The Philanthropist and the Paratrooper (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic ManLove)

by Taylor Brooks

  Picking up his coffee cup, he took a healthy swig of the hot black concoction. Even after ten years in the service, he still couldn’t soften up enough to start putting cream or sugar into his morning brew. Straight and strong coffee put hair on a man’s chest and kept him honest. Though he’d recently switched to some fancy gourmet bean his mother started selling at the shop, so that was a step up for him as far as she was concerned.

  The sun was just starting to rise above the tree line, casting a golden-pink hue over the valley. He wondered how many times he had considered moving out of this tiny town. He even came close a few times after he’d come home from the war. It was moments like these though that kept him here, moments when the outside world ceased to exist.

  There was no war in Purgatoire Valley, no death by the hands of Al Qaeda. The true terrors of this day and age were literally half a world away. That was how he liked it, too. He’d seen enough death and tragedy to last a lifetime. Even at thirty-three years old he had no intention of moving away.

  There were things in the big city of Denver that appealed to him on certain levels, but he saw no point in inviting trouble where it wasn’t necessary. He might go to bed lonely each night. He might even live the rest of his life without ever knowing again the pleasure of a man’s touch. That was a price he was going to have to pay for his own sanity.

  The fewer people around him, the better. He always got too jumpy and on edge whenever he was in large crowds. Every loud noise jolted him and took him back to a place he’d rather forget.

  He couldn’t handle situations with more than a few people around him anymore. He’d learned that the hard way back at Fort Bragg. Just days before he was officially relieved of his duties, he’d gone into the PX and had nearly gone ape shit when a glass bottle of applesauce fell off of the shelf and shattered on the hard tile floor. Wherever he looked he would wonder if an IED was hidden somewhere within it, underneath it, around it. To him, everything looked like a potential killing instrument, and that was what he needed to stay away from, any and every situation that sent his nerves into overdrive. If not just for the sake of the promise he’d given his mother, for the sake of his own peace of mind.

  The sound of ducks quacking in the distance distracted him from his thoughts. The sun was nearly finished rising, which meant it would be time for him to head on into town and check on his mom. He wasn’t so sure she really needed him there every morning like she claimed. If he was a betting man, and he usually was, he’d almost garner a wager that she just liked having him around as she opened up the diner every day. Not that he was complaining much. She served up good old-fashioned home cooking, the kind that one couldn’t find at just any corner restaurant. So she got his company, and he got one hell of a great breakfast every day. Plus, he had to admit, he sort of liked his sweet old mom’s company, too.

  Trace reached down with his right hand and scratched at the top of Airborne’s head. His chocolate lab was just about to turn three years old and was finally starting to quiet down. More often than not though, he would run around like a puppy on a sugar high.

  The stray he had found on his way back home to Purgatoire a few years back sure had given him a run for his money in the beginning. He’d been wild and more than a little crazy those first few months. Somehow in all his craziness he managed to find a home with Trace.

  They were both a little nuts in their own special ways. Trace was jumpy at the sound of thunderstorms, a side effect from his years in combat, but at least he didn’t spend twenty minutes running around in a circle chasing his ass like some dirty mutt he knew.

  Their oddities were what made them perfect companions for one another. Besides, on a stormy night when Trace would clutch to the sheets, it was Airborne that was there to lick his hand and make him feel at least a little bit of comfort, what little of it that he could.

  “What do you say, boy? Should we head on into town and see Ma?”

  Airborne barked right on cue just like Trace knew he would. If he didn’t know better, he would almost swear that the dog was actually talking to him sometimes. Granted he only had three sounds, bark, whimper, or growl. Still, Trace knew they understood each other. That was really all that mattered to him anyway. He may die a single and lonely man, but he’d have his Airborne right by his side.

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Trace stood up and stretched his arms and legs. He winced a little when he put too much pressure on his left leg. Even though it had been over four years since his injury there were still times when the weather was damp and the temperature dropped that he’d be reminded of the pain. It would creep back in like a dull ache and eventually begin to tingle until the true pain set in.

  Leaning on his porch railing, Trace shook his leg, trying to assuage the pins and needles from settling in. He rarely needed to take painkillers and that was how he liked to keep it. His doctor at the Veterans hospital in Denver sure had prescribed him enough. He didn’t want to depend on him though.

  The ever extending amount of pills being prescribed to him was just one of the many things that angered him about his post-service medical treatment. While the Veterans Administration did offer treatment and care to those who served, it wasn’t what Trace necessarily thought was the right type of care.

  Their methods seemed more similar to providing a Band-Aid for a bullet wound. There was rarely any thought of long-term problem solving. He knew they had thousands upon thousands of patients to treat, but he wished they were better equipped to deal with the bigger picture. One couldn’t live on pain pills their whole life, and it certainly didn’t serve any purpose to become addicted to them.

  He shook his head when he thought of his old friend and former brother in arms, Colby Jericho. The staff sergeant was only twenty six years old when he was killed in action.

