Silent Shadows

by Natalie Walters

  “Bearding?” Pecca snorted and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Did she really just do that? She spun on her heel in the direction of the minifridge, not wanting Colton to see the embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “How do you feel?”

  “Bad.”

  She peeked over the counter. “You do?”

  “About nailing you with the ball, yes.”

  “I already told you it’s fine. I’m pretty sure I hit you harder the day we met.”

  Colton pressed his lips together. “Not my finest moment.”

  “Mine either.” Pecca couldn’t help smiling at his phony posture of defeat. “Guess that makes us even.” She held up a bottle of water. Colton nodded and she tossed it at him, grateful when he caught it. “Nice.”

  “I’d never thought about forcing my hand to respond naturally.”

  “Hard to do if you’re thinking about it.” Pecca walked back. “The idea is that you don’t think about it. Don’t think about getting your hand to move in a specific way—just allow it to move.”

  Colton used his teeth to open the bottle of water. “What other things can we do like that?”

  Pecca twisted her lips, thinking. She peeked outside and caught the reflection of the swimming pool. “Well, you’ve already started swimming. That’s kind of the same thing.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes met his. “When you jump in the water, your body’s natural instincts kick in to keep you from drowning.”

  “That’s true.”

  He nodded, and it was unnerving how he could make her heart beat in a rhythm—rhythm!

  “Do you know how to dance?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Dance, you know”—she twisted her hips from side to side—“dance.”

  “I’ve taken a girl two-stepping before.”

  “That’s great, but I think . . .” Pecca grabbed the little remote and started flipping through the satellite radio for the perfect station. Trumpets trilled against the staccato beat of the familiar music thumping through the speakers, making Pecca move her hips instinctively. “We need something that doesn’t require you to think.”

  Colton shook his head, his eyes wide. “I-I don’t know how to dance salsa.”

  “You don’t dance salsa, you feel salsa.” Pecca grabbed Colton’s hands, but his right arm jerked so badly that she had to lightly take hold of his wrist. “Just let the rhythm move your body naturally.”

  Skepticism colored his hazel eyes, but she ignored it—and the warning that having him this close was a bad idea. Instead, she danced. Rolling her shoulders and bringing his arms up in the air, she let the music move her. Colton stood there like his feet were glued to the ground.

  “Come on.” She put her hands on his hips and then pulled them back when she realized what she’d done. “Sorry, may I, um . . .”

  Licking his lips, Colton nodded.

  Pecca put her hands on his hips, feeling his muscles tense at her touch. She started moving again, but Colton remained rigid. Okay. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She stepped back just as the song shifted into the pulsating melody. Time for drastic measures.

  With as much gusto as she could muster, Pecca busted out her best moves. The running man. Cabbage Patch. She slid her hands to her hips and shuffled to her right, and then her left, and was about to moonwalk when Colton burst out laughing.

  Breathing hard, she looked up at him, meeting his smile with her own. “You think you can do better?”

  “I’m sure Gunny can do better.”

  She shot him a look. “But can you?”

  Colton stood there for a second before his feet started to move side to side, matching the beat of the music. His eyes stayed trained on her, and she mirrored his movement. It took a minute, but soon Colton’s body loosened up and she could see the rhythm travel through his body. His hips swayed, his shoulders bounced—even his arms swung in a controlled manner.

  It was working.

  And then the music transitioned into a romantic ballad. Pecca and Colton both stopped but neither stepped away.

  “What if we try again?” Colton asked, stepping so close she could smell the laundered scent of his shirt.

  He picked up her right hand with his left and placed it on his shoulder. Her pulse throbbed. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he glanced at his right arm, but Pecca quickly put her left hand over his shoulder and a look of gratitude filled his face.

  He placed his left hand on her hip, and as the singer crooned about his love with every strum of the guitar, Colton let the music move him, guiding her body with his. He wasn’t half bad. In fact, with every sway, she found herself liking the feel of his arms around her, his body close. Her breathing faltered. When was the last time she felt like this?

