The Promise of Rainbows

by Ava Miles

  ~ Dare River ~

  Susannah & Jake

  © 2016 Ava Miles

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  Jake Lassiter was a bona fide hero in the military before a tragedy in war changed his life forever. Now he's a rising country music star, intent on healing the world and himself through his music. But his past still haunts him…

  When Jake hires girl-next-door interior decorator Susannah McGuiness, he sees a kindred spirit and a woman who pulls at his soul. The first sparks of hope fire in him, the kind that can heal all the wounds he still carries inside. For a man resigned to never having a happily ever after, Susannah sure has him dreaming about one.

  Susannah has always believed in the promise of rainbows, even when times are tough. She's known some hard times herself and connects with Jake on a level she's never known. In this hero, she doesn't see a broken man, but one who's risen again and again to life's challenges. But Jake must heal his wounds to claim the love of his dreams.

  To Kati: friend, sister, blessing. Thank you for helping me remember there's always the promise of rainbows and for shining so brightly in my life.

  And to my divine entourage, who continues to usher me so abundantly through this wonderful life.

  Acknowledgements

  Team Ava blesses me beyond belief: for Angela and all her insights on my stories; for Sienna and all the magic she brings to this global enterprise; for Em and all the heart she brings to my characters in audio; for Hilary and her amazing efficiency and support; for Jade and her wonderful help; for Lori, who helps spread the stories worldwide; and to a whole bunch of others who elevate my messages to the world.

  Dr. Richa Thapa of the Central Arkansas Veterans Healthcare System, for being the kind of psychiatrist you wish every veteran could work with.

  Dr. Tabitha King, for being the best supporter in the world and directing me to the right people.

  Gary Tabke, private investigator, whose counsel helped my imagination cook up all sorts of good stuff for our Dare River family.

  T.F. For choosing.

  Lastly, to you wonderful readers, who love these beautiful people in our Dare family and for reaching out to me and telling me how much they impact your life. You are a blessing and a treasure.

  Chapter 1

  A thick blanket of dust stung Jake Lassiter’s eyes. His vision blurred, and his heart rate kicked up to jackhammer speed. He couldn’t see anything. And that was when he was vulnerable to attack. He couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see.

  Was there someone in the alley with him?

  On the face of it, the narrow, bullet-pocked area looked clear after the dust faded, but his gut was quivering. After two tours in Iraq, he’d learned to trust it.

  Someone was lurking.

  Perhaps more than a mere someone. Though he’d grown to hate it, his job was to find out. To clear the area before the other men passed through. And he was good at it. Too good.

  When he looked in the mirror in the morning, he didn’t recognize himself anymore. His mouth was stretched in a permanent tight line, and his blue eyes reflected a new hardness from all he’d seen. Friends killed, and equally horrifying, women and children dead—sometimes out of brutal necessity. He looked older than his twenty-eight years, and ten years in the Army had turned him bitter. He hated that too. Sure, his father, also in the Army, was the one who’d pushed him into the service, but he could only blame himself for not standing up to the old man.

  Not that it mattered now.

  He could die in this alley if he didn’t focus.

  Another gust of wind blew dust over him. He pressed against the wall as a new swath of dust blinded him. His men were nearby, but that didn’t guarantee his safety. All it took was an unprotected second for an enemy bullet to put a man down.

  His pack felt like it weighed more than usual, and he knew it was because of the brutal heat wave sweeping through Basra. When they’d left the Humvee to go on patrol, the temperature had registered one hundred and twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit. They’d all been chugging water enhanced with salt to keep hydrated—a trick suggested by one of the medics—but it was a losing battle. He was dripping sweat, which burned his eyes differently than the dust.

  His best friend, Booker Harris, gave him the signal to cross the street. From the minute they’d met, they’d trusted each other. Felt that whole “band of brothers” thing. Perhaps it was because they were both from Arkansas. They watched Razorback football together and reminisced about going to watch the horses race at Oaklawn in Hot Springs. In a hellhole like Iraq, talk of home kept a man from coming out of his skin.

  Jake took a deep breath and let it out before darting out from his position. As he cleared the opening in the alley, he heard the whine of bullet fire at his back. Pressing into the wall, he listened to the ricochet. Two bogies from the pattern of the bullet fire, sitting at three o’clock in the building across the narrow alley.

  His gut quivered. Other militants would come this way after learning Americans were in the area. They were in for a shit storm if they didn’t move fast.

