“I needed this so badly,” she said with a sigh, but the moment the words were out she regretted the dejection she’d hadn’t filtered from her voice. Purposefully, she brightened. “But, then, who doesn’t? Everyone should see this.”
“Everyone,” he agreed. “Some of those guys you helped tonight—they should see this. The one who most recently got home left Afghanistan nearly ten months ago, and I still don’t think he believes there are truly peaceful places left in the world. Everything is a fight to him.”
“Which one?” she asked.
“Brewster, the injured one.”
“The angry one.”
“Yes. But I don’t think even he could be angry in a spot like this. Look at those beauties—they don’t know an IED from an Iraqi school boy—all they care about is pure life and living.”
“I don’t know. They struggle to survive, too.” Something prickled through the night air, something electric between her, Gabriel, and the wild horses that made her as bold as the stallion allowing his band to stand so bravely close to potential enemies. “Iraqi school boy,” she said. “The boy in the pictures at your house is more important than you let on.”
He stiffened, and she didn’t try to coax him out of the reaction. The worst thing he could do would be to get angry or ignore her, and there wouldn’t be much new in that. But he did neither. Instead he inclined his head slightly toward hers. “This trip. You didn’t just decide to change your schedule for your sister.”
The prickling in the air increased until it felt as if it came from her face, heating everything around her with embarrassment. She’d dreaded telling anyone how badly she’d blown her much-touted master plan. Now here she was, faced with lying to save face or telling the truth to the only person in Wyoming she’d fantasized would one day acknowledge her success and expertise.
“I lost the job,” she said in a rush.
The words only stung a moment before a strange new sensation flowed through her veins from the touch of his hand taking hers. He wrapped his fingers around her hers and squeezed.
“That’s okay,” he said quietly. “I lost the boy.”
Chapter Eleven
LOST THE BOY?
Gabe could not believe he’d uttered those words to anyone, let alone Amelia Crockett. She had gone over his head like a tattling kindergartner when she’d been unimpressed with his actions in the past. How much of a disaster would his reputation be once she wheedled this whole story out of him? And she would.
And yet . . . His pulse slowed and his immediate panic dissipated. This was the woman who’d just counseled one of his men to lie if he had to—the Amelia Crockett he didn’t yet have figured out. Somewhere in the midst of their mutual admissions to one another he’d taken her hand, and she hadn’t pulled it away. Out in the distance stood some of the most amazing creatures he’d ever seen. The combination of all that had pulled a confession out of him as easily as a dose of sodium pentothal. Or a unicorn’s spell.
Damn.
He tried to free his hand, but she gripped it in both of hers with sudden, surprising tenacity. “Tell me,” she said. “It’s okay. The story will never leave this spot. Tell me about losing a boy.”
Hearing the words come back at him, he winced. It wasn’t as if he’d never told the story—he’d gone through his own months of denying that he’d needed help all those years ago after returning from Iraq, just as his guys were going through it now. He’d finally submitted to counseling, finally learned to accept that the incident wasn’t his fault, finally allowed himself to move ahead with his life. But his out-of-the-blue declaration that he’d lost Jibril, and his reaction to Amelia’s request now, proved he’d never truly let himself off the hook.
“Jibril al Raahim,” he said, “the boy you saw in the pictures, was exactly who I said he was—a kid who lived just outside the Green Zone in Baghdad where I was stationed for three tours. He was also a kind of self-appointed sidekick the last eighteen months I was there. I,” he hesitated only a moment and forged ahead. “I stretched more than a few rules when it came to Jib.”
“Did he have a family? Or was he the equivalent of homeless? What was his story?” Amelia’s questions held all the intensity of a digging journalist and yet carried a note of genuine interest.
“He had a large family: seven siblings, uncles and aunts, a loving mother, and a very strict father who was a good man. I met them all. But Jibril had a fascination for all things American, and I showed him everything he wanted to see. By the time I figured out he was a little parasite, he’d gotten his pincers into me, and I’d taken a liking to him.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Amelia asked.
“We were supposed to be friendly and helpful and ‘make friends’ with the locals, but we weren’t supposed to adopt them. Jibril, though . . . do you know what his name means in Arabic?” She shook her head. “Archangel of Allah. The Angel Gabriel. He had my name and vice versa. He believed that meant we were brothers.”
“I find that heartwarming.” She smiled.
“Yeah. Well, in the end, his family didn’t. First he begged me to teach him English. Then he wanted to know about baseball and baseball cards. Pretty soon it was the music the soldiers listened to. I didn’t take all of this seriously enough. To me it was harmless fun, a few hours here and there. Until the last day I saw him.”
A familiar squeeze started in his chest, the one that made it a little harder to breathe. He’d learned not to fight it.
“I’m sorry.” Amelia’s apology surprised him. “I shouldn’t have made you tell this story. It sounds like it has a bad ending.”
