by Keary Taylor
He doesn’t look up at me. His concentration is on that nail he’s hammering into the old roof that I am assuming started leaking.
They’re just chickens. They could step out of the drips if they didn’t want to get wet.
I didn’t ask him to fix the leak. I didn’t even know it was there.
But Lake went ahead and started repairing it. Without being asked to do so. During a downpour.
The muscles flex and stiffen under his soaked shirt. He really is a beast. Not someone I’d ever want to go up against. His hands work sure and confident. But there’s a softness to his face. He looks at ease. The line that I’ve realized is always between his brows isn’t there.
Suddenly Lake’s eyes flicker to me for just a moment, and he does a little double take before holding my eyes.
We look at each other for five long seconds.
Who is Lake McCain, and how did he come to be in my life?
I’m the first to look away. I close the door behind me and walk for the house, the rain pelting down on me.
My heart rate has picked up by the time I reach the door and step inside. My eyes slide closed for a moment, but they keep replaying that scene of Lake standing in the rain behind my lids.
“I’ll have dinner done by five,” Mom says as she steps out of her room, changed into a pair of jeans and a casual shirt. “Make sure you let Lake know what time we’re eating, after you get changed.”
“’K,” I say, grateful she doesn’t notice how I’m slightly out of breath and functioning about as well as a drunk turkey.
I walk across the kitchen and head up the stairs.
I change into jeans and an oversized knit sweater. My hair, which has been laying straight down the middle of my back, gets twisted into a knot at the back of my head. The same hairstyle I wear most every day.
The sound of rain lessens, and I cross to my window and look out toward the barn.
Lake seems to have finished his job of temporarily fixing the roof of the coop. He crosses to the garage and stays in there for a few minutes. I assume he’s putting tools away. A bit later, he walks back outside, crossing to the stairs of his apartment. He heads inside just as the rain stops.
I sink into the chair. My feet prop up on the same desk I’ve had since we moved into the house when I was fifteen. I chew on my lip and slowly swivel myself side to side.
I grab Cal’s picture that sits on my desk in its simple white frame.
He’s wearing a full battle uniform, smiling at the camera. He holds an assault rifle in one hand and standing next to him are three Iraqi children. The picture was taken on his second tour. The first tour he went on after we met.
It was two years ago when I went to the party with Julianna. My best friend and the only other person who loved horses as much as I did; she was into cowboys and loved to drink and party with them. Some of her friends from down in Redmond were having a bonfire party for someone’s birthday and we were invited.
It was on the edge of town, in someone’s backyard. The fire was huge, the music loud, and the alcohol plentiful. And there were a good fifty people in attendance.
I’m not a people person, and the scene was overwhelming. I hung on the outskirts, beer in hand, but for the most part, undrunk.
“I thought birthday parties stopped after you turned ten,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see a guy standing behind me, watching the scene. He had a beer in his hand as well, but his too was mostly still full. He was fairly tall, around six feet. His hair was sandy, styled forward but windswept. But it was his eyes that grabbed me. Intense and blue through the dim evening light.
“Looks like someone really likes attention still,” I said as he walked up to my side.
“Not really, but his buddies like any excuse to party,” he said, his expression slightly embarrassed.
“This is your party?” I said, trying to not give him a smirk. “How old are you now?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m twenty-five today.” He took a small drink. “But I just got home on leave, so they wanted to do a double celebration.”
I stiffened slightly, instantly recognizing the military cut hair and seeing the chain of dog tags around his neck that disappeared into his shirt. The military life isn’t an easy one, and no one knows it better than a “military brat.”
“How long you home?” I asked.
“Six weeks,” he said with the most charming smile I’d ever seen. “By the way, I’m Cal Richards.”
Six weeks later, Cal Richards and I were in love, deep and hard. I said I’d wait for him while he was on his next tour.
And I did. He came home nine months later for another six weeks.
Right in the middle of that, Cal asked me to marry him. I said yes.
He went on what was supposed to be his last tour. Nine more months and then he’d stay home with me. We’d spend our summer planning the wedding, get married, and he’d stay for forever and be my husband.
But just three months into that tour, I got the call.
I trace my finger over his face in the photograph. Cal was tough and a Marine. But he was also sweet and kind and so funny.
I look back out at Lake’s apartment and feel a twinge of jealousy. He’d gotten to spend time with Cal in those last days. He’d gotten to laugh and joke with him, while I was here, missing Cal like crazy.
My heart aches.
“Riley, have you invited Lake to dinner yet?” Mom’s voice carries up the stairs.
I look at the clock and realize I’ve just been sitting here for the last fifty minutes.
I walk down the stairs and the air smells heavenly. Mom’s had a roast in the crock pot since this morning, and I can tell there are rolls in the oven. “Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she says without looking at me. She’s busy with the food.
My rain boots are well-worn and threatening to leak, but I pull them on and open the back door. The rain has finished, but the ground is soggy and puddles are everywhere. The stairs creek as I walk up to the apartment.
I knock softly on the door and wait. When no one comes after a minute, I place my hand on the knob and push it open just a bit.
“Lake?” I call quietly. No reply.
