Soldier's Heart: a Wounded Love novel

by Megan Green

  “Not sure I’d trust you with power tools, my man. You might do more harm than good to that poor house.”

  He chuckles and gives me a dismissive wave. “They gave me a high powered assault rifle and you had no qualms. I think I can handle a power sander.” I give him a skeptical look, and he laughs again. “Okay, fine,” he says. “I’ll have to ‘hire’ you to run those for me.” He uses air quotes around the word hire. I’ve always liked working with my hands. So home repairs are sort of a hobby of mine. And Jim knows I come cheap. A six pack of beer and a pizza and I’m yours for the day.

  We talk a little more about this dream house of his and its spiral staircases and hidden rooms. He’s sure creative, I’ll give him that. After a few minutes, the tension I always have when first visiting him has lifted. We laugh and joke like we always have. It feels like old times again.

  I tell him about my first meeting with Emma earlier this week. After he’s done ribbing me about my dazzling social skills with women, he asks more about her and Keen Komrades. I tell him about Beth’s master plan of how dogs are going to magically heal me of my nightmares and anxiety. And tell him how I’m really there to try and persuade them he’s a good candidate for one of the hairy little monsters.

  He laughs at me again. “Well, insulting the head honcho isn’t the best way to go about it, that’s for damn sure.”

  I concede. “You’re probably right. Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior from here on out. I’ve even got one all picked out for you. He’s the least demonic of the lot. They call him Jasper, and he’s the only one who hasn’t tried to either pee on me or yank my arm out of the socket yet. Though it’s only been two days. I guess anything is still possible.”

  “I can only imagine you surrounded by puppies. I’d imagine it’s akin to the horror most people would experience when in the middle of a war zone.”

  “Ha ha,” I say sarcastically. “I can’t help it if I don’t have a nurturing bone in my body. Just the way I was made.”

  He smirks. “Give it time. Those puppies will find a way into that concrete heart of yours.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing, but I wouldn’t count on it, my friend.” Wanting to get off the topic of me, dogs, and my concrete heart as he so eloquently called it, I turn the attention back to him.

  “How’s therapy going?”

  He straightens slightly. “Good. I’ve made some progress this week. I was able to take three steps while holding onto the even bars. My arms gave out after that, and I almost fell flat on my face before the therapist caught me, but it was three steps. That’s two more than they were expecting me to be able to take at this time.”

  He looks so proud, and he should be. For a while, we didn’t think he’d have any use of his legs ever again. But this stubborn son of a bitch wasn’t going to accept that. He’s shown each and every one of those doctors how wrong they were about him. As much as I hate this place, it does help him. I guess I can kind of see why he likes it here. It’s not home, but at least they’re helping him get stronger. They’re helping him get home. That’s more than I can say for myself.

  I shove down my bitter thoughts and smile at him. “You’ll be running marathons again before you know it.” He lifts his hand, his fingers forming a weak fist. I bump my knuckles against his lightly before we blow it up. We both laugh at our old gesture. It’s what we did before we left for each mission. And every time we had to give a pep talk to our men. The guys liked to give us shit about it, but it was tradition. It was “our thing,” and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.

  We talk some more about his therapy sessions and his latest doctor visit until a nurse enters the room. She wheels in a tray of food, and I realize I’ve been here for a few hours and it’s now dinner time. It occurs to me this is the most comfortable I’ve been here since I started coming. Usually, I can’t wait to leave. But these last few hours with Jim have flown by. Maybe it was seeing Joey stride across the lawn without even the slightest hitch in his gait. If he can lose an entire leg and learn to walk that well again, well then maybe Jim has a shot. His legs were mangled, but they were able to save them. And even though I was joking when I said he’d be running marathons again, for the first time since he was hit, I think it might be possible. He won’t be coming in first anymore, but maybe that passion of his isn’t lost forever. Hope fills my chest as I watch my friend prepare himself for dinner.