“That’s just it.” He gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. One morning he brought ten friends, brothers, and cousins to a sandy old neighborhood park so I could teach them all how to play baseball. We never knew when IEDs would turn up, and we certainly didn’t know about the one an insurgent had placed in a trash can in the park. It went off right behind our makeshift third base while I and one of my squad buddies were chasing after a well-hit ball.”
“Oh, God, the kids.” Amelia squeezed his hand more tightly.
“Four children were killed—that’s what we knew for certain. None of the ones we saw were in the group playing with us. They were just watching. As best we could tell, our group scattered. In the chaos, the smoke, the fires, we searched but when we couldn’t find them, we assumed they were all right. Our job at that point was to secure the scene, so we had to finish working. Hours later, I went looking for Jibril but he was nowhere to be found, nor was his family. Their house was abandoned.”
“How is that possible?”
“It’s a question that’s haunted me for eight years. According to neighbors, Jibril and a cousin died, and their grieving families snatched them from the scene so the evil Americans couldn’t touch them. They buried the boys, shunned the town because the military was based there, and they left within hours.
“According to others, though, Jibril didn’t die, but his parents were angry, specifically with me, because I’d seduced him. They spirited him away so I couldn’t find him. I looked for him and his family for months but never found a trace. I had to believe he was alive because nobody was angry enough to tell my superior officers that he wasn’t. Iraqi parents mourn their children very hard, and they will lay blame on the murderer of their sons.”
“But you don’t truly know to this day if he lived or died?”
“That’s right. I lost him.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Gabe. You’d have known if he’d died.”
“The thing is, even if he didn’t it was my fault his family moved away—left their life and everything they knew. All because I insisted on getting too close.”
“You could look for him now. Have you ever tried?”
“I think about it all the time, but why would I do that? I caused him enough trouble.”
“Or, maybe you gave him some culture and understanding he’s never forgotten.”
“Believe me, over the years I’ve learned that I got a lot more from him than I ever could have given. I thought he was clinging to me, but it was really me trying to turn him into a piece of home.”
“Come on,” she chided him gently. “That sounds wrong on the face of it. There’s a lot more to your story than what you’ve told me.”
“Of course—eighteen months of complicated story. But you’ve got the gist of it.”
He turned his head forward again and placed his right hand behind his head. A quick glance assured him the mustangs still grazed within sight.
“Enough about me,” he said. “Your turn. Spill it about the job.”
He tried to make light of the heavy atmosphere, and she gave a smile that made a better grimace.
“There’s not much to tell. I fully expected to get the job. Everyone who pointed me to it, helped me prepare for it, and had anything to do with hiring for it, knew exactly what my goals and plans were. I was the best qualified and the only logical choice. And they gave it to a second-year resident.”
The matter-of-factness that seeped slowly into her voice as she spoke turned her tone into the one he remembered from months before—harder, more defensive, perhaps slightly entitled. But he knew her better now, and although it was no more than a guess, he believed something other than ego and self-importance fueled these bouts.
“I’m really sorry, Amelia. That sucks. What reason did they give?”
She seemed surprised by his sympathy. One hollow laugh filled the space between them.
“I’m bad with people,” she said.
The blunt answer honestly took him by surprise. “Well, that’s a load of bull crap.”
“Or not.”
“Look what you just did for me—for my guys. That’s not the act of someone who’s bad with people.”
“I’m fine with patients.” Her voice only wound tighter.
“Weren’t you fine with Perry Landon? I know you were. He’s done nothing but sing your praises. He’s not a patient. Who told you this pile of nonsense?”
“No nonsense, Gabriel. No couched words or euphemisms. You know it’s true—I don’t have time for hospital politics or kissing up to people. You know I can be difficult. I don’t make excuses, though, and I don’t happen to think it was a valid reason to keep me from the job. Nonetheless, I didn’t get it and, further, it was suggested I needed to use a month of built-up vacation time. Me being here isn’t heroic. It’s my equivalent to being sent to the corner to think about what I’ve done.”
“What you’ve done is be very heroic to your people in Wyoming over the last twelve hours. Maybe you just don’t like New Yorkers.”
“After eight years? They’re practically my people.”
“I don’t know. I think your people are right here.”
They both settled back again, explanations as complete as they were going to be for the moment, secrets safe in the dark. They unclasped hands, the need for immediate comfort past, and for the next fifteen minutes they watched the mustangs wander as they grazed, moving farther away, ever in search of fresh forage. The Jeep’s hood had long since cooled beneath them, and the air chilled as the time crept toward ten o’clock. Amelia pulled the blanket more tightly to her chin. Gabe expected to feel her shiver next. Instead, a small, delicate stomach rumble emanated from beneath the plaid wool. She giggled.
“Sorry.”
“Man!” Understanding dawned. “We never ate dinner.”
“I haven’t been remotely hungry, but I’ve kept you from eating as well.”
“Believe me, if I’d thought of it nothing would have stopped me. I’m not one to miss meals voluntarily.”
“Proof of what a weird day this has been.” At last the shiver he’d awaited sent a quiver through her body. “I guess it’s time to head on,” she said. “I’m not on my own here—there are people actually waiting for me.”