  Just two weeks into their deployment in Iraq, Trace had caught him popping pills. That was when he got the first hint of what was wrong in the military’s health-care system. As a friend he had sat down and talked to him about it. It was in his capacity as the young sergeant’s superior that he went to their commanding officer and reported the drug use.

  To Trace’s surprise, their CO knew all about it. In order for Jericho to be released medically ready for deployment, they kept him on a steady stream of low-dose pain pills. They weren’t heavy on the narcotic side of the spectrum, but they did contain high dosages of anti-inflammatory meds to contend with the pain Jericho suffered from a back injury he’d gotten while jumping. Little did Trace know that just years later he’d end up with his own injury, one that was much more severe and career ending.

  Damn, but he missed it. The deployments that ran on for months he could probably do without. That was for damn sure. He missed the camaraderie though, that kinship he had with his fellow “All American” brothers of the 82nd Airborne Division out of Fort Bragg.

  When he joined, it hadn’t been in peacetime, and he certainly knew the risks going into it. What irked him on so many levels was that somehow he always assumed he’d be in until his dying day. Whether it be by an improvised explosive device, a rocket-propelled grenade, or even a bullet wound, he assumed only death could tear him away from the Army. How wrong he had been.

  It should have been a simple in-and-out rescue extraction. Their boys on the ground had already done reconnaissance. All they had to do was drop in, breach the perimeter, and retrieve the package. It was a mission they’d done a hundred times before and knew like the back of their hands. It could have been run with both hands tied behind his back while blindfolded.

  All the training in the world couldn’t prepare Trace, or his unit for what actually had happened. A defect in his chute caused the release of it to malfunction. Instead of blowing out into a mushroom shape, his parachute twisted in the night sky, causing too much air flow to rip through the apparatus.

  Eventually he was able to pull his reserve shoot, but just barely in time. He didn’t slow to a steady drop like his other brothe
rs did. He landed in the water near the extraction sight with a loud crash. The impact alone wouldn’t have hurt him that bad. After all, it was only water. It was the shallow depth of the lake and large jagged rocks on the bottom that did him in.

  His thigh was sliced open and he had instantly lost massive amounts of blood. Their unit’s medic went to his aid, pulling him out and tending to his deep laceration while the rest of his unit got caught up in a firefight. The simple mission went from easy to monumental clusterfuck in no time at all.

  After several hours of a hellacious undertaking, they were en route to the landing zone point where they were soon picked up by a waiting Black Hawk helicopter. After that he was transported to Germany for surgery. They were able to repair his leg, but it took some doing and lots of antibiotics.

  The water had apparently been riddled with bacteria which spread into his bloodstream. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking and action on their medic’s part, he knew he probably would have died right then and there due to blood loss. Hell if he didn’t wish some days he was right back with them doing it all over again though. Some nights, he’d give anything to be holed up somewhere in Afghanistan with his brothers. At least then he had purpose. Now, he had…well, not very much. Not very much at all.

  He chuckled at himself and looked down at Airborne. “Damn, boy. You’re supposed to be keeping me company. Not letting me get all deep with my thoughts and shit. Let’s get going.”

  Airborne barked and ran toward the truck on cue. Trace slid behind the wheel after Airborne hopped in. The dog may have come into his life by chance, but he would swear that they almost shared the same brain sometimes with how much they were in sync with one another.

  “You and I got a pretty good thing going, boy.”

  Airborne barked once again and wagged his tail as Trace drove off to see his mom. He may not have much in life, but he had his truck, his dog, his mom, and he was alive. That was a hell of a lot more than some of the guys he had fought alongside. A lot more.

  Chapter Three

  Bradley sipped his coffee and took in the crowd that was gathering at the small diner. He was one of the first to enter once the red-haired beauty unlocked the front double doors. Her name tag bore the name Delores, but everyone who had come in since referred to her as Del. She seemed to be Miss Popularity in the small town, since everyone there seemed to be regulars.

  The Unpolished Gem, as it was quaintly named, was every bit of what its name entailed. The dated décor barely had any luster to it. Even the chrome along the countertop was dull and faded. The bright red vinyl of the booths looked more like a dusty pink color, an effect which was obviously caused by years of the sun beating in the large picturesque windows.

  Normally he would wonder why they didn’t just drop the out-of-date aluminum blinds to protect what little shine the furniture had left, but the reason was obvious. Just beyond the parking lot sat a gorgeous landscape of red and gold foothills. They cascaded up and down in the distance, causing an almost wave effect. If an ocean could be made of rock, this was definitely what it would look like, he mused.

  It was their beauty and unassuming grandeur that caused him to pull into their small community just before sun up. His drive had been long ever since he’d left New York City, but it had offered him the solitude he needed to collect his thoughts.

  Only six days had passed since he’d said good-bye to Alfred. After his butler and friend had driven him to his summer home in upstate New York, Bradley had retrieved the keys of his new, but used, automobile.

  The early nineties Ford Bronco was blue, or at least it probably was at one time. With the elements of nature and oxidation the color could probably pass more for a grayish blue at best. True to its time period, it was decked out with wood paneling on the sides and came equipped with a cassette player in the push-button radio.

