Julian nodded, but his brown eyes looked troubled. “Officially, he was absolved of any responsibility in the bombing and given a medical discharge. Considering the hero’s welcome drummed up by that Rayford woman’s story—”
“Jessie Layton is his brother Zach’s wife, isn’t she? The journalist?” Andrea narrowed her eyes, trying to get it straight in her mind, since she’d never met Ian’s family. They’d been estranged for years, he’d told her, though he’d avoided going into details—something that should have raised another red flag. But then, Andrea had her family secrets, too, issues so painful they’d sent her into counseling when she was in her teens. The relief she’d gotten, the insight into the dynamics that had destroyed her family, had led her to pursue the study of psychology.
Julian nodded in answer to her question. “Cutting Captain Rayford loose, giving him the benefit of the doubt, was the only thing the military could do, especially since he was diagnosed as having dissociative amnesia as a result of torture.”
Andrea lifted a brow. “Not to mention all the suffering the screwup over the body caused both his family and the other soldier’s. What a PR nightmare that boondoggle’s been.”
“So I’m told,” said Julian, “which brings us back to you.”
Apprehension crawled over her skin like live ants. “Let Michael take him. Or Connor. He’s a real pro, and the guys love that he’s ex-military himself.”
“Neither of the counselors will do, or Cassidy, either, for this case,” Julian said, though as a psychiatric nurse-practitioner, Cassidy had both the experience and the ability to dispense any necessary medications. “You see, Captain Rayford has refused to come here. Refused to leave the family’s ranch at all. Says he’s had enough of shrinks poking through his head—”
“So you want to send me, a psychologist?”
“The man doesn’t need or want a psychologist right now, but a friend, he might accept. And a trained friend, someone with your sensitivity, might find a way to break through. A way to help a man whose plight has drawn so much attention—and a way to help us, too, at Warriors-4-Life.”
She folded her arms beneath her chest. “Really, Julian? That’s what this is all about? The money?”
He sighed. “Come on, Andrea. You know I’m 100 percent focused on these soldiers. But as director, fund-raising is a big part of my job description, and if we don’t get donations up before next quarter, we’re going to have way bigger problems than a broken AC system.”
Worry fluttered in her stomach. “I know we’re working on a shoestring out here, but what do you mean, way bigger problems? We’re not—tell me we’re not in danger of shutting down already. We’ve barely gotten up and running, and more and more returning soldiers are applying for our help every day. They need us, desperately. Where else can they go, if they don’t have places like this when their lives come crashing down around them? Who else will prepare them to reintegrate into their families and meaningful employment?”
He held up a hand to stop her. “You’re preaching to the choir. There’s no need to sell me on what we do. I never would’ve come aboard if I weren’t 100 percent behind it.”
“I know that. I do.” Like everyone else who worked at Warriors-4-Life, Julian had accepted little more than the use of one of the center’s Spartan housing units and a nominal salary in exchange for his sixty-to eighty-hour workweeks. He even donated a portion of his military retirement pay to the cause, saying he couldn’t encourage others to do something he wasn’t doing on his own. Inspired by his generosity, Andrea gave whenever she could, as well, despite the mountain of student loans she would probably still be paying into her dotage.
“Then don’t look so shocked that I’m thinking practically. I have to. Otherwise, we’ll have no choice but to scale back the number of young men and women we can assist—and reduce our staff levels, as well.”
She gritted her teeth, thinking of how overworked all of them were already, how many sacrifices they had made. And the look in his eyes told her that if the cutbacks didn’t solve the issue, the doors they’d fought so hard to open might be forever shuttered. What would happen to their clients, then, people like twenty-year-old Ty Dawson, who’d gone missing for hours just yesterday after a lawn mower had kicked up a stone and cracked a window. He was found shaking and hiding in the darkened corner of a storage closet.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll rearrange tomorrow morning’s schedule and try to get back by—”
“Your schedule’s cleared, for the time being. Michael, Cassidy, Connor and I will all pitch in while you’re away.”
“Away? What do you mean? It’s, what, an hour or so from here to Rusted Spur? If I leave early, I’m sure I can be back by lunchtime to help cover the afternoon group sessions.”
Julian shook his head. “For the next two weeks, you’ll be staying at the ranch.”
“Staying at the ranch? With my ex-fiancé? Are you serious? You won’t— This won’t worry you at all?”
She studied his face and caught the flicker of discomfort. But he quickly squared his shoulders and reclaimed his usual composure. The composure that had made her feel so safe.
“I’ll admit I was hesitant at first. You know about my ex-wife, about what happened between us?”
Andrea nodded, remembering what he’d told her about a marriage in his twenties—and a wife who’d eased her loneliness with multiple affairs during his deployments. He’d spoken of it matter-of-factly, but she had seen the hurt, the vulnerability lurking behind his solemn brown eyes. And she’d sworn to herself she would be the wife that he deserved.
