And what had been her reaction to Rip’s unlikely greeting? She’d staggered back to her room lost in some zombie haze. It had taken her thirty seconds to assemble her gear for the ride—and ten minutes kneeling over the toilet puking her guts out until she was stopped by the sheer agony of being convulsively sick long after she’d emptied out her breakfast.
She still felt light-headed despite the long morning’s ride.
“Just glad it wasn’t me,” Patrick was still surveying the cliff as if trying to figure out how to film it for one of his movies. “Don’t know if I’d have survived it.”
Lauren looked around for somewhere to go, but it was just the five of them, their horses, and miles of wilderness. If her life came down to a moment like that, would she have survived? What had it taken Stan to face his dog again? To trust his very life to Bertram?
She couldn’t imagine how he’d done it.
Lauren wasn’t avoiding him, but neither was she cozying up.
That wasn’t how the script was supposed to run. Patrick decided that the bright side was that he’d been right about not going after Clara. That one single moment with Lauren had brushed aside any doubt.
And dropped a new load of doubts in its place.
By editing out the one scene and inserting another—another cheery romp in the high grass with a cheerfully willing ranch guest traded for a single kiss from the taciturn, emotionally chaotic heroine—he’d changed the entire course of the story. With a single gesture, he’d tossed out the familiar script of his life. So what came next?
He’d turned from telling Stan’s story of the waterfall adventure—which was so cinematic that he’d written it as three full pages in the Montana ranch screenplay he was no longer writing—to discover that he’d been talking to himself. Lauren had moved away to stand by Mack, the lucky old coot. They were chatting away about horses as if it was the only thing happening in the world.
He didn’t worry about Mack stepping into the hero role. First, it would be beyond a May-December romance and second, he knew that Mack and Nancy had been happily married for fifty-five years. But that knowledge didn’t harness his rampant imagination.
All through lunch his inner scriptwriter tried to stage a Harold and Maude moment, when it should be seeking an original story.
As they rode deeper into the Flathead Wilderness, he realized that had been the problem with his earlier films. They were all derivative. The African Queen and E.T. weren’t derivative. So how had Huston and Spielberg done it? Even Ron Howard’s Apollo 13—taken straight from real life—had avoided that curse.
Was his entire life derivative?
Billy Joel: just another boy out of Long Island.
Failed filmmaker: so utterly cliché.
Off-off-Broadway stagehand: never aspiring to the big houses around Times Square.
Right out of a John Denver song: seeking a Rocky Mountain High.
And finding it.
He loved the ranch. At least that didn’t feel derivative.
He looked around and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. He was presently leading the ride up the North Fork Deep Creek. Boulder-strewn, a couple of dozen feet wide, they were beyond trails. He led them time and again into the water when forest and cliff left him no choice.
Mack was the only other truly skilled rider, happily astride his favorite sorrel Morgan, Rambler. Emily wasn’t far behind, though it was clear that she hadn’t been born to horses. Of course neither had he, that’s how he recognized Emily’s few shortcomings.
Lauren had adapted so quickly that it was easy to discredit his first impression of her marginal competence. Michael rode well, but not happily. Still, when the trail opened up a bit, Patrick kept the pace slow. Riding hard over rough ground would be a skill neither soldier had yet learned.
Not another soul for miles around. Just the five of them and the wilderness.
In that moment, breathing in the pure air, listening to the creek bubbling its way down a small rapids, he knew that he’d never be leaving here. It wasn’t even a revelation, but rather simple truth.
And what did that mean about Lauren?
Back to New York. She’d made that goal absolutely clear.
The joy of the day slammed out of him. Yes, he loved the wilderness, but without Lauren in the heroine role, it would be such a disappointing ending.
Fix that, Mr. Director.
They were a mile farther upstream when the next piece finally connected.
Don’t be derivative.
“Always wanted to meet a woman like you,” Mack was smiling at Emily across their small campfire, the sole light other than the Montana stars. The sparks flicked briefly upward mingling smoke and the scent of pine into a heady mix.
They’d built the fire close beside a big boulder. A few convenient logs had been kicked into place as benches, but Lauren sat on the dirt with her back against the boulder and her legs stretched out into the darkness.
Then he turned to Lauren.
“Now I’ve met two right here. Can’t tell Nancy, even if she’s not the jealous sort.”
“Two of us?” Lauren knew Emily was special—didn’t take a genius to see that. But she couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would compare the two of them.
“Young, beautiful, competent—”
“Both of them a foot taller than you, Old Man,” Patrick teased him. It was clear that the two of them truly enjoyed each other’s company. Whatever else she might think of Patrick, he was a superior horseman. He also had that gift that she’d always lacked, an innate kindness that everyone could see so clearly that he was everyone’s instant friend.
She was no one’s friend. Service buddy, sure. But as a female dog handler in an all-male squad, that was the limit on the depth of her relationships with other Delta. There were female Deltas—a few of them—but they were more typically on undercover missions, pretending to be part of a couple. She and Jupiter had been embedded with a combat team. She’d never actually met another female Delta despite The Unit’s relatively small size. Delta Force conferences weren’t exactly a thing—no parallel equivalent to the Navy’s notorious Tailhook parties.