“You need dinner first?”
“If I know anything about home, there’ll be food all over the place. You’re welcome to come in and scrounge with me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose on your family.”
“You couldn’t impose if you tried—I hear them talking about you, St. Gabriel. C’mon. I am hungry now, but I don’t want to head back the other direction just to find a restaurant.”
Gabriel had never been to Paradise Ranch. He’d heard tales of the enormous, fifty-thousand-acre spread and the influence its owners had once had in the area—like the fictitious Ponderosa spread of the old Bonanza television show. Today it was still one of the largest ranches in Wyoming, but modern ranching techniques now available to any rancher and an economy that favored nobody, made Paradise less of a powerhouse and more a revered old dynasty.
Gabe had done his homework when he’d become a patient advocate for the two injured Crockett women. Since Samuel Crockett, the last male heir to the ranch, had died just the past August, his six daughters shared ownership of Paradise. But only Harper and her fiancé had agreed to stay and make a go of the operation. Rumor had it that Sam had left the ranch in shaky financial condition and the future was still iffy.
Of course, he knew better than to base anything on rumor. And knowing the Crocketts as he was beginning to, he didn’t think he’d bet against any of them.
He leaned forward over the steering wheel and peered curiously out the windshield as he turned into the Paradise driveway and approached the main house. The massive log home they came upon definitely did justice to the ranch’s reputation, and it did its best to intimidate him. A massive porch, the full length of the house, stretched across the front. To the left of an imposing oak door were three full-sized picture windows, to the right was another. Two large gables jutted from the roof, and a massive addition grew from the left side of the main house. To a kid from a small city in Nebraska, this was a full-fledged mansion.
“Impressive,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.” Her voice had a muted quality to it, as if the sight of the house intimidated her, too, which made no sense, of course.
“You okay?”
“I usually feel zero nostalgia coming here. It’s not actually the house I grew up in—except for the last couple of years of high school. It feels warmer tonight, though. Based on how this day and night have gone, that shouldn’t surprise me, should it?”
“You’re tired.”
“I am that.”
Windows glowed like a Terry Redlin painting as Amelia led him up the front porch steps and to the huge door. She reached for the handle, and the door sprang open before she touched it.
“Mia!” In seconds she was enveloped in a huge hug from one of the triplets. Gabe looked past them and met Harper’s eyes. Behind her stood her fiancé, Cole Wainwright, much more relaxed and comfortable than he appeared when visiting the hospital. “We wondered where you’d gone. I’m so glad you’re back safely.”
“I was in good hands.” Amelia pulled free and smiled back at Gabriel.
His pulse hiccupped like a school boy’s.
“Gabe?” Grace noticed him and danced forward to offer the same warm hug. “This is a great surprise.”
“Come in,” Harper said. “Close the door and get warm. It’s nice to see you, Gabe. How’d you get taxi duty all the way out here?”
“It seemed silly to make anyone run back to get your mother in the middle of the night. I already had Amelia in the car, and this pays her back for the favor she did for me.”
“Trading favors. How modern. And awfully quick, you two.” Another triplet appear
ed and raised her eyebrows. From the innuendo, he assumed it was Raquel. Grace wasn’t one to leave the straight and narrow.
“Welcome to Paradise.” Cole held out his hand and scanned the women as Gabe shook. “Nice to have a little male reinforcement.”
“You’re a braver man than I am.” Gabe chuckled.
More hugs went around, including one between Cole and Amelia. There was supposedly a history between them, but Gabe didn’t know the details. He couldn’t imagine needing to know them, and yet curiosity made him study the embrace surreptitiously. It seemed easy and uncomplicated, even fond. As fond as the one between Amelia and Harper.
“You two look pretty comfortable already,” Amelia said. “I don’t ever remember an atmosphere like this when I’ve come home before. The place actually looks . . . lived in.”
“We love it here,” Harper said. “We’ve moved some things around, hung a few different paintings. Mom’s letting us leave unfinished books and magazines around.” She laughed. “I don’t stand on the ceremony Dad did.”
“God bless him,” Amelia said. “I know there’s a hole without him, but I do notice the difference.”
“Good,” Harper said simply.
Gabe’s introduction to Paradise couldn’t have been warmer or more impressive. Raquel and Grace sat him down with Amelia at a huge table in a dining room large enough to accommodate the entire Crockett family. Moments later, homemade potato soup and crusty slices of sourdough bread sat before them, the soup steamy, the bread warm and aromatic. Amelia sipped a glass of bright Chablis with her dinner. Gabriel was offered choices from beer to water. He took an IPA Cole recommended and didn’t think about the drive home. He was hungry enough now that the combo might as well have been the mythical ambrosia of the gods.
The rest of the family didn’t ignore them—they dragged chairs around the table and sat, gleaning stories from him and, less easily, from Amelia. He explained his project with the men, their penchant for sophomoric practical jokes, and Amelia’s examination of the cow hoof imprint in Brewster’s thigh.
The Bride Wore Red Boots Page 14
