlie’s been hurt.”
* * *
WILEY COULD TELL MACY all he wanted not to be upset about Charlie, but that didn’t mean she’d listen. After hanging up the phone, she bundled Henry into his car seat, then drove Clem’s more-rust-than-red pickup the short way to Wiley’s grandfather’s cabin.
The dust from her fishtailed parking job hadn’t yet settled when she leapt from the truck to pluck Henry from his seat and into her arms, then met Wiley where he stood glowering in front of the barn.
“I told you this wasn’t an emergency.” He tugged the brim of his straw cowboy hat. “There was no need to drive over—let alone, drive all crazy.”
“Where is he?”
“In the barn, but—”
“Thanks. That’s all I need to know.” She wasn’t in the mood to decipher what Wiley may or may not deem a serious injury. When it came to her grandfather’s llamas, Macy considered them family, just like she’d told her mom.
She tugged open the heavy barn door, then paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the shadowy light.
Thankfully, the first thing she saw was Charlie, contentedly munching feed from a tin bucket. His leg was scratched from his tussle with the barbed wire, but as long as it was treated to ward off possible infection, he’d no doubt live to escape another day.
“You scared me,” she said to the infuriating, yet lovable creature. She tried hugging his furry neck, but he wrestled free before returning to his meal.
“Told you he’ll be fine,” Wiley said from behind her. “The vet’s on his way.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m just sorry it happened. Charlie got into Gramp’s old junk pile. I’ll get someone over here to haul all of it off. In the meantime, guess we should look over your fences to see how your escape artist keeps getting out.”
“Sure.” We? Wiley was the last person she’d expect to propose a group project. But now that he had, she wasn’t sure how that made her feel—especially when she once again detected alcohol on his breath. Part of her wanted to be near him—no matter what they were doing. Another part felt wary. Since her breakup with Rex, she hated the way loneliness sometimes compelled her to strike up longer-than-necessary conversations with everyone from grocery store clerks to Henry’s pediatrician. The last thing she wanted in regard to Wiley was to confuse neediness for attraction. “I’m free most any day, but Saturday.”
“What happens then?” he asked.
“Henry and I visit Dot. You should come with us some time—I mean, if you want.” The moment the suggestion left her mouth, Macy mentally kicked herself. Backpedaling, she said, “But I’m sure you wouldn’t want to. Grandma probably wouldn’t even remember you.”
“Actually, it’d be nice seeing a familiar face. Hard to believe we’re the last ones standing on this old mountain.”
“I know, right?” The fact made her terribly sad, so she changed the subject. “How long ago did you call Doc Carthage?”
“Just before I got ahold of you. He was looking in on a sick calf over in Blue Valley. It’ll probably be at least thirty to forty minutes before he gets out here. Want to head home, and I’ll give you a holler when he shows?”
“I suppose that would work.” Craving company, she’d like nothing more than to stay—maybe play cards or simply reminisce about happier times, but since Wiley had suggested she leave, did that mean that’s what he preferred?
“Great,” he said. “I’m sure you’re busy, so—”
“Not particularly.” Henry’s weight made her arm muscles burn.
“Oh, well...” They left the barn to stand in the yard’s warm sun.
“This is the part when you’re supposed to say ‘in that case, how about joining me on the front porch for a nice, cool glass of tea or lemonade?’”
He
