The Final Mission

by Rachel Lee

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  She looked down again, but this time when she raised her gaze, he could see her eyes were damp. “Because I think your wife was a hero, Mr. Mason. A true hero. I believe she died trying to protect women and girls who couldn’t protect themselves. You should know that. And you should know that one way or another I’m going to find out who did this to her. It’s my fault she put her life on the line, and I want you to know that she hasn’t been forgotten. And I’m going to make damn sure she didn’t die in vain.”

  A minute or more passed in utter silence. Then, feeling as if every muscle in his body were lead, he crossed the kitchen, picked up his chair, and sat. What else could he do?

  Nothing, he told himself, had really changed. Mary was still gone, had been gone for two years. How and why hardly seemed relevant now that he’d adjusted to the fact that his wife, a nurse, had been a casualty of war. Nothing had changed, except possibly the vague identity he’d assigned to the person who had pulled the trigger. How did that matter now?

  Numbness began to replace fury. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he lifted his coffee mug and drank.

  Courtney spoke. “She was a real hero.”

  “She was a hero to me all along.”

  He saw her face pale a shade. “That’s true. I just mean she went above and beyond….”

  “She went above and beyond every time she went to that town to take care of those women. Every time she left the security of her hospital. Hell, she went above and beyond when she put on that uniform.”

  “True.” Courtney appeared unable to bear his gaze right now. Not that he could blame her. Numb or not, he was probably still shooting fire from his burning eyes.

  “So what,” he finally asked between clenched teeth, “is your point in coming here?”

  She shook her head, appearing a bit overcome, and he gave her space to collect herself. He somehow suspected this woman was rarely at a loss for words or arguments, but she seemed to be right now.

  “I came,” she said slowly, “for a couple of reasons. Yes, your wife was a hero. But she was more of a hero than you know. She risked her life to tend our wounded troops. She risked her life to go into a potentially hostile town to deliver medical care to women and girls who would get it no other way. But those risks were part of wearing the uniform. She knew it, she did it, and that’s plenty for you to be proud of.”

  “But?”

  “But she was also willing to go beyond that, to risk her life in a way that wasn’t even remotely in her job description. A way she didn’t have to. A way she could have said no to. She did it because she couldn’t stand the thought that women were being terrorized, and she did it even knowing she might put herself in serious jeopardy. She did it because I asked her to.”

  “So this is all about you feeling guilty?”

  “Partly. I admit it.” Her eyes looked red. “I was just doing my job, but she did more than hers. I want justice for her, and for all those women.”

  “But they stopped you?”

  “More than once. I don’t know if they’re more worried that I might find the evildoers or if they’re more concerned about bad publicity. Basically, if I keep pushing this I can probably kiss my career goodbye.”

  “But you’re still pushing.”

  “Yes.”

  He felt an unwilling flicker of respect for her. “Even though it might cost you everything.”

  “It won’t cost me more than my job. It’s a paltry price compared to the one Mary paid, that you and your sons have paid.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. And he was furious. Furious that all of this was being raked up again, that this woman was twisting his perception of what had happened to his wife from one of an accident of war to deliberate murder. It had been hard enough to live with the former.

  He had sat here any number of times with one of Mary’s friends. He’d listened, he’d tried to soothe, he’d heard stories he wished he had never heard. He had offered comfort to people who had come to comfort him but who had turned out to need it every bit as much as he did. People who had been inalterably changed by their experiences over there, leaving him sometimes grateful that Mary would never have to live with those memories.

  And now another one. Different, but the same. He watched her, seeing a degree of his own anguish, but worse, seeing guilt. Lots of guilt, as if she had pulled the trigger herself. If the last two years had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t do or say anything to change what this woman was feeling.

  She had to deal with her demons in her own way, in her own time. Clearly, coming here was part of her dealing, regardless of the reasons she offered. Regardless of the pain it reawakened in him.