“A foot taller means there’s all the more of them to appreciate,” Mack continued unabashedly. Yet his eyes didn’t trace down either of their bodies. Instead, he aimed a saucy wink in her direction that Lauren didn’t know what to do with.
Like Patrick, it was impossible to not like the old man.
Like?
Is that what she felt for Patrick? If so, it was more than she’d felt for any particular man in a long time. She respected Michael, but the colonel was so daunting that like didn’t seem a fitting word. She liked Mark well enough, what little she knew of him. It was as if that segment of her emotions had been on hold for the duration of her military service.
She’d slept with men. Even enjoyed their company on occasion. But like? That was something else again.
She forced herself to look at Patrick. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she hadn’t—not all afternoon. Or through their slow evening in the makeshift camp beneath the stars.
His head was back, laughing—another emotion she’d lost track of somewhere overseas. He was telling some joke about an Irishman, a Jew, and an East Indian jumping out of a plane that even had Michael chuckling. Emily’s rare smile shone brightly. And Mack’s encouraging, “What then?” fed the story.
The four of them in some perfect tableau out of one of Patrick’s movies. And now she was doing it.
He’d spent much of their dinner of a kielbasa, cabbage, and potato fry-up talking about being so immersed in movies that he’d lost track of real life. He’d spoken about it as if it was a fresh concept…and he was perfectly willing to share it—just laying his innermost mistakes out for all to see.
“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to cast myself into my own life that I have to wonder how much of real life I missed.”
She’d had so much of �
�real life”—soldier-style—that she wondered if she’d ever find her way back. Somehow sitting around a tiny campfire in the depths of the Flathead Wilderness only epitomized that. She had shared nothing with anyone. Not in years. Not since her arrival here. Last night, Patrick’s kiss had offered so much more, and she’d backed away.
Why?
Too personal? Too “real” but in some context she wasn’t familiar with?
She’d never backed away from anything in her life.
Until Jupiter died.
Now she backed away from everything.
She’d left Delta, the finest place a soldier could ever hope to serve. She’d left behind the dogs. She’d left Patrick on the porch last night because she couldn’t face whatever “more” might be.
It was like there was a black-ops, eyes-only mission briefing folder that was her life and she hadn’t dared open the cover. What lay inside? Her hopes—if she even had any left. Fears—of which she had too many.
Herself?
She’d lost her way in there. Died along with her dog due to some idiot’s order that—
“No!” It heaved out of her like the sickness that had wracked her entire body this morning.
“No what?” Patrick asked in the sudden silence broken only by the soft crackling of the fire.
They were all looking at her. Caught mid-pose. Frozen except for the shifting surprise on their faces. Except it wasn’t all surprise.
Patrick, again in mid-story, indeed wore a look of simple surprise. Though it was fast sliding toward concern.
Mack, well, nothing startled him after all he’d seen. He simply raised his eyebrows at her in question.
Michael’s surprise had a certain “Finally!” quality to it. That she just might have to beat out of him later.
And Emily…once again Emily wore an expression from the first day they’d met. This time Lauren understood at least a piece of it. Encouragement.
Lauren wasn’t used to having someone on her side. Yet she knew, right down to her boots, that Emily was completely in her corner.
“No what?” Patrick asked again.
How could she answer that? It was too big. Too unwieldy. No matter what Emily offered.
Patrick had shared something important about himself. Something core.
“How did you do that?” She managed to choke it out without heaving up her dinner into the burning coals.
“Do what?” As if he hadn’t laid out his heart for all to see. His life was as open as the starry sky arced above them. Hers was buried beneath a scree slope at the foot of a mountain.
“Just…say all that stuff that you said?”
“When?” Patrick’s brows knitted together under the brim of his cowboy hat. “Oh! That?” Then he actually looked embarrassed and spent a few moments poking at the small fire with a branch he held. “I was kind of hoping that no one had noticed. Pretty dumb, huh? Thinking that living a movie role was more important than…” he waved his stick enough to indicate the wilderness around them, but not enough to risk poking anyone.
She liked that he didn’t have the words. That was a good sign.
“I dunno,” Patrick shrugged.
For some reason that simple gesture brought back the memory of how it felt to be embracing him far more than watching him ride all day. On a horse, he was a competent cowboy, tracking into the wilderness, taking care of his charges. But with that negligent shrug, lit by the warm glow of burning logs, he was close and very, very real.
“I just sort of said it,” then he looked up at her. “Is it what I said? Or is something worrying at you, Lauren?” There was concern there. As if she hadn’t walked away from him last night. As if he couldn’t imagine that she had any problems even though she was a complete and total disaster.
She wasn’t ready to talk about that. So instead—
“My dog was murdered by a one-star general who never should have been allowed out of the Pentagon. Never, ever should have been overseeing a combat operation.”