  He’s my patient. The thought was barely discernible over the fluttering in her chest. Fluttering that Pecca worried Colton might feel, they were so close.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t know there was anyone in here.”

  Colton and Pecca quickly stepped apart, her hands slipping from his shoulders. They turned to see Gunny ambling toward them.

  “Hey, Gunny.” Heat flared into her cheeks as she clicked the remote, cutting off the music. “I was, um”—she glanced at Colton, whose cheeks were as red as hers felt—“dancing. I was using dance therapy with Colton, but we’re done now.”

  “Sign me up,” Gunny said with a slap to his leg. “You’ve been holding out on me, Hot Tamale.”

  Pecca rolled her eyes and turned to Colton. “Don’t forget aqua therapy this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there.” Colton gave her a half smile before grabbing a towel. He passed Gunny, and the man chuckled.

  “Sorry about that, Cap.”

  Colton glanced over his shoulder and pierced Pecca with a look that said maybe he’d felt something too. A look that had Gunny chuckling even more.

  A look that . . . lit a fire.

  TWELVE

  THEY WERE SAFE.

  Colton picked up his pace as he rounded the corner to the next street, which would take him behind Pecca’s home and in the direction of the Mansion. It had taken him a few wrong turns and some backtracking to figure out the best route to her house from the Mansion, but now that he’d found it, the route had become part of his nightly run. He felt responsible to ensure that she and Maceo made it home safely.

  The nightly run also allowed him the opportunity to recon the neighborhood, get familiar with it so he’d be able to recognize if something was out of the ordinary. It had been only a few days, but Colton hadn’t heard a single thing about the incident. There had been some whispering around town, concern that maybe some of the crime in Savannah might be stretching closer to home. Sheriff Huggins and Charlie were careful to hedge those rumors with assurances they were doing their jobs and would find answers. But what would they find? A raucous small-town resident who should be banned from owning guns or something more menacing?

  His intuition still leaned toward a threat, but where was the intel to back it up? Colton crossed Ford Avenue, sensing the heaviness of his thoughts. It didn’t help that his feelings had become involved. He instantly remembered their session that had somehow ended with Pecca in his arms—dancing. He could still feel the sway of her body next to his, the heat of her touch lighting something in him he hadn’t been able to ignore or extinguish.

  Just like the threat against her and Maceo.

  Colton cut through town, jogging past brick buildings bearing plaques dating from the late 1800s. The glass storefronts, colorful awnings, and iron lampposts reminded him of his grandparents’ hometown near Fort Worth.

  Walton wasn’t a big city, but it was far from the Podunk town he had imagined. Before moving here, he’d done an internet search and learned Henry Ford used to winter in town with his family. He also learned that in recent months Walton had seen a couple of bad passes with the murder of a teenager and the near death of some actor, which meant it wasn’t a stretch
to assume the nature of the shooting might be more sinister.

  Was Pecca’s ex coming after her? Would the South Side Barrio send someone to find her and Maceo? What lengths would they go to? And why would they shoot at her? He didn’t have enough intel. Nothing he could properly analyze and—

  Colton slowed down.

  What was he doing? It was like his instincts were trying to make up for lost time, or maybe he was attempting to prove he still had what it took. That his arm movements hadn’t stolen everything from him.

  Finding a park bench, Colton sat. His arm jerked, and he swallowed back the frustration. His session with Pecca had been . . . encouraging. She had been right. His arm moved instinctively when necessary. It had given him confidence. Progress. Then it all slipped away inside Chaplain Kelly’s office. Once again the movements and muscle spasms made it impossible to keep the wires on his fingers. Why wasn’t it working? Maybe he could increase his medications? His doctor at Reed said the prescription was as needed. He could take up to three a day, but the doctor warned that there was a chance he could develop a dependency issue—and that scared Colton. But the movements in his arm scared him more. Not getting a chance to do the therapy he’d moved here for scared him. If he wasn’t going to get better, then what was the point? He might as well pack up and head back to Texas—and do what?