  He couldn’t hate her for that, or even blame her. Mary was still gone regardless. All he could do was to help make one of her former comrades feel a little better. Maybe ease a nightmare or two.

  “Stay the night,” he said.

  “No, I couldn’t possibly impose.”

  “You’re not imposing. I’ve got a guest room all made up, hardly ever use it anymore. One thing for sure is I’m not letting you drive back alone down these dark roads at this hour. If you have a breakdown, it’s likely no one would come along before morning. We go to bed early in these parts.”

  “My car is fine.”

  “And you’re not. Just stay so I don’t have to sit up worrying. In the morning…” He hesitated. “In the morning I can let you go through the stuff I saved for the boys. Emails, letters, some videotapes. I don’t have everything. Some of it was too personal. I never wanted the boys to see it. But I’ve still got most of it.”

  He didn’t miss the way her gaze brightened. Not enough to tick him off, but enough to let him know she’d been hoping for a little cooperation from him.

  Of course she had. She had a nightmare to put to bed, and the answer might be in Mary’s things.

  He might have grown mad again, but his capacity for anger had lessened with time. As if he’d burned out so much of it all he could do was simmer, and his flare-ups were limited in scope and duration. He’d lived with the unanswered questions for a long time now: Why Mary? Why her, why that moment, that place? There were no answers, at least none he’d ever gotten. It was war. No other answer.

  But this woman was seeking a different answer. He doubted any answers she found would do him any good, one way or another at this point. But they might do her some good.

  And finding good in much these days was like trying to wring blood from stone.

  “You got a suitcase?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go get it and I’ll show you the room. Need anything to eat?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He doubted it. But he wasn’t fine, either.

  Chapter 2

  Courtney barely noticed the guest room and hall bath. She had driven almost straight through from Georgia, she was still on east coast time, and for her that meant it was nearly 1:00 a.m.

  She should have fallen straight to sleep, but instead she was restless, dealing with the unexpected storm that had hit her the instant she saw Dom. God, he looked good enough to eat. She’d never felt that kind of instant attraction to a man, where her body wanted to melt the instant she clapped eyes on him.

  And she hated herself for it. He was Mary’s husband. She’d come here to do a job, nothing else. And damn it, she should never have accepted his offer to stay. Awareness of him, so instant, unexpected and overwhelming, seemed to hang around her now that she was staying in his house.

  She should have gotten the hell out as quickly as she gracefully could and found a motel. Somewhere she wouldn’t be lying awake wondering if she’d lost her mind, if she’d been alone too long or what?

  Because a man’s appearance shouldn’t have struck her that way. It never had before. Damn, it was a wonder she hadn’t sat there drooling. And the waves of shame that washed over her were almost enough to make her weep.

&nbs
p; Rolling over, she pounded the pillow a couple of times as if she could make it softer. Tomorrow. She’d stick out one day and then leave before she did something she’d feel guilty about forever. With that resolution, she finally fell into a sleep disturbed by nightmares that never left her anymore. Nightmares of unbearable heat, mutilated bodies and screams.

  Morning arrived in twilight, early it seemed, but she could hear voices downstairs, and the wonderful aroma of cooking bacon. Her mouth started watering almost before her eyes opened. How long had it been since she had allowed herself a strip of bacon?

  She heard the light patter of young boys’ voices, answered by the deeper tones of their father. The sounds were as inviting as the smells, and she hopped out of bed, heading for the bathroom.

  She’d barely noticed last night, but she noticed this morning: the bathroom was spotless, as if awaiting a white-glove inspection. It struck her, because this was a bachelor household now, and most bachelors she knew didn’t care much about such things.

  But as she walked downstairs, she noted that the entire house seemed to be orderly and spotless, far more than her own apartment and she thought she was a clean freak.

  Entering the kitchen, she found the twins sitting at the oak table and Dominic standing at the stove, frying eggs. The boys immediately fell silent, and Dom turned. His smile seemed small but natural enough.

