He growled. Low and angry, grinding his teeth together until his jaw ached. Why? Why was this happening to him?
Anger coursed through him. Nothing in his life was going the way he planned, and all he could feel was anger. He shouldn’t be here. He should be with his unit back in Bragg—halfway through a promising career. But no. Instead of living the life he worked hard for, his body had betrayed him, forcing him to find a specialist who could offer him something no one else had been able to—a solution.
Releasing a long sigh, Colton studied his arm. The jerks, twitches, and uncontrollable movements were getting worse. The unofficial-official diagnosis was a movement disorder—a vague, all-encompassing answer his puzzled doctors offered when they could find no other medical reason to explain how or why he was experiencing these symptoms. Except one.
Colton walked toward the edge of the embankment and stared out over the water. Psychogenic. The word still burned him. No way was this movement all in his head. There had to be an explanation, something that could be cured with a pill or a procedure. Anything to give him back control over his life.
Dr. Mike Kelly.
Colton’s final hope rested in the therapist who’d been using some kind of brain therapy to help patients with post-traumatic stress disorder. Due to his late arrival at Home for Heroes yesterday, his in-processing was delayed and he had missed his first appointment with the man he was praying could reverse the disorder plaguing him.
Praying. Colton snorted. Praying was supposed to bring peace. Hope. Answers. As of yet, the only thing praying did was make him feel utterly forgotten.
Thunk!
Colton froze.
The noise echoed from over his right shoulder. He turned slowly to find nothing but dense trees and overgrown brush. Birds chirped overhead, the branches swaying as they swooped in and out. Maybe it was a squirrel or— Thunk. Instinctively, Colton’s breathing slowed. His senses had no reason to be on alert, but the habits he’d acquired after a decade in the Army didn’t just go away once the discharge papers were signed.
Taking careful steps, Colton had to pause every few feet and reorient himself to the direction the noise was coming from. Adrenaline caused his arm to jerk more frequently. He needed to get back to his room and take his morning medications, but he couldn’t ignore the noise, which was beginning to sound more like . . . sniffling?
The faint sounds of someone talking drifted on the first breeze Colton had felt all morning. Stepping over a root, he shifted around a tree and found the source of the noise. A small boy with black hair sat perched on a fallen log. When he wasn’t chucking rocks at the trees, he was wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
Colton glanced around the dense foliage. It was still pretty early in the morning—too early for a child to be out here by himself. The defeated slump in the boy’s shoulders was too familiar to ignore, but indecision kept Colton planted where he was. If he suddenly emerged out of the tree line, he could scare the kid, and they were close enough to the steep embankment that one wrong step could have him falling into the river below. But he couldn’t just leave the kid there. The boy’s quiet mumblings of sorrow pulled at Colton.
He cleared his throat and the little boy’s face swung around, dark eyes wide with fear as Colton stepped into full view and put his hands in front of him.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. Just making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” the boy mumbled before turning his attention back to the stick in his hand.
“You’re sure?”
“Did my mom send you to get me?”
Colton frowned. This kid was here by himself. “No. Is your mom nearby?”
“Works at—”
“Ughhh!” Colton clutched his right arm to his stomach as the seizing pulled his neck backward.
“Hey, are you okay, mister?”
Even if Colton wanted to assure the kid he was, there was no way he could push the words out. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take in slow breaths until the muscle spasm finished. In. Out. Slow.
Colton’s eyes were clamped shut, but he felt the presence of the boy next to him. The muscles in Colton’s neck, back, and arm began to relax. When he was able, he opened his eyes. He peered down into the boy’s face, expecting to see fear or worry, but instead saw simple curiosity.
“Sorry. I have, uh . . .” He licked his lips and forced himself to say the words. “It’s a movement disorder. Causes my muscles to seize.”
The boy gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Thought maybe you were Bruce Banner.”
“No, I’m Colton. Colton Crawford.”
“Are you kidding?” The boy arched an eyebrow. “You don’t know who Bruce Banner is?”
