Silent Shadows

by Natalie Walters

  “Maceo.” Pecca gave Colton an apologetic smile before stepping around a rack of dumbbells to meet him at the door. “You know you’re not supposed to interrupt me when I’m with a patient.”

  “That guy knows Vincent James.” Maceo stopped, arms folded over his chest. He tilted his chin toward Colton. “Isn’t that right?”

  It took Colton a second to realize Maceo wasn’t sharing his relationship with Vince for Pecca’s benefit but for the man leaning on a cane behind Maceo.

  “Tell him,” Maceo prodded. “Tell him you know Vincent James and taught him the Saint James Fake.”

  “Sorry, Pec, he insisted,” said the man who looked much too young to be using a cane. Early thirties, sandy brown hair, strong build. Was he another resident? A veteran?

  “Captain Crawford, this is David Turner. He was also in the Army.” Pecca turned to David. “A sergeant, right?”

  “I guess I should call you sir.” David shifted, stretching out his hand. Then he noticed Colton’s arm moving and let his hand fall back to his side.

  “Colton will be just fine.”

  Maceo tugged on the hem of Colton’s shirt. “Tell him you know Vincent James. He doesn’t believe me. Tell him the story about how you helped him get better.”

  “I didn’t say you didn’t know him.” David lifted his hand, palm out as though he’d been caught. “I said it was unlikely.”

  “Tell him.”

  “Maceo.” Pecca grabbed her son’s hand. “That’s enough.”

  “It’s okay.” Colton nodded at Maceo. “Vince and I grew up together in Jasper, Texas. Played football together in middle and high school. I have his number in my cell phone if you want to give him a call, but I’d suggest waiting until the season’s over or he gets cranky.”

  “See.” Maceo’s chin jutted forward toward David. “Now you owe me a double scoop from Sandy’s.”

  “You got it, kid,” David said, ruffling Maceo’s hair.

  A weird feeling settled in Colton’s gut at the man’s affection for Maceo and the way he looked at Pecca. She hadn’t introduced David as her husband, but he wondered if maybe they were a couple.

  Colton’s hand spasmed and clenched. He needed to get back to his room. “Nice to meet you,” he said to David and started for the door. Then he stopped and said to Maceo, “Next time, always bet for the triple-scoop sundae with extra toppings.”

  Orange pill bottles lay on his bed. “We’ll start with a clean slate. Wean you off slowly.” After Colton’s disastrous session with Pecca, the last thing he was going to do was come off his medications. They helped. Or why else would his doctors prescribe them?

  Colton shook two yellow pills from one bottle and a large white one from another and stared at them. Before arriving in Walton, he’d had his prescriptions filled to make sure he had plenty. Chaplain Kelly would never know—except Colton would. He dropped one of the yellow pills back into the bottle before screwing the top back on. With a swig of water, he swallowed the meds—he wouldn’t allow the movement disorder to take his integrity too.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  The light knock on the door echoed against the whirring of the ceiling fan, and Colton froze. He did a quick scan across the corners of his room, searching for a camera. He closed his eyes and shook off the paranoia caused by his insubordinate thoughts a second ago.

  Tap-tap-tap. “Captain Crawford?”

  It was a male voice. Sounded familiar. The day already felt too long, and he’d skipped dinner in the dining room on purpose. Eating had become a messy challenge, so he’d saved himself the embarrassment and stopped by the kitchen to get a sandwich he could eat in his room. Maybe if he didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away.

  “Captain Crawford, it’s Chaplain Kelly. Just came to check on you.”

  Colton’s eyes darted to the bottles of pills on his bed, a weird feeling penetrating his gut. Chaplain Kelly’s timing seemed . . . fortuitous. Had he expected Colton’s resistance and wanted to check on him to make sure he had obeyed? He pinched his eyes closed at his ridiculous thoughts. He quickly gathered the pill bottles, shoved them into his sock drawer, and went to the door.

  Chaplain Kelly smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to see how you were recovering from earlier.”

  “I’m better, thanks.”

