“Sorry, Daddy,” she said as she raced up to him. “I had to wait while they loaded the oats into the truck, and then they could only find three of the big trace mineral blocks I need for the pasture.”
Her father stood straight and tall, eyes on the van doors. “Charlotte Abigail, you are ten minutes late. You should learn to budget your time better, if you expect to teach this class.”
“You hired me to run the farm. You blackmailed me into teaching. Anyway, I didn’t miss anything. The van just got here.”
“That’s hardly the point. They were late. You should not have been.” He didn’t turn his head to look at her but continued to smile at the van doors as they soughed open. “I’m not blackmailing you. Call it other duties as assigned.”
Right. Maybe not blackmail, but he’d implied that this class was her baptism by fire. If she could train this small group of wounded vets to drive the draft horses the farm bred, all the while managing the daily operation of the place, she’d prove she was competent to take over the draft horse operation on her own without her father’s constant oversight.
He’d never cared about the farm, but it had always been her paradise. The place where her grandfather taught her to love horses.
Since the colonel owned the farm until his death, when it would pass to Charlie, she didn’t have much choice but to follow his orders. She loved the colonel in spite of what he called their issues, but she’d have preferred to love him from afar after he moved to a luxury condominium in Outer Mongolia. Harder to micromanage her from there.
Teaching this group couldn’t be tougher than teaching her seventh-grade English class at their last post. These veterans actually wanted to learn. Her seventh-graders definitely hadn’t. Thank heaven, her daughter, Sarah, had been in the eighth grade. No teenager liked to be taught by her mother. Sarah would have died of embarrassment.
Except for the vacations Charlie had spent with Granddad, she’d never lived in a house that didn’t belong to the United States Army. She swore she and Sarah would have a real home. Even if it killed her.
Her father hadn’t expected his grant to teach wounded veterans to drive draft horses with an aim of future employment would be approved so soon. I had planned to hire someone to teach while DeMarcus and Maurice continued to handle the barn and the horses, he’d told her. Now that you and Sarah are living here, it’s the perfect opportunity for you to show me what you can do.
Asking her father to provide a home for her and Sarah after Charlie’s husband was killed had been the toughest thing she had ever done, but she had no money until Steve’s death benefits kicked in. That might take a year. In the meantime, it was go home to daddy or live in her truck.
The colonel’s invitation was gracious. Once she got his attention he was always gracious. He refused to admit, though, that so long as he controlled the purse strings, he controlled her.
Now that Steve was dead, any man who tried to control her was in for the fight of his life and that included dear old Dad. She intended to be her own boss from here on. No more men telling her what to do. Definitely no more warriors.
Being back with the horses was heaven. Living as a hired hand in the old home was not. She simply had to convince the colonel she could run it alone. This was her chance.
“Come on, Charlie girl, let’s greet our guests,” he said, taking her arm.
What little confidence she had fled, and if she didn’t already have ulcers, she was about to develop them. But she had to continue to talk a good game. Otherwise, the vets would never trust her to train them.
What if she messed up? What if she made them worse? She shivered despite the ninety-five-degree temperature. “Remember, Charlie, Don’t teach the disabilities. Teach the people.” Her father waved to the van and whispered back, “Of course, if you don’t think you can manage...”
Talk about fighting words. Shoot, yeah, she could do it. “There are times I hate you.” She smiled as she said it, but he knew she was only half kidding.
“Most children hate their parents when they act like parents.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?”
“Absolutely.” The colonel stepped forward with his hand outstretched. His worn jeans and red polo shirt couldn’t conceal his military posture. His short hair might be gray, but his belly was still flat. He would always look like Colonel Sanders, the Kentucky Fried Chicken front man, as he had before he retired. Well, semiretired. Technically, he was a civilian psychologist volunteering at the VA hospital in Memphis. This whole project was his baby. He’d written the grant that paid for it.
He had as much an investment in the success of this program as she did. And it had been a long time since she’d made a success of anything. She squared her shoulders and pasted a smile on her face. She’d pull this off if it killed her.
“Welcome to Great Horse Farm. Come on down,” the colonel said as the first figure appeared in the doorway. The woman inside didn’t take the hand he offered but scrambled down the few steps, carrying a duffel bag almost as big as she was.
“Colonel Vining, sir,” she said. She was only about five foot two and weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds. She wore huge wraparound sunglasses and kept her face turned to the right. Her 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