voice was unexpectedly deep, and for a moment Charlie thought she might salute, but she caught herself. After all, none of them was officially in the military any longer.
“Welcome, Mary Anne,” the colonel said. He didn’t offer to shake her hand; nor did she offer it. Despite the August heat, she wore a long-sleeved plaid cotton shirt over tight jeans, and had tied a plain blue silk scarf over her ears and knotted it at the nape of her neck. A khaki leather glove covered her right hand.
“Mary Anne Howell, may I introduce my daughter, your instructor, Charlie Nicholson. Charlie, this is Mary Anne.”
“Ma’am,” Mary Anne said. No smile. No handshake. She picked up her duffel and stepped aside as a grizzled man with sun-roughened skin and close-cropped gray hair backed down the stairs.
“Come on, Major,” he said, “time to get out. Bring your gear with you.” He might have been coaxing a puppy out of a crate.
As he backed away, a tall, thin man stepped off the bus. Hatless, he blinked in the sunlight. His hair hadn’t been cut in a while, and whoever had done it last hadn’t so much barbered as butchered it. He might even have whacked at it himself. It must have been corn-gold when he was younger. Now the gray had muted it to pewter. His face bore the creases and wrinkles that came from living under a fierce sun.
“Afternoon, Colonel, ma’am,” said the shorter man with a broad grin. “Retired Master Sergeant Sean O’Riley at your service. I won’t shake hands if you don’t mind.” He lifted his right arm. “I don’t have the hang of this danged mechanical gadget yet. I could crush your fingers.”
At first glance the sergeant’s prosthetic hand looked remarkably natural. The skin tone matched O’Riley’s tan, but the skin itself was too perfect. Charlie thought a couple of freckles or liver spots would make it more lifelike.
O’Riley indicated the man beside him, who had neither moved nor spoken. “This is Major Jacob Thompson. Jake, come on over and meet these good folks.”
The man took two steps forward, shook hands with the colonel and nodded to Charlie.
He then took two steps back and waited patiently.
As the daughter of an army psychologist, Charlie had grown up watching her father’s patients come and go. She recognized at once that this man had hit the disconnect switch.
“Hey, get me down off this thing before I fall on my face!”
The tenor voice came from behind the van.
“Hang on,” grumbled a baritone. “Or I’ll shoot you off this lift and onto the road!”
Charlie heard a whir, and a moment later a young man—a very young man—barreled around the end of the bus in his wheelchair like an Indy racer. “Hey. I’m Mickey Peterson. Bet you didn’t expect to have to teach me to drive a carriage, did you?”
The colonel smiled broadly. “Actually, Mickey, we have a carriage set up for your wheelchair.”
“I’m not spending the rest of my life in this thing,” Mickey said. “Soon as I get strong enough on my braces, I’ll race you and your carriage.” He pumped the air. “Hey, Hank,” he called over his shoulder. “Bring me my gear, will ya?”
“You got it.” The man in question walked up behind Mickey and dumped the duffel onto Mickey’s lap.
“Hey, man, not so hard!”
“Why? You can’t feel it.”
“Wanna bet?” Mickey whispered, “Jerk.”
“So you must be Hank,” the colonel said.
“Second Lieutenant Hank Ames.” He shook the colonel’s hand and tossed a dazzling smile at Charlie. “Ma’am?”
“Charlotte Nicholson,” she said. “Everyone calls me Charlie.”
Hank’s hand was rough and strong, like the rest of him, but his nails were manicured. He had the broad shoulders and slim hips of an athlete, and stood eye to eye with her own five-ten. He was also one of the handsomest men Charlie had ever seen outside a Ralph Lauren ad. His too-long mop of black curly hair had been razor cut and he boasted incredible chocolate eyes, and teeth that looked as though every one had been professionally capped and bleached. His Levi’s were starched and pressed, and his plaid rodeo shirt had snaps down the front instead of buttons.
She glanced at his feet. Yep. The boot-cut jeans were too long and bunched at the ankle over cowboy boots, the way real cowboys wore them. Expensive boots, from the look of them. Ostrich, maybe.
“You’re the rodeo rider,” the colonel said.
Instantly the man’s handsome face clouded. “Used to be. Need two feet in the stirrups to ride saddle broncs.”
* * *
MAJOR JAKE THOMPSON considered climbing back in the van and returning to Memphis, but while he hesitated, the doors closed and the engine started.
He turned to follow the others and met the woman’s eyes. Charlie?
She smiled at him. He surprised himself by smiling back, then felt his face flush. She wasn’t beautiful, but her gray eyes were warm and her mouth was generous. He dropped his gaze, surprised that he had responded to her.
She was tall and straight and strong, the way he remembered his sisters being.
Don’t think about your sisters.
Sean grabbed his arm and propelled him forward to join the group. “Come on, Jake, my bucko. You’re going to love it here. You’ll be better in no time.”
He doubted that, but he didn’t argue. He smelled the dry summer Bermuda grass, closed his eyes and heard the breeze whispering through the big oak trees. What would it feel like to lie in the grass again and stare at the stars the way he had as a kid? When everything seemed possible. When his family was still permitted to speak to him. Before he had all those lives on his conscience.
When he’d dreamed of all the places he’d go after he left the farm behind, he hadn’t included Iraq and Afghanistan on his wish list.
“Man, smell that manure,” Hank said. “I do love the smell of horse.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mickey turned in his chair. “Manure? Really?”
“Really,” Jake said, butting into the conversation. Better than the garbage Dumpsters in downtown Memphis. Better than the crowds and noise that never seemed to stop, even at four in the morning when he walked to escape the nightmares. When he saw all those faces. Even after the colonel took charge and rented him a room in a halfway house, he’d stayed only long enough for meals before he began those lone walks again.
Most of the men who hung out on the street and under the overpasses in the downtown badlands had problems with alcohol or drugs. Once they discovered he hardly carried any money, they didn’t hassle him. Everyone left him alone. He was sober and clean, and he didn’t beg.
In any case, even if he’d had the money to dull the pain, he wouldn’t have been able to choose between all the various substances. Since