  His phone chirped in his pocket, snapping Colton out of his pity party. He considered letting it go to voicemail but remembered he was waiting for a call.

  “Hey, Uncle Jack.”

  “Colton, how are you, son?”

  Hearing his uncle’s familiar weathered voice felt like a balm of comfort, and Colton’s body relaxed against the wood slats of the bench.

  “I’m . . .” Colton flexed his hand. He knew whatever he said to his uncle would be reported back to his parents. Though they hadn’t said so, Colton knew they were just as hopeful as he was that his stay at Home for Heroes was going to lead to recovery. He didn’t want to let them down. “I’m well.”

  A second passed, and Colton heard his uncle sigh. It was his way. Never one to speak when silence spoke louder. And his uncle’s silence was hurting Colton’s ears.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I called?”

  “You made a decision?”

  Colton squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a breeze pass over. The scratchy sound of leaves shuffling over the ground in front of him filled his ears, and if he tried hard enough, he could imagine himself sitting along the Brazos River, Uncle Jack next to him as they overlooked the ranch.

  Colton opened his eyes and peered down at his arm again. How many more things would this disorder steal from him? “I-I don’t think . . .” He didn’t want to say the words aloud, fearing that the second he released them into the air, they would drift away on the breeze and be impossible to get back.

  He exhaled. “My treatment isn’t going as well as I’d hoped.” Better to admit that than to admit he’d have to let another one of his dreams disappear. “My movements haven’t gotten any better, Uncle Jack.”

  “It’s only been a few days.” Uncle Jack gave a soft chuckle. “You’re a go-getter, son, but even Lazarus had to die before the Lord could do his work.”

  Colton blinked. “That’s a bit morbid.”

  “I’m just saying that the best miracles come when all hope seems out of reach.”

  “It’s gonna take a miracle, alright,” Colton grumbled. “I just hope it comes to me before it did Lazarus.”

  “We all die different kinds of deaths, Colt, but they all lead to one truth. Do you trust him enough to bring you back to life?”

  Colton bit back on his molars. He wasn’t in the mood for a sermon and was rather surprised to hear it coming from Uncle Jack. Unlike his parents, Uncle Jack preferred a more thoughtful approach, speaking when he felt it was . . . important.

  Sighing, Colton sat forward. “Uncle Jack, thanks for calling me back. I have a favor to ask. I need some help finding information on a prisoner at Buckner.”

  “Buckner, huh?” Colton imagined his uncle scratching his chin, which made him do the same. He had more than a day’s growth and the barber would be coming tomorrow. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. There was a, uh . . .” Colton considered the effects of what he was going to say. Uncle Jack had retired a little more than five years ago from a lifetime of service as a Texas Ranger, but his mind was still sharp. Asking about a prisoner would warrant questions Colton would have to answer. “There was a shooting the other night. Three shots. Sniper style. The intended target has a connection to Javier Torres, a member of the South Side Barrio, who is currently serving a fifteen-year sentence for aggravated robbery.”

  Uncle Jack whistled. “Fifteen years?”

  “A woman was killed,” Colton said. “Another member of the SSB shot her. Javier is up for parole, and there’s suspicion members of the gang might be looking for his ex-girlfriend to testify on his behalf.”

  “Seems like you have a lot of information already,” Uncle Jack said. “You get that from one of your friends?”

  Colton, understanding the implication, grinned. “Yes, sir, but he ran into a wall. He was only able to draw a limited amount of information on Javier, mostly about the crime that landed him in prison. Nothing personal.”

  “And for your friend, that would be impossible. Him not having access to . . . everything.”

  “Yes, sir.” As a Texas Ranger, Uncle Jack understood the integrity behind intelligence.