There was so much disbelief in the kid’s tone, Colton wanted to lie and say that he did. “Should I?”
“You just get out of jail or something?”
Colton smirked. “No.” His hand twitched. “Though it felt like one.”
“What’s up with your hand?”
“I told you.”
“Movement disorder.” His dark brown eyes followed the tremor in Colton’s arm. “So it just moves whenever it wants?”
“Yeah.”
He eyed Colton’s hand for a second longer before offering another nonchalant shrug like nothing was unusual about a man’s hand or body twisting uncontrollably.
It was the strangest thing. Ever since his diagnosis, people stared at his movements and then avoided him. Like whatever he had was contagious. Even kids, though they stared out of simple curiosity, which he could deal with until their parents whispered and dragged them away. But not this kid. He seemed . . . like he couldn’t care less.
Except there was obviously something he cared about enough to lead him into the woods in the early morning hours all by himself. Colton looked around and saw a football peeking out of an open backpack. He remembered passing an elementary school a half mile back, and there was nothing up ahead except for the rehab facility. “Are you out here alone?”
“No.” The boy looked up. “You’re here.”
Colton’s lip quirked. “What’s your name?”
“Maceo.”
“Should you be in school right now?”
Maceo dropped his gaze to his shoes, and that’s when Colton noticed it. Where there should’ve been two scratched-up, knobby knees, there was only one. The other was the familiar metal tube of a prosthesis.
“You said your name was Maceo, but with that piece of metal, you’re clearly one of Tony Stark’s inventions.”
Maceo lifted his chin, surprise lighting his eyes. “You know Marvel?”
“That’s the name of the comics, right?” Colton hated how lame he sounded, but the truth was that he wasn’t much into comics or movies. He’d dated a girl who wanted to see the new Iron Man movie when it came out, and he obliged. “And Bruce Banner is . . . ?”
“The Hulk,” Maceo said, walking back over to the log.
The Hulk. Yeah, he could see how he might’ve resembled the Hulk’s transformation when his muscles were seizing. “Isn’t the Hulk kind of mean?”
“Misunderstood.” Maceo reached for his backpack. “How would you feel if something was happening to your body and you didn’t know why?” His small fingers traced the white lacing of the football. “Or it stopped you from having friends and doing the things you want.”
Colton couldn’t ignore the wobble in Maceo’s voice. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this kid, who couldn’t be more than ten years old, had experienced more than his fair share of disappointment, and it put Colton’s self-pity into place. “You like football?”
“Yeah,” he said, lacking enthusiasm.
“Ever heard of Vincent James?”
Maceo glanced up with an expression that said Colton was crazy. “He’s the wide receiver for the Mustangs, and like, the greatest receiver of all time.”
Colton smiled. “Did you know Vince broke his leg in eighth grade? Pretty ba
d. The doctors told him he would never play ball again.”
“Because of a broken leg?”
“It was a bad break. His femur.” Colton tapped the top of his right thigh. “Biggest bone in the leg. He had to have surgery. It took an entire year of physical therapy before Vince could even run full speed on it.”
“But it’s better now.” Maceo began spinning the football between his hands. “Bet no one told him he couldn’t play football.”
“They did.”
Maceo’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief.
“Doctors, physical therapists, coaches, even his mom and dad told him that if he played football, he could reinjure his leg and maybe one day not be able to walk without a cane or wheelchair.”
“What did he do?”
Colton held out his hands and Maceo tossed him the ball. “He didn’t listen to them.” The familiar look of rebellion filled Maceo’s face, and Colton thought better of what he’d said. “What I mean is, Vince didn’t let the doctors’ fear become his. He listened to what they told him and followed their instructions for physical therapy so he could make his leg stronger. He worked hard. Harder than anyone else I’ve ever known, and when it was time, he began to practice again. He worked on the skills he could until . . .” Colton lifted the ball over his shoulder and aimed it toward Maceo, who opened his hands, palms facing out. Colton threw it, and with just a quick step to the side, Maceo received it. “He became the greatest receiver of all time.”