  “If you’re not busy, I’d like you to come meet a couple of the other residents in the lounge.”

  He had a dozen excuses at the ready, but one look at Chaplain Kelly’s humble expression and Colton didn’t have the courage to use any of them. Colton pulled his door shut and followed the chaplain down the hall, wishing the day would just end already.

  Loud voices and laughter greeted Colton and Chaplain Kelly as they stopped near the threshold of the lounge. The gathering place took up a quarter of the second floor and was filled with long sofas and chairs. A large television was attached to a wall at the end of the room and a long table filled the space at the other end. Bookshelves were covered with board games and books. A media console held a half dozen remote controls, along with game consoles.

  “Well, if it ain’t the daisy who got his boots licked right out from under him by a gal.”

  Colton’s gaze swung to an older African American man sitting in one of the club chairs, a wide smile lighting his face.

  “Son, I didn’t realize you were so big. That hot tamale nurse must be a lot stronger than I thought.” This came from another older man with feathery silver hair combed over a bald head. He was holding a cup of coffee with gnarled, age-spotted hands, a crossword puzzle lying discarded on the table in front of him.

  A man rolled up in a wheelchair, a tin of dominoes on his lap. He squinted up at Colton from beneath a black hat with big white lettering that spelled out ARMY. “You better speak up, boy. Put those grunts and fly-boys in their place.” The hissed words barely escaped the man’s lips as he rolled past him.

  “Bah, I told you he was soft.” The African American man smirked. “Don’t make ’em like they used to, eh, Sarge?”

  The man in the wheelchair—Sarge—responded with a withering look etched into his features. “What are you talking about, Sticks? I’d bet Cap here has seen more action than you on the battlefield and”—with a slick smile spreading across his face, Sarge looked at Colton—“off the battlefield.”

  The room filled with hoots and howls as Sticks swiped his hand in the air as if he were batting away the insult.

  Colton swallowed. Cap? Were they referring to him? He looked over his shoulder at Chaplain Kelly, who was smiling.

  “Welcome to D-Wing.”

  FIVE

  HE TICKED OFF THE HOURS on his fingers before picking up his cell phone and dialing. After walking into the living room, he settled himself onto the couch and put his feet on the coffee table. When no one picked up after the fourth ring, he frowned.

  “Hola.”

  A breath of frustration left his lips. “Hello, Beatriz.”

  “Oh, hello, sir.” The maid’s tone shifted nervously. “I am sorry. I was getting the meal ready—”

  “Do not let it happen again,” he said, interrupting Beatriz’s uneven English. “When you are in my home, you will speak English only. Especially in front of Diego.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now please get Alicia.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He leaned over his legs and grabbed the remote control from a bowl. Flipping through the channels, he paused on the local news for a minute before continuing until he finally settled on a sports channel. The Dallas Mustangs were playing, and he had money on them.

  “Hello.”

  “Mi amor.” Juan smiled. The sound of his wife’s voice was refreshing. “Hello, my love. How are you?”

  “Tired. Diego had soccer practice and insisted we take the team out for pizza afterward. Do you know how hard it is to wrangle seventeen eight-year-old boys?”

  Juan chuckled, imagining the scene. “Is he there?”

>   Alicia released a sigh into the phone, and Juan pictured her crossing the Calacatta marble flooring he’d brought in simply because she saw it used on a luxury home improvement show. His wife had impeccable—but expensive—taste. And he loved indulging her.

  “He’s taking his bath. I will bring him to the phone when he’s done, but first I want to hear about your day.”

  Vincent James, the star receiver for the Mustangs, made a touchdown, putting the score in their favor and guaranteeing a payout. Juan barely smiled. “My work is boring and not worth the breath to repeat it.”

  “Then why do you stay? Quit. Come home. We can move into one of those tiny log homes up in the mountains, and I will make jam or something. Maybe tamales?”

  The image of his wife in a plaid shirt, her long hair pulled back with strands framing her face, folding masa and red chile into cornhusks, made him smile—and long to draw her into his arms. “Would you really give up your Pilates classes and mommy-group lunches for me?”

