by Vonnie Davis
Her Survivor is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept ebook Original
Copyright © 2016 by Vonnie Davis
Excerpt from Hers to Heal by Vonnie Davis copyright © 2016 by Vonnie Davis
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Hers to Heal by Vonnie Davis. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
ebook ISBN 9781101967928
Cover design: Jae Song
Cover photograph: vuk8691/Getty Images
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Dedication
Suggested Reading
By Vonnie Davis
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Hers to Heal
Preface
In the Hill Country of Texas, a community developed around an old Apache legend—“Wounded Warrior Falls.” Myth or truth, the story has been handed down, generation to generation, that the rocks in Warrior Falls carry magical healing powers. Wounded Apaches would stand or be carried beneath the waterfall for the healing-infused water to flow over them.
Over time, the small town Warrior Falls has grown to a population of six thousand. Its few streets boast shops, restaurants, and supply stores kept afloat by the townsfolk and nearby ranchers. Many of these businesses are owned and operated by quirky, yet salt-of-the-earth characters who love their town just the way it is. That’s why the deep secret of Warrior Falls is so closely guarded. Until a team of present-day wounded warriors slowly trickle into town…
This is Dustin Franks’s (Dust’s) story.
Chapter 1
Dustin Franks sat on the edge of the bed, gasping for breath as sweat poured off of him. His palms settled on his moist thighs and his chin rested against his collarbone.
“You went longer than you ever have. I was beginning to think you’d never finish.”
His gaze slowly shifted to hers. “You had me fired up.”
“I meant every word I said.”
“Sometimes you push all my damn buttons. I think you enjoy seeing how much of it I’ll take.” He blotted the perspiration from his face and neck with a towel. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
His physical therapist rubbed her small baby bump. “No, you big worrier. You’re leaning less on me and the bar and putting more weight on the titanium calf and foot.” Rebecca handed him a cup of water. “Drink. You know the drill.”
“Shit, I know more drills than you can imagine.” Her word triggered memories of hellacious drills during BUD/S training; but his will had been indomitable and he’d made it into the SEALs. Even though, at times, he was positive he saw the pearly gates before him.
Rebecca waved the large Styrofoam cup in front of his eyes. “Dustin, wherever your mind went, come back. I was referring to the hydration drill.”
He shook the recollections from his brain and reentered the present. “Right.” He took the cup. “Rehydrate.” He gulped the water.
“I’m going to sit next to you.”
“Okay, Rebecca.” Damn shame she had to warn each of her patients of every movement she was about to make, so no one freaked out over the suddenness of it.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to talk about your release from BAMC. You’ll be out of here in two weeks, three at the most at the rate of your progress.” Rebecca patted his hand. “You are one determined man. I’ve never seen anyone push himself as hard as you have. Tomorrow, we start running on your sprinter prosthesis. I’ve got to go work with Brent now. See you in the morning.” Off she hurried to her next PT patient.
Dustin set his empty cup on his nightstand, pushed himself farther onto the bed, and twisted to lie down. The movement twinged his left hip marginally and his left thigh a few degrees more. His bicep had healed from the surgery to remove the shrapnel—one less pain to deal with. A three-day-long hellacious gunfight in Raqqa, a city along the Euphrates River in Syria, had damaged a great deal of the left side of his body.
Air attacks, bombs, and hand grenades had destroyed building after building—so much for the war in the Middle East coming to an end with fewer American boots on the ground. ISIS and a few small bands of radical insurgents had seen to that. His team, one of a few special ops forces, had been sent in to evict the killing groups, train local forces, and restore some stability.
One of the structures he and another team member, Kent Wysocki, had entered to clear out the enemy took a direct hit. It had required a great deal of his SEAL fortitude and strength of resolve just to crawl far enough from under the rubble to find air to breathe. The coppery stench of his partner’s blood stayed with Dustin for a long time. Even now, he’d wake up in the middle of the night, shaking, sweating, and smelling the blood of his dead buddy, Wysocki.
Nance, the team’s service dog, had jumped over the burning timbers to whine and lick the unwounded side of Dustin’s face and neck. With half of her head bandaged, she’d barked once and charged for JJ, her handler. JJ told Dustin as he and the medic worked on him that she’d alerted JJ in the middle of the firefight’s mayhem that one of the team had been hurt. Claimed she’d grabbed his sleeve and tugged while she growled. The German shepherd, who’d come to them with the name Ordnance, a two-syllabled moniker they’d quickly shortened to one—Nance—had helped save Dustin’s life.
“Mail call!” The corporal made his typical announcement when he entered the ward, jarring Dustin’s mind from his memories of that fateful battle. Mail call was the time of day most men at Brooks Army Medical Center—or BAMC—lived for and some men would just as soon elude. Hearing from family who expected the same person to read the cards and letters who had gone to war months ago was never going to happen. Guilt hung heavy in the air. They’d all changed, even the ones with no physical wounds.