He reached across the desk and found her hand, then squeezed it. “I refuse to let it change me, let that pain turn me jealous and suspicious when you’ve done nothing to deserve it. When I could never imagine a consummate professional like yourself—a generous, decent woman—betraying what we have.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t.” She’d learned her lessons young; she would never be her father. “Especially not for a man who broke my heart. But I will do my best to help him, just the way I’d help any other client who was hurting.”
“Then it’s settled,” he answered with a nod. “I’ll need you to log in and update your contact records daily, but I’m told there’s wireless available.”
“When have I ever forgotten my logs?” It was a protocol she frequently reminded the counselors to follow, since the portion of their funding received from government grants depended on the number of recorded contact hours. The case notes themselves, however, remained password protected, covered by patient confidentiality.
“Also,” Julian said, “I thought you’d like to know that when Captain Rayford’s family extended the invitation for you to come, they mentioned they’d set up a suite of rooms for your use.”
“A suite of rooms, just for me?” It sounded like paradise, since her own quarters consisted of a single bedroom in the women’s dormitory, where female staff and clients alike shared a communal bath and kitchen.
“Play your cards right, and I’ll throw in some bubble bath.” From across the desk, he winked at her, a gesture so at odds with his usual demeanor that it made her laugh with delight.
“Ooh la la.” She waggled her brows at the man who’d asked her to keep their engagement under wraps for the time being, to avoid causing any suspicions of favoritism among the staff. And given that there was no way either of them could visit the other’s room without drawing speculation, the physical side of their relationship had been largely confined to their imaginations—a situation that was growing more frustrating by the day. “But it’d be ever better if you could join me in that bathtub.”
He smiled. “With or without strategically placed bubbles?”
“Up to you, Colonel,” she teased, standing when he left his chair and came around the desk.
He pulled h
er into a warm embrace. “I promise you, my darling, by the time you come back to me, I’ll have figured out a way to break the news to the others. And after that, no more sneaking around like a couple of teenagers.”
“In that case—” she smiled up into his brown eyes “—I promise you, I’ll do everything I can think of to get Captain Rayford’s memory back in record time.”
Chapter 2
Funny what it was his mind chose to remember, Ian thought as he curried the palomino, a sturdy gelding known as Sundance. Though Ian had been told that he hadn’t set foot on the ranch since the day of his high school graduation, he remembered the order of operations he’d been taught to the last detail: currycomb, then dandy brush, followed by the mane and tail brush and the hoof pick. He remembered to lay the saddle pad over the withers and slide it back so the golden hair would lie comfortably and to walk the horse a few steps before cinching up the saddle so it would be tight enough. He knew to mount from the left side, too, just as he could still not only ride but rope a calf or cut a heifer from the herd with ease.
Procedural, semantic and short-term memory intact, one of the army shrinks had written on his report, which meant that Ian also remembered the meaning of words and could acquire new information. But it had been the next part that disturbed him, the notation: Retrograde biographical memory continues impaired—psychogenic origin likely due to emotional trauma.
In other damned words, they figured him for some kind of nut job. Not a veteran who’d lost his memory due to the injuries he’d clearly suffered, judging from the scarring on his back, his arms and legs, but a head case too soft to handle the stress of the ambush that he’d been told had killed a fellow soldier, along with the captivity that followed. Insulted by their insinuations and sick of being poked and prodded, he had gone back to the ranch and vowed to stay there, with the people he was learning to accept as his family...slowly.
He led the horse out of the barn and into the bright September morning, happy that last night’s shower had knocked down the dust and cooled the temperature. Zach kept telling Ian he didn’t have to work like a hired hand to tackle any of the never-ending chores that kept the cattle ranch’s wheels turning, but he found it far easier than staying in the house to be watched, fussed over and treated like a ticking time bomb by his mother or stuffed full of pastries by their cook, Althea, who apparently took it as her God-given duty to help him put back on the forty pounds his ordeal had cost him.
His older brother was easier to deal with, maybe because he’d served as a marine corps fighter pilot before his return to run the ranch following the false reports of Ian’s death. Ian had found Zach steady, supportive and respectful of his privacy, but always there if he wanted to talk or ask questions. Along with Zach’s journalist wife, Jessie, he did his best to keep their little girl, Eden, out of Ian’s hair, though the rambunctious five-year-old was forever finding ways to corner him and wear him out with innocently awkward questions. Questions that he couldn’t answer, for the most part, no matter how damned cute she and the pair of young Australian shepherds who followed her everywhere were about their interrogation.
Mounting up, he looked beyond the ranch’s outbuildings and toward the open rangeland, where a herd of red-and-white cattle grazed off in the distance. Farther afield, he’d been told one could find the fresh drilling that marked the promising new natural gas find that had recently sent the family’s fortunes soaring. But Ian left the worries about the operation and the money to Zach while he focused on the hard manual labor that was not only helping him recover his physical strength but would leave him exhausted by the day’s end. Too exhausted, he hoped, for the disjointed nightmares that had been waking him several times a night. Like his past, their content was largely forgotten the moment he returned to himself. But that didn’t keep him from racking his brain for hours, no matter how frustrating the attempts.