  A tortured scream barrels down the hall. Nurses and other staff take off like bats out of hell as the voice grows louder. And more clear.

  “God, please, make it stop. Please.” The man’s voice is thick with tears, his words coming out in a strangled cry. I step into the hallway and see him leaning against a wall, surrounded by nurses. His entire face is a mess of scars and bandages.

  And like that, all my hope is gone. Because even if Jim is one of the lucky ones, there are so many who weren’t. So many who died. Because of me.

  “So, how’s it going?”

  I lay my head back against the chair I’m currently sitting in. Beth sits across from me, legs crossed at the ankle and pen perched above her ever present notebook. She looks just like what you’d imagine a therapist would look like, with her smoothed back hair and perfectly pressed pantsuit. And for some reason, this irritates me even more today than it usually does. After I got home from my visit with Jim last night, sleep was pretty much nonexistent. The little I did get was filled with nightmares and sweat-soaked sheets. I look like shit, and I feel even worse. And then I walk in here and there sits Beth, looking for all intents and purposes like a Miss America candidate. Would it kill this woman to not to be completely put together one hundred percent of the time? If she’d show up with a stray hair or wrinkle once in a while, maybe her clients would be able to relate to her a little better. But I’m assuming they’re all as big of messes as I am. They probably love coming in here and seeing Vanna White.

  I look at my wrinkled cargo pants and t-shirt. Yep, definitely could’ve taken the time to as least toss them in the dryer or something to try and get some of these creases out, but oh well. If I’m honest, Beth has seen me far worse off than this. She looks at me with pursed lips, and I realize I still haven’t answered her question. Resting my hands on the arms of my chair in order to keep them from fidgeting, I respond.

  “It’s going. Rough night last night. I went and saw Jim yesterday. It was a good visit. He’s doing great, But then as I was about to leave, there was some commotion in the hallway. A badly scarred guy, yelling about his pain and how he wanted it to stop. It was damn hard to see.”

  She nods. “How did that make you feel?”

  I scoff. Why do shrinks always ask that question? Like I’m going to say Oh it made me feel real good, Beth. I thoroughly enjoy seeing grown men sobbing from their pain, unable to take another step because it’s so unbearable. It brings me great happiness. She interprets my response correctly and recants.

  “Sorry. That was a stupid question. You already said it was hard to see. What I meant was, what memories did it trigger for you? I’ve been your therapist long enough to know witnessing something like that would definitely set something off inside you.”

  I turn my attention to the window behind her, unable to meet her gaze, because it’s true. Things like that always trigger something inside of me. And I hate that this woman knows this about me. It’s a sign of weakness. And men like me aren’t weak.

  “Jonah. Rob. Jim. Eric. Dean. Take your pick. All of them either lost their lives or are permanently disfigured because of me. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier had they all died. At least they wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that because of me they’ll never know what could’ve been. They’ll always wonder. Wonder if for once, disobeying an order might’ve saved themselves from a life of pain and despair. Sometimes I think Jonah and Rob might’ve been the lucky ones. And all the time, I’d give anything to have taken their place.”

  Beth is sile
nt, staring at me intently. Her expression is blank, but I know what she must be thinking.

  “Yeah, I know. I sound crazy. Saying they’re lucky not to have to experience what the others are going through, and in the next breath saying I wish I could’ve taken their places. But honestly, I wish I could’ve taken all their places. I’ve got nothing. I had no wife to leave behind. No kids. No immediate family who has to watch me suffer now. Why was I the one left practically unscathed when the rest of them had so much? How is that fair? What kind of God would allow that?”

  Beth cuts me off. “You have family, Isaiah. Your brother and his wife. Your nieces. Your parents. All of whom would have been devastated had something more serious happened to you.”

  I shake my head. Kevin and his family…yeah, maybe they would’ve missed me, but my parents? They’ve shown exactly how much they think of me since my return. They couldn’t even bear to be in the same room with me for five minutes before they were making excuses to leave when I first got home. The only good thing about my relationship with my parents is they’re hours away in Florida. So at least we don’t have to worry about crossing paths often.