“Dustin Franks.”
His stomach knotted. “Here.”
The baby-faced corporal handed Dustin an envelope from the Court of Howard County in Maryland and used a handheld reader to scan the label on it and a small box from Eagle Ridge Ranch, neither of which Dustin was in the mood to open. Maybe, by some miracle, the divorce Hailey wanted from her husband, the cripple, hadn’t gone through. After all, he hadn’t been able to make the trial date. By then, he’d been flown from Walter Reed to this high-tech hospital in San Antonio, Texas.
He placed them by his side and fingered the envelope, battling with himself. Did he still want to be married to a
woman who wouldn’t stick by him? Fuck no. He’d have taken care of her no matter what illness she contracted. He tore open the flap and removed the divorce decree, signed and notarized—and registered in the court with a number. Damn, he was tired of being tied to one string of lifeless figures or another.
A muted “Set Fire to the Rain” drifted from the box. What the hell? That was the team’s theme song they sang as they drove away from a fight. What was his old commander—or officer in charge (OIC)—from SEAL Team 5 up to now? Dustin ripped open the box only to find a cellphone and a note. “If you don’t call me ten minutes after receiving my awesome, one-of-a-kind gift, I’m calling you, you candy-assed bastard. And I’ll keep calling until you answer. ZQ”
The music stopped, and Dustin sighed. Thank God. When he arrived here eight months ago, ZQ was waiting and sat with him for the first three days. He talked to Dustin when he wanted to be left alone and read him poetry by Walt Whitman, which he liked but was too stubborn to admit. ZQ’s actions only reinforced what Dustin had always known; he cared for his men.
The song started again. Ah hell, ZQ. Give me a fuckin’ break here. He swiped his index finger across the phone’s screen only to find a picture of Nance, her tongue lolling crooked from her mouth. Her one ear missing after being shot off. The day it happened as they fought their way through Al-Hasakah in Eastern Syria, her handler, JJ—Jerryl Jacoby—had nearly lost his mind. Hell, they all had.
They’d grown somewhat accustomed to the screams and moans of wounded men, but to hear their furry girl’s yelps ripped at what goodness remained intact within their souls.
On the cell’s photo, a sign hung around Nance’s neck that read, “Call me! Press 2.”
“Damn you, Zane Quinlan,” Dustin muttered as he shook the phone in frustration. The commander always did know his men’s weak spots and played them to his advantage. He claimed Dustin’s was his curiosity, which it wasn’t. Still, just how had ZQ gotten ahold of Nance?
Dustin pressed two, and after a couple rings, Nance barked a response. He talked to her a minute, teasing her like he always had. “Dance for me, Nance! Dance.” Evidently recognizing his voice, she whined and howled. There was some slurping, and Dustin smiled for the first time since forever. The damn sweet dog was licking the phone to get to him…and he lost it.
Neither realizing the explosion had taken his leg from the middle of his calf down, nor seeing his mother’s tears when he initially reached Walter Reed Hospita, nor finding out he’d missed his dad’s funeral…Not even his wife’s—hell, ex-wife’s, now—revulsion when she saw his damaged body tore at him so deeply as this dog’s reaction. Why the hell was that?
JJ’s firm voice in the background calmed her, while Dustin wiped his damp face.
Then ZQ took over the conversation.
“Hey, Dust, I knew if anyone could get to you, it would be Nance. Took you long enough to call me.” His team leader sounded like he’d just finished gargling with razor blades. Shit, Dustin wouldn’t be surprised if he had. The Old Man was hard-core. Not that he was really ancient, but any officer who’d survived fifteen years or more in an official capacity in special forces was respectfully labeled as “Old Man,” just not to his face.
“Is she at the ranch or are you visiting JJ?”
“Hell, they’re here at Eagle Ridge with me. Have been for over two months. JJ adopted her when his enlistment was up. The dog still had some time to serve but, having lost an ear, the bigwigs gave her an early retirement.”
“I figured he would do his best to keep her, as tight as those two were. Nance trusted JJ with her life.”
“Still does. I was coming from the stables when this god-awful racket echoed on my dirt lane. A man rode a vintage Harley with a sidecar, of all things. The dude wore a black leather vest a few shades darker than him and a black brain bucket for a helmet. And who was sitting in the sidecar, strapped in and wearing a matching black brain bucket with ‘War Vet’ and a Trident decal on the front? Ol’ Nance. Pretty as you please.”
Ice cubes rattled in a glass, and the sound of his sipping and swallowing filtered over the phone. ZQ was probably into his treasured double-malt Scotch. He hacked a laugh. “Soon as our pup saw me, she damn near went berserk. JJ stopped the bike and unhooked her. She cleared the side and ran like hell for my outstretched arms. I ain’t ashamed to admit I was already on my knees, crying like a damn fool baby. There was always something extra special about our Nance.”