Maceo looked from the football in his hands to Colton. “So, did you read all that stuff about Vincent James or something?”
“Nope. Vince and I went to school together.”
The ball fell from Maceo’s hands. “You know Vincent James?”
Colton laughed. “Who do you think taught him the Saint James Fake?”
“You taught Vincent James the Saint James Fake?” Maceo’s eyes burned brighter than the sun. “The Mustangs won the Super Bowl with that play.” Again disbelief furrowed the kid’s brows. “Are you lying?”
“I don’t lie, little man.” Colton nodded toward the trail. “There’s a big lawn near Home for Heroes. You got some time to toss the ball around before school?”
Maceo eyed Colton’s arm, uncertainty in his expression.
“Hey”—Colton flexed the fingers on his right hand—“there’s no sympathy on the field. If you don’t see my weakness, I won’t see yours.”
A smile spread across Maceo’s face, pulling his cheeks into deep dimples. “Deal.”
THREE
“HE SHOVED A KID. To the ground.” Pecca rubbed her eyes. “In this day and age, I’m surprised we’re not being sued.”
Shirley gave a soft laugh of understanding before handing Pecca the schedule for the day. “Honey, I raised four boys, and if there’s one thing I know about them it’s this: they gonna fight and then it’s over. Your boy is gonna be just fine.”
“I don’t know.” Pecca sighed, remembering the silent drive home from school and the way Maceo slammed his door when they got there. Not hard enough to get into trouble but just enough to make a point. “He’s seven and suspended from school. I really thought he was finally settling in here.”
“Baby, Maceo’s faced more difficulties in his little life than some of our patients. He just needs some understanding right now. Needs his mama to make his favorite meal. Maybe watch one of those superhero movies with him.”
Pecca looked at Shirley, sure the disbelief was written all over her face. “Doesn’t that send the wrong message, rewarding bad behavior?”
Shirley’s brown eyes deepened with wisdom. “It’s called grace. Put yourself in his place. Deputy Ryan Frost, who was basically his playmate, moved away, then he found out Noah, his best friend—the one who’s actually his age—is not in the same class as him at school.” Shirley raised her eyebrows. “Seems the child needs a little compassion this time around.”
“He needs to talk to me,” Pecca said. “He wouldn’t tell Principal Webb or me why he did it. I thought moving here was the right decision but—”
“Don’t you go second-guessing yourself. You’re doing the best you can given the circumstances.” Shirley placed her hand over Pecca’s and gave it a squeeze. “Now, go take that young man of yours into the kitchen. I picked up some of Lane’s famous cinnamon rolls this morning.”
Pecca’s stomach growled in anticipation. “Maybe later. I’ve got to catch up on the work I missed yesterday. Did Captain Crawford ever show up?”
“Sure did. You’re gonna need some grace for that one too.”
“A hard one, huh?”
“I’ll let you decide.” Shirley feigned innocence before leaning over the counter between them. “Let’s just say Maceo might not be the most difficult male you deal with today. Now, where’s Maceo so I can feed him some love?”
Pecca smiled. “He’s reading in the library.” As Shirley shuffled off after her son, Pecca picked up the file on Captain Crawford. After dealing with Maceo and the news about Javier, the last thing she needed was a difficult patient.
All last night her thoughts had circled between Maceo’s behavior and what the SSB would do if they really wanted Pecca to testify on Javier’s behalf. She thought about telling Sheriff Huggins, but part of her felt like Adrian might’ve been exaggerating. His work in the gang unit made him hypervigilant. In fact, he was the one who suggested that Pecca move away—to do whatever was necessary to keep Maceo away from the gang life that had put his father in a jail cell for the last eight years.
“Honey, did you say Maceo was supposed to be in the library?” Shirley’s steps stopped at the threshold of the foyer and the east wing.