  I’m not in the mood to get into that discussion again with Beth today. She’ll tell me they’re my parents, and they love me. I’ll tell her she’s never met them so she has no idea what she’s talking about. It’s a never ending cycle that always ends in me storming from the room. So instead, I stay silent. After several moments, Beth finally gives up on me replying to her statement and moves on.

  “How’s it going out at Keen Komrades? Joey says he thinks you’re doing great out there.”

  The sting of my family life quickly gets pushed to the back burner. I straighten in my chair, focusing my eyes on Beth.

  “I seriously don’t understand why you thought this would be a good idea. I told you, I hate dogs. And all I’ve managed to do in my few visits out there is insult the owner and make a fool of myself. Joey is being nice. It’s been a disaster.”

  She smiles at me. “He told me you’d say that too. He told me all about your first meeting with Emma Nicholls, but he also assured me, despite what you might think, she doesn’t think you’re an imbecile. Quite the opposite, in fact. He tells me she’s been asking a lot of questions about you.”

  I’m not sure whether to be angry Beth and Joey are discussing me without my knowledge, or to be curious as to what Emma wants to know about me. If I’m honest with myself, the tiny little blonde has been in my thoughts way more often than I’d like. And the thought of her also thinking of me is much more appealing than I’d care to admit. I don’t know what it is. I’ve done nothing but make a fool of myself in front of her, but after our last interaction, where she was able to make me laugh and forget myself so completely…well, it’s the best I’ve felt since before the incident. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t feel damn good.

  The fact that she’s gorgeous as hell doesn’t help my predicament either. It was the first thing I’d noticed about her. She’s never in anything more than jeans and a t-shirt, her face devoid of all makeup. But she manages to make it look sexy as hell. Add to that her amazing personality and wit, and I’m pretty much a goner. She’s everything I wanted in a woman. Before.

  Beth continues our session with her usual spiel about letting go of guilt, not holding on to the past, et cetera et cetera. I listen halfheartedly because one, I’ve heard it all before and know it’s a load of horse shit and two, her earlier words keep replaying through my mind. She’s been asking a lot of questions about you. What questions? Good questions? Or the kind of questions that will send her running for the hills if she knew the answers to them. And why am I obsessing about this?

  I know exactly what Beth would say if I asked her that question. Because it gives your mind something to focus on other than your guilt. And while that’s a good thing in the short term, in the long run, it will only cause further problems. You can’t just focus your attention elsewhere. It won’t solve the underlying issue. See, I’m the sanest crazy guy around. I know all this and yet, I can’t help myself. It feels great to finally be focusing on something other than my mistakes.

  Beth finishes up and refills my meds for me, and when I leave her office, even I notice the extra spring in my step at the knowledge my next stop is Keen Komrades.

  “I hope you’re ready, soldier, because today, your training begins.”

  A wide grin spreads across Emma’s face as I approach her, one of the dogs trying valiantly to wriggle out of her arms. I smile back.

  “I thought I was here to train. Not be trained.”

  “Well, you thought wrong. You need as much—if not more—training than any of these little guys do. Dogs are born with the instinct to learn and perform. Humans…not so much. You need to learn to work with them as much as they need to learn to work with you. Otherwise, the relationship will never fully form.”

  I want to tell her she’s wasting her time. I’ll never have a relationship with one of these dogs. But I can see in her eyes how much the idea of my ‘training’ excites her. So I’ll play along. For now.

  She hands me a whistle and a little plastic thing with a button in the middle. The whistle I get, but I have no clue what in the hell this other thing is or what I’m supposed to do with it. Without any explanation, she turns and lets all five of the puppies out of the kennel. They bound forward, rushing out into the yard. Maggie slowly walks out behind them and settles in the shade of a nearby tree.