  Alfred had been horrified when he’d opted for the beat-up mode of transportation, calling it a junker and the closest thing to a death trap. Still, Bradley insisted that it was perfect for what he wanted to do. Sure he had a fully loaded, brand-new Cadillac Escalade sitting in his garage, but he couldn’t very well get away from the pomp and circumstance of Manhattan life if he was driving a luxury car. He wanted, and needed to live like ordinary people, the type of people who didn’t know what it was like to have money at their disposal to suit their every whim.

  He had relented a little when Alfred insisted that he have the vehicle thoroughly looked over by a trusted mechanic, including getting new tires put on. Bradley didn’t exactly disagree with him either.

  While the car salesman who sold him the car had assured him the two hundred thousand mile SUV handled like a dream and would purr like a kitten, even he wasn’t fooled. The thing had been ridden hard and the outer maintenance of any vehicle was usually a good indication of what type of care was taken under the hood.

  Surprisingly the only thing that needed to be done was an oil change, a tune up, and some good tires. Other than that, the mechanic gave Bradley the green light to take it across the country.

  Originally he had driven down the ninety-five, with intentions of running along the eastern seaboard. He’d hope to find a quaint fishing village or something similar to the kind of town he’d read about in one of those great novels. After he’d hit Virginia though, something just told him to head west. It had been a complete spur-of-the-moment decision that he’d acted on within a matter of seconds.

  It was the opposite of what he’d normally do, always planning out every moment right up until the very last detail. That was exactly why he did it. He had painstakingly planned and plotted his whole adult life. Rarely did he ever even feel as though he was living, merely existing within the life he’d created for himself. It was a jumble of structured chaos and he’d grown to hate it, almost as much as he did his money.

  So here he was, in Purgatoire Valley, Colorado, miles away from anything and anyone that was familiar to him. He’d stopped at a few towns along the way, staying in a bed-and-breakfast here, a small hotel there, grabbing a quick bite at a truck spot, or even a good meal at some mom-and-pop spot. Every place he went offered something different, a new experience filled with unique characters. They were the types of characters that Bradley was sure he’d only come across once in his lifetime but felt blessed just for having the chance to meet them.

  There was something different about Purgatoire Valley. He didn’t know what it was. He’d sensed it from the moment he pulled off of the highway and headed into town.

  The town itself seemed out of place. Situated on the southeastern corner of Colorado, Bradley had passed a few Native American reservations and even some small towns. This one was unique in its own way. What that way was though, he just didn’t know yet.

  Purgatoire was the first place he’d stopped in where he felt like staying for more than a day. Situated amongst the rocks of the southern Colorado foothills, their small town only had a few hundred residents. At least that’s what the population had stated when he entered the city limits. He had passed a small building with one front window and a door which told him it was the Police Station.

  The squad car that was parked outside looked to be almost as old as his hunk of metal that he had been driving around. Across the street there was a small grocery store with a post office directly next-door to it. Then at the end of the main road he’d come upon this diner that sat on the left side of an even larger building, with the right side being filled by a pseudo gift and antique shop.

  The residents ranged in age from small children to a couple of old-timers who sat at the counter arguing over who had the better yard display in this year’s Fourth of July contest. The heftier of the two claimed he was clearly a shoo-in for the most patriotic since he had over a dozen different flags in all shapes and sizes, whereas the thinner of the two claimed his was the best because of his creativity with red, white and blue garland strung all along his wrap-around porch.

  As Bradley sat there sippin
g at his coffee, listening to the two men argue like two brothers, he couldn’t help but smile. This was exactly what he was looking for. Real people, people who lived each day with passion and enjoyed the small things in life.

  The supposed friends and business acquaintances he had back in New York didn’t have a clue what real life was all about. They all would do their civic duty by raising money for the popular or trendy charity of the month. Even so, very few of them actually paid an active role in giving back other than writing a check, and then most of them who did give a monetary donation only did so for the selfish intention of making sure everyone else knew that they gave and how much it was.

  It was a status quo symbol, a strategic move in order to ensure their invitation into the next big gala or social event. All in all, it was a big vicious circle of who could outdo whom, a crude and modern form of Clash of the Titans, only on a monetary scale.

  “You need a refill, sugar?”

  Bradley looked up to see a young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties with her hair pulled up in a disheveled bun. Her name tag said she was Bonnie, but it seemed like more of a grown-up name for someone who seemed to have more years ahead of her than behind her.

  Her face was free of makeup and she had slight sunburn across the bridge of her nose where freckles were sprinkled beneath the red. She had a sweet and genuine smile, the kind that he assumed could only be found in this type of town.

  “Sure. Actually could I see a menu too?”

  “Why of course.” She turned around and reached for one sitting at the table next to him before handing it over. “Here you go, hon. Sorry about that. We usually have ‘em on all the tables.”

  “No worries.”

  He opened the menu and took a look inside. All the choices seemed to be the standard diner fair. They had everything from eggs and bacon to sausage, biscuits, and gravy. He hadn’t been eating that healthfully since he’d left New York earlier in the week, but his stomach was full and usually damn happy.