Michael would know the story, at least parts of it. Emily would understand it. For Mack and Patrick, especially Patrick, she had to find some way to explain what had happened. She sat on the hard ground, hugging her knees tightly to her chest, and tried to explain her way through the events that had ended any desire to continue in her chosen career.
“A Spec Ops dog and their handler,” how could she have started there of all places? Unable to stop herself, unable to deny Patrick’s concerned silence, she forced herself over the precipice. “It’s not a normal dog-owner relationship. You train together. You eat together. You sleep together. The dog will do anything to protect the handler. Anything! It also trusts the handler to do the same. It’s a special bond that I can’t begin to explain. Bertram saving Stan’s life is just one small piece of it.”
Her breath was fast, shallow. She could feel the bile rising again and clamped her jaw against it. Her head swam badly enough that she had to close her eyes as she began rocking back and forth.
“What happened?” Emily’s voice was so soft, so sympathetic, that Lauren latched onto it like a lifeline.
“I— He— We were on forward patrol. A big, combined forces operation. I was— We—” it came out somewhere between a gasp and a choke, “were point on a mixed team of Delta, Rangers, and combat controllers out of the 24th STS. A company-strength team of regular forces secured the perimeter—no back door escapes this time. We were in there to shut down the enemy once and for all. All under the command of Brigadier General Completely Clueless.”
She fought the nausea down again. She couldn’t even say his name, though she’d never forget him standing toe-to-toe with her, screaming an order that she knew was wrong. Lauren knew she should have refused the order and faced the court-martial for doing so. Or even the firing squad he’d threatened her with for refusing a direct order in a combat situation. At least then Jupiter would be alive and she’d be at peace.
“He gave me a direct order that I never should have followed. And Jupiter trusted me. Did you know there’s a bounty among the Taliban for each military war dog killed? Ten thousand US and up, twenty if you get the dog handler as well,” she thumped her fingers into her chest hard enough to hurt.
She supposed it was a good sign that she no longer wished that they’d earned the double bounty.
“I signaled Jupiter ahead. He knew it was wrong too, I could see it in his eyes. Then he hung his head and went. It was the last thing he ever did for me. I’m the one who killed him!”
She wouldn’t cry.
She held herself tighter.
No way!
She’d shed her last tears months ago over the makeshift grave with the Delta squad formed up to either side as an honor guard. She’d watered the grave with her tears, knowing that nothing would ever grow from such harsh soil, and right there she’d sworn she would never cry again.
Unable to hold it in any longer, she bolted to her feet and ran off into the night.
Patrick was on his feet before she reached the edge of the darkness. He paused only long enough to grab the rifle Mack held out before racing after her.
She moved so quietly that the moment’s delay was almost too much, but he managed to track her by her ragged breathing. She led him far enough away that he wondered if he’d be able to find their route back to the fire, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.
Lauren finally stumbled to a halt against a tree, a Douglas fir by the rough bark, its gigantic trunk at least ten feet across.
He whispered her name as he set the rifle close to hand against the trunk. This was bear country, after all.
“Go away!” Her voice was so low and hoarse that it barely sounded human.
No dumb movie roles this time. He knew what he had to do, even if he could easily guess at the consequences.
He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her.
Sure enough, she pounded the side of her fist against his chest. Hard enough to really hurt despite how
close together they were.
He held her tighter.
Lauren hit him once more before collapsing against him.
“An RPG,” she groaned against his chest. “They killed my dog with a rocket-propelled grenade. You use that to kill helicopters and airplanes, not a sweet dog.” Then she simply wept.
He held her close. Felt the dry sobs rippling through her slender frame as if they’d shatter her. But he knew how strong she was. Had felt it. Had seen it. Even if she didn’t appear to know that about herself.
“Did they get the gunner?”
Lauren finally shrugged, then shook her head.
“Aw, man!”
She slowly quieted.
“You do know that you didn’t kill your dog?”
“I—”
“No!” He cut her off. It wasn’t like him, but he could feel a certainty, a rightness to what he was saying. “Blame can be pointed in a dozen different directions, but that dog loved you. Would do anything for you. You don’t get that kind of loyalty if you aren’t the kind of person who deserves it.”
“But I—”
“No, Lauren. It’s a wrap. That film shoot is in the can,” he managed to gentle his voice this time. It was hard. He wanted to hunt down this general and hurt him badly. Patrick had never even been in a fight as a kid, but he was warming up to the idea. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s just plain wrong. You’re too good a person for that to be true. I’m sure that you did everything you possibly could.”
He could feel the doubt. It was a tension across her shoulders, a stillness where her face still pressed hard against his shoulder.
“Look around you. Michael is hovering over you worse than a whole coop full of mother hens. He’s made me worry more than once about getting anywhere near you, half afraid I’d wake up dead or hanging by my toes with my head in an anthill or something. While it’s really clear from watching him that he doesn’t ride or like horses, the instant I told him you were coming with us, he insisted on joining us.”
Lauren didn’t respond except to grow a little quieter.
Big Sky, Loyal Heart Page 11