  Emma stands in front of the dogs like a military drill sergeant, and the picture it paints in my head is laughable. The puppies tumble over each other, forming no semblance of a line. It’s like she’s the drill sergeant at a school for juvenile delinquents. I half expect her to blow the whistle and tell them to fall in line.

  Instead, she turns and barks her orders at me, causing the smile to fall momentarily from my face.

  “You sure as hell can’t do anything from clear over there, soldier. Get your ass over here.”

  When I meet her eyes, my smile returns. All five foot four of Emma smirks up at me, trying to look as intimidating as she can. But her playful stance gives her away. She’s trying to put on a show, impress me with her gruff demeanor. But deep down, she knows she doesn’t have it in her. She’s too damn sweet to be mean.

  I slap my arms straight at my sides and march over to her. I turn when I reach her, giving her a quick salute.

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  She smacks me on the arm. “Excuse me? Do I look like a sir to you?”

  No, she sure as hell does not look like a sir. She’s in a tight pair of worn jeans and work boots. But the fitted top she’s wearing hugs all her curves in all the right places, reminding me every time I look at her just how much of a woman she is.

  She turns her attention back to the dogs, and I follow suit. I still can’t tell which one is which, other than Jasper. I remember he has the black collar. And as far as dogs go, he’s the most tolerable of the bunch. If I have to deal with a dog, might as well be one who isn’t completely fur-brained.

  She points to the one with the green collar. “Show me how you’d make him sit.”

  I look skeptically at the dog, who’s currently occupied with chasing a butterfly. Make him sit. Right. Like that’s going to happen.

  I take a step toward the dog. He briefly glances at me, his attention never really leaving the butterfly.

  “Sit,” I bellow in the deepest voice I can manage. The dog doesn’t even hesitate. He takes off after the butterfly at full speed.

  Emma laughs and blows her whistle. The dog stops, looking dejectedly at her over his shoulder. When she holds his gaze, he turns and rejoins the rest of them. Holy shit. How did she do that? That little terror doesn’t listen worth shit.

  “First off,” she says to me, “you can’t walk up to them and yell for them to sit. Your commands need to be authoritative, yes, but shouting at a dog who doesn’t know you will either result in frightening it. Or, as you jus
t witnessed, complete lack of recognition. You need to address him by name. They do know their names at this point. That way he’ll know you’re speaking to him. And he needs to know he can trust you. Familiarize yourself with him first.”

  My gaze moves from her, to the dog, and back again. “And how do you propose I do that?”

  She sighs and grabs my hand, dragging me over to where the dogs are sitting. When we reach them, she pulls me down so we’re both sitting on our haunches. She places my hand in front of the green collared dog.

  “C’mon, buddy. He won’t bite.” I open my mouth to let her know I’m not scared of these tiny teeth when I realize she wasn’t speaking to me. The dog takes a tentative step toward my hand, giving it a quick sniff. When I don’t pull away, he steps even closer and licks my fingers. I move to recoil when Emma’s voice stops me.

  “He likes you. Good boy, Loki. Good boy.”

  Loki. That’s right. This tiny little shit is the one they named after the Norse god. I make note to remember for next time.

  I let Loki lick my fingers for a moment longer before softly patting his head. Emma looks pleased at this so I stroke the dog’s back for a moment. He immediately rolls over onto his side, exposing his belly.

  “Oh, someone really likes you. Go on. Give him a scratch.”

  This woman is seriously testing my patience today, but I oblige. After a few minutes of belly rubs, she finally lets me off the hook and proceeds with her lesson.

  “Okay, now that you’ve earned his trust, let’s try again. Get him to sit.”

  The little dog looks at me, tongue lolling out to the side. I smile. Fine, the little shit is sort of cute. Sort of.

  “Loki, sit.”

  His butt meets the ground for about half a second before he bounds over to my feet, jumping up to rest his front paws against my shins. “No,” I scold. “Sit.”