I push the door open a bit more and step inside. I look back toward the bedroom. As far as I can see, it’s empty. And the door to the bathroom is open and the light off.
“Lake?” I call once more.
A soft snore pulls my eyes to the couch, and there I find him.
He’s changed into a pair of dry jeans, but that’s all he’s wearing. A thickly muscled arm is lying across his eyes, his other arm hanging down toward the floor. Bare feet hang over the arm of the couch.
His perfectly sculpted chest bears seven stars tattooed over his left breast.
His brows are furrowed, his expression concerned.
He’s a soldier who’s engaged in combat and he’s seen some horrible things. He saw Cal blown to pieces. I can only imagine the hell he must be seeing behind those lids right now.
I’m torn. I want to wake him from whatever nightmare I know he’s having. But I also know about PTSD and how dangerous it can to be to wake a soldier in this state.
His left shoulder twitches violently. His face winces.
“Lake,” I say, soft and gentle.
He gives a little twitch, like me calling his name entered his dream, but he doesn’t wake.
“Lake,” I say, this time louder. I keep my distance, standing by the door.
He jerks up from the couch, half sitting up. His right hand reaches for his hip, as if he’s searching for a sidearm. His eyes sweep the room and fix on me. They’re bloodshot and wide.
“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my tone even and calm. “It’s just me.”
His breathing is hard and fast and it takes a minute for him to calm down and realize he isn’t out on the battlefield, in the middle of a warzone.
“What do you want?” he asks. His voice is hard and flat.
<
br /> Soldiers don’t like admitting when they’re dealing with post-field issues. I’ve caught him in a moment of trauma, and he doesn’t like it.
“Mom’s just about got dinner ready and asked me to come get you,” I say. I’m not offended by his hard tone. I understand. “I’m sorry to wake you, but you looked like you were in a place you needed extraction from.”
He looks at me for another really long minute. Lake has the most impassive eyes. I can’t tell what’s going on behind them. Is he angry? Is he embarrassed? Indifferent? It’s impossible to tell.
“Yeah,” he finally replies. He climbs off the couch and walks to the bedroom. He looks over his shoulder at me just before he disappears behind the door. My eyes drop away from him, embarrassed to realize he’s just caught me staring and embarrassed for the fact that I was.
But who couldn’t admire a body like that?
Thirty seconds later, he walks out with a long sleeved shirt on and socks on his feet. He slips his boots on and we walk silently walk back to the house.
“How was your day?” Mom asks him as soon as we walk through the door. She’s just finished setting the table and laying all the food out.
“Fine, thank you for asking, Mrs. James,” he says. “Need a hand with anything?”
“I’ve got everything ready, just sit yourself down,” Mom says with a wink as she hangs her apron on its hook.
Lake and I sit on opposite ends of the table and Mom settles herself right in the middle. She offers grace, and we help ourselves to the food.
“So, Lake,” Mom says as she dishes herself some canned corn that came from the garden last year. She struggled to get it to grow all year, so she’s proud of the fifteen cans she did manage to get. “Tell me a bit about yourself. You grew up in Woodinville?”
Lake nods. “Yeah. Um, I graduated high school there. My dad just retired as the head football coach there last year. My brother teaches history at the high school.”
“How many siblings do you have?” Mom asks as she cuts her roll open and butters it.
He takes a second to swallow his bite. “Three,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Like I said, my brother teaches at the high school. Drake is the oldest. He’s been married for about seven years now, I think. He and Kaylee have four kids.”
“Ah,” Mom coos. “I bet your nieces and nephews love you.”
That lopsided smile forms on his face. His eyes actually light up. “Nieces, just one nephew. The two youngest girls are twins.”
“Adorable,” Mom says and places a hand over her heart.
Lake nods and pushes his potatoes around his plate. “Then there’s my sister, Sage. She and Julian got married almost a year and a half ago. They own part of this financial security company in Bellevue. I don’t really understand what it is they do for work, but they do really well with it.”
“Do you get along with your in-laws?” Mom asks.
Lake shrugs. “Julian’s alright. He’s kind of a huge nerd, but he’s got all these tattoos and looks like a bad boy, so I didn’t like him much the first time I found him in my sister’s bed. But he’s a good guy. He makes Sage happy. Kaylee’s great. She was actually one of my teachers my senior year.”
“That’s how they met?”
“Uh huh,” he says. He takes a bite of the roast and chews for a moment. He swallows. “Then there’s Kale. He just turned twenty-one five days ago.”
“The day you got home?” I ask, the first I’ve spoken since we were up in his apartment.
“Yeah,” he says with a little chuckle. His entire face lights up when he does that. He looks completely different. Younger, fun, carefree. “He’s actually a model. And he’s doing surprisingly well.”
“A model?” Mom asks with a chuckle.
Lake nods again. “You heard of Shurrock and Fantasy?”
“Who hasn’t?” I say. They’re only in the most expensive of malls and in places like Beverly Hills and New York, and scattered all across Europe. I’ll never be able to afford any of their clothes.
“He just signed a deal with them about six months ago. He’s kind of the face of the company now.”