  “I have a buddy whose son is a prison guard at Clemmons. He might be able to get me access to the warden at Buckner, but I have a suspicion that if your friend couldn’t get you what you want—”

  “I understand, Uncle Jack. I appreciate your help.”

  “Sure, son. Now, if you have a minute, I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  Before his uncle even spoke the words, Colton knew what was coming. The ranch.

  “Frank’s expressed interest in purchasing the land. Wants to expand his property and asked if we’d be willing to sell.”

  Sell? Colton’s gut twisted. He thought about the money he had sitting in his account—the money he’d saved through every deployment. He’d intended to have enough to purchase the property from his grandparents so he could—

  The dream stopped at the tip of his thoughts.

  “Is it a good offer?”

  “He hasn’t made an official one yet. I was hoping I wouldn’t need to consider an offer from outside the family.”

  Colton’s grandparents owned fifty acres of pastureland a few miles north of McKinley. Growing up, he had spent every summer there riding horses, fishing the Brazos, learning how to care for the land. He even brought Vincent James there so they could perfect the Saint James Fake. Every stargazing night, Colton let himself imagine a future there.

  He snorted. There was no future there now. Not for him. Not when he could barely take care of himself, much less fifty acres. Asking Uncle Jack to dismiss a genuine offer would be unfair to his family.

  “If it’s good”—Colton stood—“take it.”

  Silence passed between them, and Colton appreciated it. Uncle Jack wasn’t eager to accept the truth, but there was no other choice. Colton was learning to accept it, and his uncle would have to as well.

  Colton inhaled deeply. It was getting dark, and he needed to take his next dose of medicine if he had any hope of getting to sleep. “So, you’ll let me know if you find out anything new?” If his uncle wanted to avoid the truth or hang on to some kind of Lazarus-worthy hope, he could. “I’ll send you an email with the information.”

  “I will.” A bit of defeat was in Uncle Jack’s voice. “We’re praying, son.”

  Emotion tightened Colton’s throat so that he was barely able to whisper, “Yes, sir.”

  Ending the call, Colton started down the asphalt trail toward the Mansion. The weight of the conversation had sucked away any energy he’d had left. Next to his own father, Uncle Jack was the o
nly other person he wanted to make proud. After that call, Colton couldn’t help but feel like he’d somehow let him down.

  How was he supposed to take care of a ranch? Colton had gone over a dozen different scenarios. Even though his grandfather only used land for cattle and had a team of hired workers to help, he still got up every morning before sunrise to supervise operations and pitch in where he could. Colton broke out in a sweat trying to tie his shoes.

  The shrill sound of a whistle drew Colton’s attention to the large field on the other side of the street. Beneath the bright field lights two groups of kids, one in blue jerseys and the other in red, were huddled on opposite sides of the field. Parents standing or sitting in folding chairs watched as coaches relayed plays to kids who looked too small for the shoulder pads and helmets they wore.

  Was he ever that small?

  Colton paused by the chain-link fence and watched them practice a single sweep formation and was impressed that more than half the kids ran in the right direction. Another whistle blew and the boys ran to their coach, who passed out high fives, along with words of encouragement to those who nailed the play and instruction to those who needed it. He thought about Maceo and the explanation behind his suspension. Twenty-plus years separated them, but he had no problem identifying with the anger and frustration of being told you couldn’t do something.

  Was there a way for Maceo to play football? Pushing back from the fence, Colton left the young footballers behind and started back on his way. There was something about being on a team. Having a brotherhood of friends with a singular focus.

  The crunch of leaves beneath his steps gave way to the soft carpet of grass in front of the Mansion. A few hours ago, Colton witnessed Maceo throw a beautiful spiral. The kid had talent, but more than that he had determination. Colton didn’t want to see that kind of spirit crushed because of some kid named Tobey.

  He was almost to the front porch when an idea came to him. One that had him turning around to take in the lawn and picture the possibility. Maybe there was a way to get Maceo on a team. It just wouldn’t be what he expected.