  “Amor, you make me sound pretentious.”

  Juan turned off the television and closed his eyes. “Not you.”

  Alicia laughed, and the melodious sound sparked an internal warming that reminded him just how long he’d been away from her. “How about when I return home, you and I escape to one of those islands with the little huts in the middle of the azure seas? The ones you have to take a boat just to get to? And we can make plans for our cabin in the woods.”

  “Mmm, that would be lovely,” Alicia wistfully whispered into the phone, and he wondered if she missed him as badly as he missed her. “Ah, here is your son. Diego, your father is on the phone.”

  “Bonjour, Papa.”

  Juan sat forward. “Have you begun your French classes, mijo?”

  “Oui, Papa, but I don’t know very much yet.”

  “But you will and then you will be able to speak the language of sophistication.”

  “Que es soph . . . sophisti—”

  “Sophistication,” Juan said it again, slowly. “And in English, please. Or French,” he added with a smile. “Sophistication means confidence. When you speak English, and soon French, you show your friends that you have confidence.”

  “Why not Spanish?”

  Juan inhaled deeply. His son had yet to learn that many in this world had a polluted opinion of those who spoke his mother language. Alicia, with her tanned skin and chocolate-colored eyes, had enchanted Juan the second he saw her. Diego had been gifted his mother’s beautiful Hispanic features, but along with it—the long history of prejudice.

  “Spanish is in your heart, Diego. One day when you are a man, you will be able to win the adoration of a beautiful woman with the language of soul.”

  “Eww, Papa. Girls are gross.”

  “You won’t always feel that way.” Juan laughed. “Now, tell me about your soccer game this weekend. Are you going to win?”

  “Will you be there?”

  The ache in his chest was palpable. “I am sorry, mijo, but I have work—”

  “For how long?” Diego whined. “You’ve already missed two games, and all the other dads come and help my friends warm up on the field before the game starts. I only have Victor.”

  “And is he good?” Juan asked, thinking of the aged driver he had hired for Diego and Alicia. “Does he know how to do a jump cut?”

  “No. He’s old. And out of shape. He said I should play golf.”

  “Golf is a good idea.”

  “No, Papa, that’s boring.” Diego whined again. “When are you coming home?”

  Juan’s cell phone beeped with an incoming call. He pulled it from his ear to check the ID, and when he saw the nameless number, he scowled.

  “Soon, my boy, but for now I must work. Give your mom a kiss for me and tell her to stop watching those shows about log cabins.”

  “Okay, Papa.”

  The disappointment in Diego’s voice could gut him like nothing else. “I love you, mijo. Remember, everything I do is for you and your mother.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The incoming call beeped again in his ear. “I love you, Diego.”

  “I love you too, Papa.”

  The call with Diego ended and Juan stared at his cell phone, not sure he wanted to answer the incoming call. He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the phone. If he didn’t answer, there would be trouble. And that was the last thing he needed.

  “Señor.”

  “You’ve kept me waiting.”

  “My apologies.” Juan pushed himself off the couch and stalked down the narrow hallway he shared with the cockroaches. “A situation has come up at work.”

  Of the two depressing bedrooms, he had turned the smaller one into an office of sorts. His steps creaked across the floorboards until he was at his desk. He pulled out the chair and sat.

  “I hope it will not keep you from doing your job?”

  Juan looked up at the board on the wall, his eyes moving across the pictures and notes until they stopped on her face. “No.”

  “Then why have you not obtained the target?”

  Fisting his hand, Juan leaned back, his chair squeaking. “I understand your urgency—”

  “You understand nothing of my urgency!”

  Juan pulled the phone from his ear. “Lo siento, Señor.”

  “I am paying you well, am I not? I brought you on because I trusted you and there is loyalty between us. You have proven yourself invaluable to the business, but do not think you cannot be replaced. That you are beyond my . . . reach.”