He nudged the palomino into an easy lope, eager for the freedom, the peace that he found only with the prospect of a day alone in the saddle. But it had barely lasted for an hour before he spotted a lone rider making his way toward him: Zach, aboard his big bay, Ace, irritation casting more shade on his expression than the wide brim of his hat.
As his brother’s mount clattered to a stop, Ian sucked a breath through his clenched teeth and raised a palm to hold off the complaint he knew was coming. “Sorry, man. I’m sorry. I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Apologize to Mama, not me,” Zach told him. “Do you have any idea how panicky she gets when you take off without a word to anybody? Jessie thought she was going to have a stroke when she found your bed empty after you didn’t show for breakfast. Mama broke down, asking if you were really still dead, if she’d dreamed all that part about how you’d come back home.”
Ian screwed shut his eyes and blew out a long breath, hating himself for causing her more suffering. “But you knew where I was, right? You told her, didn’t you?”
“I told her you were sure to be around, yeah. But the fact is, Ian, I got lucky figuring out where you were because you didn’t tell me, either.”
“You could’ve called instead of riding all the way out...” But as he felt his pocket for the fancy new smartphone his brother had bought him, Ian’s mouth went dust dry. “Oh, shoot. The damned cell—”
“Works a lot better when you remember to take it with you, bonehead.”
Ian opened his eyes and faced his older brother’s disappointment. “I know I screwed up. But I swear, I’ll do better.”
“Yeah, you damned well will.” Zach’s glare faded, his blue eyes softening. “Listen, man. I know what it’s like, going from a place where you have only yourself to think of, yourself and your mission. But things are different now. You’re part of a family again, with people who care, who worry about you, who want to help you finally come home.”
“I am home,” Ian insisted, the edge in his voice making his mount shuffle and toss his mane. Clutching the reins tightly to keep Sundance in hand, he added, “Against all odds, I made it.”
The government’s investigators had tracked his northbound progress through Mexico and into Texas, where he’d hitchhiked, walked and at one point trailed “coyotes” smuggling their human cargo across the border during his months-long odyssey. There had been some speculation about how Ian might have gotten out of the Middle East and into Mexico, but he’d been unable to contribute anything beyond a fragmented memory of himself clinging to a coarse scrap of threadbare blanket in the dark hold of a cargo ship.
“You think you’ve made it, brother,” Zach said, “but I’m telling you, you’ve still got a ways to go. Which is why you’re coming back with me right now, to meet our visitor.”
Ian’s gut clenched. “I told you, no more shrinks. No counselors. None of Mama’s preachers, either, here to save my lost soul. This range, this work, is the only salvation I need.”
Zach gazed out over the undulating golden waves, over a land that looked flat to those who didn’t know the deep furrows that could lead a man to its hidden places. “I remember a time when you couldn’t wait to get the hell off this land.”
Old resentment squeezed in Ian’s chest. Because since returning, he had remembered enough fragments from their upbringing to resurrect some old grievances. “You should talk. You took off before I did. Left me here, with him.”
At the mention of their father, Zach’s shoulders fell and his gaze drifted. It served as a reminder that some of the memories Ian had recovered would be better off forgotten.
“I know, and I’m sorry, bro,” Zach said. “Sorry for leaving you and Mama both behind. I was just trying to survive those years without ending up in prison. Because I would’ve damned well killed the son of a bitch if I’d stayed one more day.”
Ian nodded, understanding the same desperation that had driven him away from their father’s brand of torture as soon as he’d been a
ble. Like Zach, he’d left their mother here to face it, since she’d refused to admit to what her husband was, much less abandon the material comforts and social status she’d enjoyed as a Rayford. As sorry as he felt for the suffering she’d endured when he’d been believed dead, Ian still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for refusing to protect him and his brother back when it might have mattered.
But there was nothing to be gained by treading that old minefield, and he quickly changed the subject. “I’ll apologize for scaring Mama. I’ll remember my phone next time. But I won’t be coming back with you now, not unless you tell me who’s there waiting.”
“I’ll tell you this much. It’s a woman. A woman from your past.”
Ian frowned, wondering which past his brother meant: the one he couldn’t bear to think of, or the dark, erotic glimmers that invaded his dreams every night.
* * *
Andrea had known Ian grew up on a working cattle ranch in North Texas, but she’d had no idea that he’d come from money. Maybe she’d been projecting the hand-me-downs and frequent moves that had defined her own hardscrabble upbringing or maybe she’d judged Ian by his rare comments about living hand to mouth after going out on his own right out of high school, but the ranch itself, especially the opulent white mansion at its center, convinced her she’d had it wrong. As did the fact that a heavyset woman with her pinned-back gray hair and a starched uniform wheeled out a real, honest-to-goodness tea cart with a silver pot and baskets of delicate confections to the fussy formal living room where she waited while Ian’s mother, Nancy Rayford, did her best to pick Andrea’s brain.
“So, dear,” said the neatly dressed, silver-haired woman over the gold rim of her teacup, “you were saying, you met my son in California?”
Lone Star Survivor Page 2