There was a deeply inhaled breath and then a slow exhale. “I’ve got plenty of rooms here and I offered one to JJ and Nance, but both are happier sleeping outside on the ground. Some nights they sleep near the house and others they walk off to Lord-knows-where with a sleeping bag under JJ’s one arm and a jug of water and dog kibble under his other. Kid seems to need his space and I give it to him as long as he helps with a few chores around here. A man has to stay busy. Far as I’m concerned, he can stay as long as he wants. He doesn’t say much.” ZQ sipped at his Scotch again.
“JJ never was talkative, except with Nance. Ashley tried pulling him out of his shell, but it always depended on his mood how successful she was. He’d play cards with us guys, but didn’t trash-talk or tease to the extent most of us did.” Would Dustin ever be in the mood to carry on like he once had? Was that part of himself destroyed, too?
“I hear you’re getting out of BAMC in a few weeks. What are your plans, son?”
“How did you hear that?”
ZQ wasn’t prone to answering questions, just asking them. “I’d be glad to come to San Antonio to pick you up, Dust. You could stay with us for a week or so until you make some plans. Hell, you can stay longer if you like, as long as you do some odd jobs around the place.”
“I know you. You’re gathering together free labor to run that ranch. How many acres do you have?”
ZQ chuffed a laugh. “Just over twenty-two thousand, one longtime foreman, and four ranch hands. Temporary hands are hired in when needed. Dad’s cancer slowed him and with Mom’s arthritis, she couldn’t help much. So when it came time to re-up again, I figured my folks needed me more. After all, I’d already given more than twenty years to my country. Was time to help oversee things at home. Dad and I had eight good months together before he died. We made many a horse ride over the range while Dad told me stories of the ranch’s history. Mom said I brought him back to life for a while.”
A pool of despair slowly flooded Dustin’s muscles. “I’m glad you had that, ZQ. My dad was killed, driving under the influence, while I was being transported home from a hospital in Germany.” Christ, how many hospitals had he been in altogether? “So I missed his funeral. Was no emotional help to Mom. Thank goodness she had three other children to hold her up.”
“Are you planning on flying back to Maryland, Dust? Spend some time with your family?”
He’d already decided he couldn’t handle his mom’s constant hovering and crying spells. She’d lost her husband and now her youngest son was injured. Seeing him daily would only add to her grief—and his.
“No. I can’t. I’m not ready for hometown just yet. I call Mom once a week to see how she is, try my best to keep the conversation on her and the family because I don’t want to talk about me.” He clamped his eyes shut and hissed through his teeth as phantom pain in the foot he no longer had tortured his remaining leg. “It’s hard for her to understand why I’m so withdrawn. Why I don’t want visitors. Why I don’t want to talk about the war. I feel guilty for treating her like that, but I’m not the boy she raised.”
“War changes us all.” The jagged voice of his old officer in charge somehow gave comfort.
“It’s not that I haven’t thought about moving home, ZQ, but I can’t deal with facing everyone.” He stared at the overhead light. “Including my new ex-wife.”
“Oh, hell, Dust. I’m sorry. I’d hoped Hailey would get her shit together. Then why not come here? It wouldn’t take me but an hour and a half to come get you. Stay for a couple
weeks or a few months. Mull it over in your mind and call me back. Nance would be real glad to see ya. We all would. You’d be among men who’ve been through hell and back with you. We’d understand as you work through all your personal demons.”
ZQ ended the call and Dustin stared at Nance’s picture on the phone. Crazy, fool, one-eared dog.
—
Kelcee Todd took her place around the polished conference table in a long room of Noah Sterling’s suite of offices. Why she needed to be here for the reading of Frank Brandt’s will was beyond her. She’d worked for him for more than two years in his Bookstore by the Falls, made sure he took his medicine on time, and ate regularly.
She also looked the other way while he played checkers too long with his buddies on the wooden front porch of the store. If it was too chilly, she simply carried out his old sweater and stood there until he got through fussing at her for babying him. She’d kiss his whiskered cheek when he jammed his arms in the sleeves, scowling at her. Mercy, how she’d come to love that old bald coot. He promised her she’d be safe with him and she was.
Now that he was gone, she wasn’t sure if she should keep the store open or not. She supposed it all depended on who inherited it. She hoped it was someone who loved books and kept the quaint store going. Four other people sat around the table, some fidgeting while everyone eyed each other…wondering.
The door opened and Noah Sterling walked in with a large cup of coffee that smelled of whiskey, his blue and green paisley necktie askew.
Owen Pohl waved his Cowboys ball cap in front of his nose. “My God, Noah, whatever ʼtis you got in that cup must be a hundred proof.”
The lawyer placed his hand to his throat and croaked; the drink was for medicinal purposes. He coughed weakly. “I have a terrible sore throat.” Maybe so, but he also had poor acting skills. The man would never bring home an Oscar.