  Tension threaded into the muscles along Juan’s back, and his hands shook. He was not as afraid of Señor’s threat as he should have been. All Juan had to do was open a paper back home to see the handiwork of his boss’s attempt to regain control of what—Juan’s eyes flashed to her photo—she did.

  No. It wasn’t fear—it was rage.

  Where one man had led with respect, his successor led with intimidation and insolence. Both were equally violent, but Juan owed his allegiance to the former and he was gone.

  As calmly as he could, Juan chose his next words carefully. “Señor, I promise you will have her.” He rocked his chair backward and forward, allowing the rhythmic squeak to soothe his temper. “But you must allow me to do the job you entrusted to me—my way. If not, then you might as well call the American police and give them your address.”

  A string of curses filled his ear until Señor finally took a breath. “Escúchame,” he demanded. “El tiempo se acaba.”

  The line went dead, and Juan set his phone on the desk. Yes, he would listen to Señor, but time was not running out—it was on his side. Juan stood and ran his thumb over the brown eyes staring back at him from the photo.

  Time was on his side, and he would deliver.

  SIX

  ROUND TWO.

  Today had to be better than yesterday. Pecca was determined to make sure that it was. Whatever it took, she was going to win Captain Colton Crawford over . . . or at least make up for her massive blunder.

  Pecca took a deep breath and stepped into the gym. She released it when she found the room empty. Colton wasn’t there yet. She looked to the spot she’d found him the day before—shirtless.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Pecca shoved the image out of her mind. Or tried to, anyway. It was proving to be as difficult to do as it was to get Maceo to eat his vegetables. Probably didn’t help that after she got her son into bed last night, she spent hours searching the internet trying to get as much information as she could regarding movement disorders and what kind of therapy would help while an especially steamy episode of The Bachelor played in the background.

  Pecca had sensed Colton’s frustration at the end of his session yesterday and knew that if he was frustrated with his inability to do something, it would decrease his willingness to keep trying. It was a familiar cycle she’d experienced with Maceo as he continued to adjust to his prosthetic.

  What she learned last night—besides how stupid
easy it was to pull up a shirtless Colton in her mind when she was watching The Bachelor—was that body weight exercises, stretching, and aqua therapy were beneficial to patients with Parkinson’s, chorea, and dyskinesia. And those were the most relatable diagnoses to Colton’s PMD.

  She had started to set out the TheraBands when she heard the door open and Colton walked in. Pecca swallowed. A flush of warmth fired up in her cheeks. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” he grumbled, his lips barely moving beneath his beard.

  Ah, he wasn’t a morning person. That was okay. She could do this. Pecca put on her biggest smile. “I spent all night researching a bunch of exercises that I think you’re going to like. I want you to take it easy, not push yourself too hard as you get used to the routine. Then if you’re up to it, I suggest we add a workout session at the pool in the afternoons.”

  Colton glanced toward the French doors and back. “Fine.”

  Fine? Was he purposely trying to be difficult? His arm jerked, and Pecca was riddled with guilt. The man was dealing with his own issues. If he didn’t jump up and down for joy because of her late night, was she really going to think badly of him because of it?

  Suddenly, the image of him jumping up and down, clapping his hands like a giddy cheerleader, came to mind and she almost laughed out loud. Swallowing the giggle, she steeled her expression and pointed to the colorful rubber tubing lined up on the floor.

  “We’ll start with the resistance bands.”

  Colton eyed the bands with disdain.

  “I promise you’ll feel it but not too bad,” she added quickly when she saw his expression sour. “Just enough to know it’s working, and I promise it won’t be as bad as being taken down by a girl.”

  Pecca froze. Had she really just said that? Colton’s hazel eyes shifted to her and she braced herself for his severe stare, only it wasn’t there. And was that . . . ? There was a little lift to the edge of his lips. Was that the start of a smile?

  Inexplicably, her heart swooped inside her chest and she smiled. Maybe round two was going to be better. She pulled a tiny remote from her pocket and clicked a button, and the large speakers mounted in the corners of the room came to life with a thumping beat. “Let’s get started.”