maybe Jubal could, as well. He heard Clint’s humor in his letter. There would be no pity. No sympathy. No expectations. No questions.
No reliving hell.
He picked up his cell and punched in the number Clint had provided...
* * *
EIGHTEEN DAYS LATER, Jubal stuffed some clothes in his duffel along with several books. He drove straight through from San Diego to Covenant Falls, Colorado, stopping only long enough for coffee, hamburgers and gas. He had no trouble staying awake. Sleep never came without nightmares, so he tended to avoid it, anyway.
A little more than a thousand miles and twenty hours later, he reached his destination midmorning.
He followed Clint’s instructions through a small town to a road that ran beside a lake. Clint hadn’t been kidding when he said the town was small. He couldn’t imagine Clint, who was always the life of the party, being happy here. Even less could he imagine his friend as its police chief. That must have been one of Clint’s jokes. He’d been a full-blown hell-raiser back in the day, made even Jubal look like a saint.
It was just after ten in the morning when he found the place, the last one on Lake Road. He drove down a gravel lane to a cedar-sided cabin with a large screen porch stretching across the entire front of the structure. He stepped out of his car, a dark blue Mazda, and took a deep breath. The air was scented by the giant pines that surrounded the cabin. The clear blue lake was visible through the trees.
Clint had told him the cabin would be unlocked, the keys inside on the kitchen counter. Jubal grabbed his duffel from the backseat of the car and took the three steps up to the porch. He opened the screen door, then the door to the interior of the cabin, and looked inside.
As Clint promised, it was cozy. A stone fireplace filled one side of the main room and a wall of windows another. He looked outside. There was a rock grill surrounded by several comfortable-looking lounge chairs. Then the yard ended in what appeared to be forest stretching upward.
He checked out each room, then retreated to the kitchen where there was a thermos of coffee and a plate of cinnamon rolls waiting for him, along with a note.
Tradition dictates the cabin comes with fridge full of food. I added some beer and, knowing you, some damn good whiskey. Help yourself. Call me when you’re settled.
Jubal didn’t call. Instead, he took the thermos of coffee and rolls and headed toward the front porch. He sipped the coffee, which was still hot, and ate two rolls, then decided to explore further. He walked out to the road, glanced at a dock, which looked new. To his right, he noticed a path winding up a mountain. He took the path and climbed up to a spot where he had a good visual of the land around him.
Habits die hard. It was still part of him, this reconnaissance of his immediate environment, a suspicion of strangers, a springboard reaction to the slightest noise.
He was tired. It had been an exhausting drive from San Diego, and he hadn’t slept in more than forty-eight hours. There had been a time when he would still be going strong, but he hadn’t regained the stamina he once had. It had been one reason he’d rejected the job of trainer. He couldn’t imagine driving candidates to do something he could no longer do himself.
He was working on that stamina. His weight had gone from two hundred and ten pounds on a six-foot-three frame to little more than half that during his long months of captivity. It was up to a hundred and seventy-five now, all of it hard muscle after a strict exercise regime, but there had been enough permanent nerve and joint damage to end his career as an operating SEAL.
After returning to the cabin, he relaxed in one of the lounge chairs outside and watched as the sun reached its zenith and started back down again. He appreciated the fact trees shielded the cabin from the dwelling next to his. He was used to isolation.
At least this isolation was of his choosing.
His mind flipped back to Africa as it did too often. He’d been left alone for long periods of time, unless one of his guards came into whatever cave or hut they kept him in. And then it was only to beat, taunt, threaten or sometimes do all three. A gun was held against his head or a knife across his throat. He had scars all over his body from repeated torture.
The only thing that kept his captors from killing him was their belief he was a doctor and could be of use to them. He advised them on what medical supplies to take from the clinic before they burned it, to reinforce his lie.
Jubal took a deep breath. He was in the States again, the master of his own fate once more. Problem was, he had no idea what he wanted that fate to be. That was a first for him and he didn’t like it.
He knew he should call Clint, but he kept putting it off. He didn’t want to answer questions. He didn’t want to deal with small talk. He certainly didn’t want to talk about the last two years.
As a SEAL, he never thought about the next week or the next month, just the next mission. It was better that way. Think about the future and you start making mistakes.
Now he had to consider it.
He heard a car pull into the drive. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six. Clint, most likely. He’d probably been waiting all day for his call.
Still, he didn’t move as Clint appeared from around the cabin. A scarred pit bull was at his heels.
“Hey, Reb.” Clint used the nickname Jubal’s fellow SEALs had given him when he joined his first team. His grin was wide as ever.
Jubal looked at him. Clint wore a tan uniform and carried a sidearm, but he looked relaxed. The exhausted lines Jubal remembered around his eyes were gone. He turned his gaze to Clint’s scarred companion.
“Who’s your friend?” Jubal asked without moving.
“Bart. He rides along with me.” Clint leaned down and whispered something into the dog’s ear. The dog came over to Jubal and looked at him solemnly with deep brown eyes.
“I told him you’re a friend. He’s saying hello.”
The dog was among the ugliest Jubal had seen. Like himself, the dog had scars all over his body, but the animal waited patiently for a response.
Jubal immediately felt a kinship with the dog’s obvious brutal past. He leaned over and rubbed behind his ears. “Hello, Bart.”
“He adopted me last year,” Clint explained. “I had no choice in the matter, but I thought he would be a good icebreaker today,” Clint said. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome since you didn’t call.”
Jubal relaxed slightly. He sounded like the old Clint. “I just needed a few hours’ rest. I drove all night,” Jubal said without elaborating. Then he looked Clint up and down. “You weren’t kidding about being a cop?”
“Nope. Some of those MPs we encountered would have strokes if they knew. Okay if I get a beer?”
Jubal didn’t bother to get up. “Since you supplied them, I’d be a real jerk to say no.”
“Now that’s the wholehearted ‘Hello, great to see you’ that I expected,” Clint groused good-naturedly. “But I accept the invitation.” He headed for the cabin, disappeared inside and reappeared with a beer. He slouched down in the lounge chair next to