  “Boys, this is Ms. Tyson. She knew your mom.”

  The boys surprised her by pushing back from the table and politely standing. “Hi, I’m Kyle,” said one and his clone said, “I’m Todd. Nice to meet you.”

  Kyle bounced around the table to hold a chair out for her and she sat. Two pairs of dark eyes, very like their dad’s, stared at her.

  “Your mom showed me pictures of you,” she ventured. “I always asked how she could tell you apart.”

  Kyle scoffed. “She never had a problem. We’re not exactly the same. Dad can tell us apart, too.”

  “That doesn’t keep you from trying to fool me,” Dom remarked, which got him a pair of laughs.

  There was already a hefty platter of bacon on the table, and now Dom brought her a cup of coffee. She reached for it, holding it in both hands as she tried to figure out how to talk to the boys. She didn’t have a lot of experience with kids.

  Todd spoke. “Lots of Mom’s friends came to visit. I guess they liked her a lot.”

  “I certainly liked her. And I admired her. Your mom was a hero.” She saw Dom’s back stiffen as he stood at the stove, and realized he feared she might get into her purpose in coming. She felt a moment of annoyance that he might think she was that insensitive, then reminded herself he didn’t know her at all, and she had come barging into his life with an upsetting story and no prior warning.

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “We have her medals. And a flag.”

  A pretty pathetic substitute, Courtney thought, then looked down for fear her face might give away her darkening thoughts.

  She was saved by the arrival of a platter of cheesy scrambled eggs on the table, and as soon as Dom sat, the platters began to move her way. She took a slice of buttered toast, a strip of bacon and a spoonful of eggs, trying not to think about cholesterol.

  “You don’t eat much,” Kyle remarked.

  “I don’t work as hard as you guys do.” Safe assumption, she supposed, although at her last physical the doctor had told her to gain some weight, that she’d slipped far enough for it to be a concern.

  It wasn’t as if she was trying to lose weight. She just didn’t feel like eating much anymore. This whole thing with Mary gnawed at her like a hungry shark.

  Conversation came to a halt as two ravenous boys ate, then jumped up to grab jackets and backpacks. She watched as Dom made sure they had everything.

  “I’m going to take them to the bus stop,” he told her. “Back in about twenty minutes.”

  She watched them go out the back door and felt an ache she couldn’t quite explain to herself. She had never been interested in the whole marriage and family thing. Not ever. All her life she’d been oriented toward other goals, and toward her career.

  But she ached anyway at the sight of a big, strong man ushering two small boys gently out the door to catch a school bus.

  Man, she was losing it.

  Losing it enough that she helped herself to a second strip of bacon and another spoonful of eggs. Damn the cholesterol anyway. Enough was enough.

  And enough was the entire reason she was here. She had helped lead Mary to her death, and she wasn’t willing to let the culprits go free. No way.

  Dom returned in twenty minutes as he’d promised. His booted feet clomped on the mudroom floor as he doffed his jacket and hung his keys on a wall hook. He gave her another reserved smile and a nod before he went to freshen his coffee. He was such an attractive man, attractive in a way she wasn’t used to: weather and work hardened, lean-muscled, not bulked up. And there was the easy way he walked across the kitchen, a man at home in his body.

  She supposed she should feel guilty for even noticing. Guilty for a helpless, unwanted sexual response.

  “I should clear up the dishes,” she said, feeling awkward about imposing again.

  “Naw, it’ll keep. If you don’t want any more, I need to add it to the compost.”

  “You made enough for an army,” she tried to joke.

  A flicker of humor danced across his face. “Those two kids usually eat like one. And I made a bit extra because I don’t know your appetite.”

  “Not usually good. But I enjoyed breakfast. So…do you have a lot of work to do? Ranching must be loaded with it.”

  “It is. Less at the moment than other times of year, but yeah, I’ve got plenty to do. After you finish your coffee, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the family.”