“Yes. I told him he had to stay there and read for an hour so I could do my rounds.” Pecca set down the file. “He’s not there?”
Shirley didn’t need to answer. It was all over her face.
Pecca pressed her lips together. Maceo’s disobedience was at an all-time high. She passed the library, a list of punishments growing in her mind, and it was empty. What was she going to do with him? She walked down the hall toward the dining room and kitchen, only finding a few residents and staff there.
Adrian’s words from yesterday tore through her mind. “They’re looking for you.” A chill skirted across her shoulders as she picked up her pace. Pecca’s thoughts went to a hundred different possibilities as memories of what the SSB was capable of colored every scenario. Stop. She had to stop. The SSB didn’t know where she was—she was jumping to conclusions. That should’ve comforted her, but as she started for the side door leading to the gym, swimming pool, and lawn, she could feel the panic starting to rise.
Pecca exited Home for Heroes, the morning air cool but still humid and suffocating. Or was that fear? Taking a breath, she forced herself to remain calm. Maceo was mad at her. And probably doing this to make her worry. Like she needed another reason to worry. She was probably going to find him sulking in the gym or by the pool or—
A scream captured her attention. Maceo?
Another scream, and Pecca took off in the direction she thought it had come from. Rounding the front corner of the detached building that held the gym, she caught sight of her son running across the lawn. Relief slowed her pounding pulse—until a man emerged from the hedgerow.
The man, his arms held out wide, barreled after Maceo. Pecca blinked as her mind tried to make sense of what she was seeing. It was him. The man she almost ran over yesterday. With Adrian’s warning echoing in her ears, Pecca charged across the lawn, her feet barely touching the carefully manicured grass as she aimed for the grizzly man twice her size.
“Maceo!” Her scream grabbed the attention of her son, who froze at the sight of her running full speed. She closed the distance, glaring into the man’s hazel eyes seconds before her body collided with his.
Oof!
What she lacked in weight and strength, she’d made up for in speed as the man, caught off guard, was thrown sideways to the ground. The only problem w
as, Pecca hadn’t accounted for the momentum and found herself rolling on the grass alongside him. Somehow she had become tangled in his arms, the strength of them cocooning her from the ground.
“Mama!”
“Stay back, Maceo.” Pecca disentangled herself and winced. Ouch. Her shoulder screamed, but she couldn’t let pain keep her from protecting her son. “Go . . . get Ms. Shirley.”
But Maceo didn’t move. His eyes shifted quickly between her and the man moaning next to her.
Scooting up to her knees, Pecca scrambled backward, putting herself between Maceo and the man pushing himself up. Fear squeezed her lungs. Who was this guy? She watched him rub a hand over the side of his ribs, blood oozing from a scrape on his elbow.
“Mom, we were just—”
“Why were you chasing my son?” Pecca said, pushing Maceo behind her. The man raised a dark gaze on her. She swallowed. “Who are you?”
“Pecca!” Shirley was nearly sprinting toward them.
Pecca turned her attention back to the man, who was now standing, giving her a good look at him. Or . . . up at him. The man was several inches taller than her, which wasn’t difficult, given she was only five-two. Her eyes traveled the length of his body. Running shorts, T-shirt. The jerk of his right arm grabbed her attention. He tucked it to his side quickly, causing her eyes to meet his annoyed expression. “Who are you?” she repeated.
“Honey . . . are you . . . okay?” Shirley said, breathless. “Oh, you’re . . . bleeding.”
Pecca swung her gaze between Shirley and the man she’d just plowed into. The woman was examining his elbow. Wait. “You know this guy, Shirley?”
Amusement lit a sparkle in Shirley’s eyes. “Sweetie, this is Captain Colton Crawford. Your new patient.”
No, no, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. Had she really just smashed her new patient into the ground? Pecca swallowed as she searched the face of the bearded man in front of her, trying to reconcile him with the picture of the clean-cut Army officer in her file.
Silent Shadows Page 2
