The man raised a dark blond brow at me and a cocky smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Cowboy topped off at about six-one, so he had a good six inches and sixty pounds of muscle on me—a woman of my size didn’t threaten him—but brawn doesn’t always win. My ex-boyfriend, if you could’ve called him that, hadn’t felt threatened by me either, but he won’t make that mistake again.
Off the top of my head, thanks to Uncle Sam and my combat training, I knew how to neutralize a target with my bare hands.
Only a few of them were survivable.
I fixed my eyes on his, in the way that had made most of the men in my unit squirm. He had the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes but his short stubble was free of gray. Maybe thirty-six. Seven years older than me. Not that I’m in the market.
He crossed his arms over his chest, unfazed, with a hint of humor in his eye. Not as if he were laughing at me, but as if he’d learned not to take life so seriously sometimes.
I should have apologized. I should’ve backed off while I had the chance. I didn’t—me, people, the combination was no bueno. “She’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”
The girl snickered behind me and he shot her a look over my shoulder that did little to shut her up. His lips flattened, but the amused gleam in his eyes remained as if he were withholding a good punchline. He shrugged one shoulder by way of comment.
“You coming in?” he asked the girl as he hefted himself off the side of her truck.
“I think I lost my appetite.” She said it like a challenge, like she was daring his to argue with her. And yet almost like she wanted to join him.
He blinked twice as if he could clear his vision enough to see what she was really saying. Then he gave up. “Suit yourself,” he said as he strode into the café without a backward glance.
She climbed into her pickup, and its hinges groaned when she heaved the heavy door closed. I headed inside to pay my bill and she mumbled something to me through her open window.
“What was that?” Glancing over my shoulder, I bit back all the things I wanted to tell her. Things like she had her whole life ahead of her, and that she didn’t have to settle for a man who was almost old enough to be her father. Then again I could have read the situation all wrong. It wasn’t any of my business.
“Hank.” She waved her hand toward the café. “He’s really not so bad.”
Maybe. Maybe not. I nodded to her then made my way up the steps of the café, wondering how much of an ass I’d made of myself. Inside, the man she’d called Hank sat with his back to me, sharing a table with an older gentleman.
At the front counter, I counted out my change—dimes, nickels, pennies, and the occasional quarter to speed up the process.
A hand landed on my jacketed forearm.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t have to.
Training kicked in. I grabbed his hand, shoved the man face down against the counter and pinned his left arm behind his back. I released him almost as fast as I’d restrained him, and the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of my heart dropped back to normal in the span of a few seconds.
I know I’m not in Iraq. I know everyone isn’t out to get me. Sometimes it just takes me a moment to remember that.
A stark reminder I’m not like everyone else.
I doubted I would ever be again.
The old man chuckled. Here I thought I was nuts. I lifted my gaze and he stretched his shoulder to relieve the pain from the bind I’d put him in. His pale blue eyes held a thin mixture of amusement and perhaps understanding.
I tried for a smile, even though the expression felt foreign on my face. “Sorry about that.”
“Where did you serve?” He asked in a way that made me feel like the crazy train hadn’t just left the station.
“Iraq,” I said. “Fallujah,” to be more specific. Something in his demeanor made me want to add ‘sir’ to my answer.
He nodded once like a commander to a subordinate, laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and pushed it toward the wide-eyed waitress. “For the lady’s breakfast,” he told her and stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Thank you for your service. Glad you made it back in one piece.”
A half laugh escaped me—full of irony and empty of humor. Physically, I was in one piece, more or less. Emotionally? I was shattered. Each shard so minuscule, no way could I ever superglue them back together again, so I’d never really tried.
I didn’t want this man’s help or his money. However, I accepted it and thanked him anyway.
As weird as it sounds, I felt I owed him that much.
After a modest tip, between the coins I’d found and the change from his ten, I’d have enough for a gallon or two of gas, maybe a tad more. It might get me around the next bend, or perhaps up into the next mountain range, but nowhere near where I wanted to be.
He stepped back to his table. Hank hadn’t stirred from his seat. “So much for coming to my rescue,” the old man ribbed him.
As I headed out the door, I caught Hank’s reply. “Not the first time I’ve let you down.” Then he added, “I doubt it’ll be the last.” His self-deprecating tone lost its light, shifting to something darker.
* * * *
Dense clouds obscured the peaks of the mountains flanking the valley making my location feel like a world of its own. It could be heaven for all I knew, but without my last two hundred dollars, it felt a whole lot more like hell.
I’d known my days on the road were numbered. I just hadn’t expected it to be in a no-stop-light town. I needed to earn some money, but this high plain valley wasn’t exactly ripe with employment opportunities.
After fueling, I paid for my gas and spotted the “Help Wanted” ad on the crowded bulletin board. “You know anything about this ranch?” I asked the kid who’d rung me up.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Busy time of year. Plus they’ve had a run of bad luck.”
“So the job is temporary?”
“I reckon.” He shrugged again. Easy. Automatic. Habit.
I tore the ad off the board. It had phone number tabs at the bottom, but I didn’t have a cell phone and after paying for the gas, I didn’t have money for a pay phone either. If I could even find one.
There was a map to the ranch drawn in the corner. “Mind if I take this?”
“Free country.”
Yes, it was.
Outside, I swung my leg over my motorcycle. At over seventy years old, the bike showed wear—leg rubs on either side of the faded black tank, pitted chrome, and the edges of the leather seat and saddlebags were alligatored with age. Like an old T-shirt, it molded to my body. It was comfortable. It was familiar. And we’d experienced many of life’s difficulties together.
I jumped on the kick-starter and blipped the throttle as the engine roared to life. The rumble and vibration of the bike shook the unease from my nerves as I settled into the seat to memorize the map. The job sounded promising. Hard work had never scared me. I needed the money. It was temporary.
Practically perfect.
Glancing both ways, I pulled in front of a slow-moving tractor, my helmet strapped to the side of the seat behind me. It bumped my leg as I shifted into a higher gear. Before deployment, I never rode without my helmet. Since I’ve been back, I’ve worn it less and less. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal. I don’t have a death wish.
I’m just not certain it matters much