  “The rest?”

  “The horses, of course. And a handful of dogs who seem to prefer equine company to human.”

  “I can sympathize with the dogs.”

  “Me, too, a lot of the time.”

  A smile flickered across his face again, and brief though it was, it lit him from within. She couldn’t imagine the world he lived in, the way he must view things compared to her, but whatever his ranch life was like, sorrows aside, it seemed to have given him some kind of ineffable…understanding? Peace?

  Crazy thinking, she told herself. Last night she had seen him furious. This was no Zen monk living above it all or beyond the reach of life’s misfortunes. Yet this morning he seemed quiet within himself, a state of mind she could only envy.

  Maybe it was just the early hour.

  He startled her by looking her over suddenly, as if measuring her. Before she could instinctively draw back, he said, “Do you have any jeans with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And socks. A good pair?”

  “I’m a jogger. I buy good socks.”

  “Well, go get on some jeans and socks, then. I’ll find you a pair of boots, and then we’ll go out to meet the herd. Shoe size?”

  “Nine.”

  He nodded. “I can do that.”

  So she went back upstairs and pawed through her suitcase, pulling out some faded jeans, a sweatshirt and a windbreaker she’d stuffed into a corner of her suitcase at the last minute. She didn’t think her long wool coat would be suitable for meeting his horses. She almost laughed at the thought.

  When she came back down, he had a pair of rubber boots ready for her. “This way if you step in something we can hose you off.”

  She hadn’t thought about that part, but she wasn’t squeamish by nature. If she had been, she wouldn’t have survived her job for long.

  They exited the house through the mudroom into a crisp morning and warm light from the still-rising sun. He paused, using his arm to point things out.

  “Arena and barn over there. I don’t usually need to stable the horses unless there’s a problem of some kind.”

  She looked at the buildings, the barn an identifiable shape with a gambrel roof,
the arena obviously the big round, weathered building. She glanced toward the pasture where she could see horses by the dozens if not a hundred. “How could you stable so many anyway?”

  “They don’t need stabling. But a good number of them will be sold next month. Too bad you can’t be here for the shindig.”

  “What kind of shindig?”

  “I’ll probably have about forty buyers here, maybe more. They’ll come in RVs mostly, and I’ve even got power hookups for them out thataway.” He pointed. “This place is going to look like a campground on steroids, or even some kind of fair.”

  She looked around trying to imagine it. There were two huge corrals, neither one of them occupied by a horse at present. All the horses were farther away, in what she assumed was a pasture.

  “Is the arena for the buyers?”

  “Yup, and for training. We put the horses through their paces one at a time in the arena, and interested folks can watch and come down to check on them more closely. Then we spend most of the winter on training.”

  “How many will you sell?”

  A quiet laugh escaped him. “That’s always the question, isn’t it? I hold back my youngsters unless I’m sure they’ll be handled properly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can cut five years off a horse’s working life by overworking her during the first four or five years. I don’t like that.”

  She looked at him, feeling a twinge of real respect. “That makes it harder on you, doesn’t it? All those extra years of looking after them?”

  “Well, I won’t have to hold back many. I know the folks I invite to my sale, and most of them agree with my philosophy. I’m not saying you can’t work a young horse, but overwork is another matter. So I choose to let them go to buyers I can trust. It makes them healthier. It makes them better and happier. I don’t just own them, you know. I’m a steward.”

  She nodded, liking his attitude. “So exactly how does this work? You keep the babies until they’re grown enough? You train them?”

  He shook his head. “I keep a certain number for myself but I sell a lot of my mares while they’re in foal for the second or third time. That means they’re pregnant. But I make darn sure I know who I’m selling them to. Most folks want a good mare already in foal because they can get an idea of the quality of the foal from the mare, and because the mare is a proven breeder. It’s all about quality, and folks who respect quality are going to take good care of that foal.”