“He’s the half-naked one on all their posters?” I ask as I raise an eyebrow.
“That’d be Kale,” he says with this somewhat embarrassed smile.
“He’s everywhere,” I say, setting my glass down.
“Like I said, he’s doing surprisingly well.”
He takes another bite, and I wait for him to continue. But he doesn’t.
Lake is a man of few words, but he’s just spent the last ten minutes talking about his family. Maybe even bragging a bit. He’s proud of them.
“They all sound wonderful,” Mom says, giving him a big smile.
I watch him as we all eat. I’m jealous. I always wondered what it’d be like to have siblings. I thought it would be nice to have an older brother. But being in the military is hard, and having kids when you’re in the military is even harder. So my parents had me and that’s all they ever wanted, they said.
But having three siblings and two in-laws? All with such diverse lives? It sounds amazing.
I go to bed that night, thinking way too much about Lake and his family.
CHAPTER FOUR
We go about our lives. I train. Mom talks to possible new clients. I take Radio on a quick trail ride before the storm rolls in. Lake works. He mucks stalls. Feeds the chickens. Repairs their roof. Changes the oil on the tractor. Mom tends her garden, takes care of the office stuff. Does whatever it is she does. She seems stressed out. Over what, I’m not sure, and she keeps brushing it off as nothing.
Tuesday night, just after I take the flag down, the rain starts. Just a drizzle at seven in the evening. It steadily gets heavier as the sky grows darker.
We have a truck full of sandbags delivered that afternoon. My own truck sits on the side of the garage to make room for it. The one load doesn’t seem like it could ever be enough for anything, but it’s the most we can afford right now.
Mom heads to bed around ten. I sit on the back porch long after it gets dark, my feet crossed at the ankles, watching the rain come down.
I can’t see a thing, but I can hear the small streams that are already forming and running through our property.
My phone rings. I fish in my pockets for it and check the ID. It’s a number I don’t recognize it. I answer it anyway.
“Hello?” I say absentmindedly. I’m worrying about what state we’ll find the ranch in come morning.
So it takes me a second to realize no one is on the other line.
“Hello?” I say again.
No one replies so I hang up.
The sound of rain pounding our metal roof makes my stomach sink. This isn’t going to be good. I think of the horses. Our house. Our hay supply. Everything that could get ruined with heavy flooding.
Sometime around midnight, I head inside. I’m too on edge to go up to my room, so I settle into the couch. I flop an arm over my eyes and try to ignore the sound of the pouring rain.
The crack of thunder pulls me sharply from sleep. I bolt upright from the couch.
Gray light has barely started creeping into the horizon. I search for the clock on the wall and it reads five-sixteen.
Just as I lie back down, there’s a horrendous screeching bay from the barn.
I bolt off the couch and ignore my shoes or a jacket. My bare feet slap through the rivers of rain and gravel as I dart for the barn.
I know horse sounds. I know when they’re hungry. I know when they’re fighting. I know when they’re scared of something.
And I know when they’re experiencing immense pain.
Lake rockets down his stairs, and we both burst into the barn at the same time.
“Trooper’s stall,” I say, nodding my head to his open gate. The door leading out to the pasture passage that runs between the barn and the indoor arena into the pasture, is busted open. We dart through it. And my stomach curls at the site
of blood and muscle and tissue.
Trooper shudders in the corner. His breaths come in ragged hisses, a sound I’ve never heard a horse make. He’s in pain.
Due to the gaping wound in his chest.
The fleshy, muscular part of his chest, the softest part of a horse, is ripped right open. Blood drips to the soggy ground. The exposed muscles twitch and shake.
“Looks like he reared up and came down on the post.”
It takes me a moment to pull out of my shock and register what Lake is saying.
He crosses over to a t-post, part of the fencing that leads out into the pasture, separating it from the indoor practice area. It’s leaning sideways, hard. There’s hair and blood sticking to it.
Trooper reared up, came down on the post, skewering himself, and then pulled back, ripping it right through his flesh and muscle.
“The storm,” I say, swallowing the bile creeping up my throat. “The storm must have freaked him out. I need…I need to call Dr. Wyze.”
“I’ll grab my phone upstairs,” Lake says. He places a hand on my arm for just a moment as he walks past me.
I take hesitant steps forward. And just when I’m three feet from him, lightning splits across the sky, illuminating the early dawn. The sound of thunder cracks just a second later.
Trooper rears up again, one of his hooves clipping me in the shoulder and knocking me to the ground. Mud splatters across my face and body. But I don’t notice any of it. I’m instantly back on my feet, reaching for the injured horse.
“Shh,” I coo to him. My face scrunches up in pain as I see the blood drip faster from his chest. “Come here boy.” I place a shaking hand on his neck and slowly run it over his soaked fur. “Come on.”
He shakes with each step. His entire body shudders. But he takes two steps and then four and we get back inside the barn to where it is dry.
Lake jogs toward me, extending out his cell phone. “I’ll get him back to his stall. You call whoever you need to call.”
I nod and walk toward the entrance of the barn as I dial Jesse’s number from heart.