  He signaled to Booker to cover him and waited for his friend to start firing in the direction of the militants. After the first discharge of bullets, Jake squeezed his eyes shut for a second and then pushed off the wall, running flat out. It was only twenty feet, but his heart was pounding in his chest, so loud he feared the enemy could hear it. And this damn alley was so narrow that it didn’t have any hidey-holes he could duck into for cover.

  Bullets punctured the alley, kicking loose stone, which jettisoned off the wall like projectiles. Looking up, he saw one of the militants peering over the edge of the third-story apartment building. The man disappeared from view after taking a hit from one of Booker’s bullets.

  Jake waited to see if there were any combatants hidden in the opposite building. He didn’t think so, but he made himself wait. Listen. Watch. When he was sure there weren’t, he signaled to Booker to run. They needed to clear that damn building fast.

  He angled his rifle in the position where he thought the second gunman was hunkered down and fired. He kept his eyes trained on the spot where Booker had taken out the other militant and continued to squeeze the trigger in methodical bursts. Jake never wasted ammunition. Not after he ran out on his first tour, when he was still young and stupid, and had to take some from a dead soldier.

  No one fired back as Booker raced across the space, but that didn’t mean anything. The enemy would know they’d blown their position. They were likely regrouping.

  Booker reached him and pressed his back against the wall. “We need to take out those fuckers,” he whispered harshly.

  Jake nodded and signaled for Booker to follow him. His gut told him the building’s entrance was to the west, around back. He briskly stepped over pieces of trash and bullet casings in the alley. When they reached the end of the building, there was a flash of something above them. Another combatant. Jake pressed back with Booker.

  He radioed in their location and situation and was relieved to hear some of their guys were only a block away. Of course, in this situation, a block might as well have been halfway around the world.

  An unnerving quiet fell in the streets, and he braced himself. He’d only learned the true meaning of “the calm before the storm” in Iraq.

  A spattering of bullet fire in their direction made him duck, praying all the while the bullets wouldn’t travel down the wall. The bullet fire continued as he crouched down. He heard his friend’s whoosh of breath and the horrible sound of bullets entering flesh.

  He’s hit.

  Ri
fle ready, Jake popped up, knowing their position was blown. He had no choice.

  He narrowed in on the man shooting at them in the street and took him down. A part of his brain registered that the combatant looked about fifteen years old.

  With his rifle in ready position, he checked the area for more combatants.

  “Booker,” he rasped out, not daring to look at his friend while he surveyed the area. “Talk to me, man.”

  There was no response, and he forced himself to go numb. Secure the area first. Then take care of his friend.

  When Jake knew the area was clear for the moment, he knelt beside Booker. His friend was slumped against the wall, a streak of red gore tracking his descent. Blood was gushing from his friend’s mouth. A bullet had punctured his neck. Jake’s gorge rose as he set his weapon aside and reached into his pack for a cloth. He pressed it to Booker’s torn flesh. The carotid artery spurted blood in his face, and Jake shivered from head to toe.

  “Jesus,” he said, wiping at the blood on his face. “Booker. Booker! Stay with me, man.”

  His friend remained unresponsive.

  “Booker’s down,” he called in. “I need a medic. Right now, dammit!”

  Then he heard the distinct scrape that told him another combatant was coming for him.

  His hand tightened on the cloth, but his instincts kicked in. Releasing his pressure on the wound, he grabbed his rifle and readied himself.

  When the combatant peered around the edge of the alley, Jake took him down with two taps to the chest. He listened to hear if any more were coming, his fingers itching to stop the blood gushing from Booker’s wound.

  When he felt it was all clear again, he set his rifle aside, grabbed the cloth, and pressed on the wound to stop the gush of bright-red blood from his friend’s neck. There was enough blood to soak the cloth and his hand.

  “Booker,” he ground out. “Dammit! Don’t you dare die on me.”

  A weak hand grabbed his, and he jumped. Booker’s brown eyes, filled with fear, met Jake’s. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a horrible moan and more blood.

  He’s not going to make it, he thought, not unless the medic comes stat. He pressed harder on the wound, feeling powerless. Men had died in his arms before, but it wasn’t the kind of thing that got easy.

  Jake turned to the only Person he knew who could change it—one he’d mostly stopped talking to amidst all the carnage and senseless killing of this damn war. “God! Do you hear me? Keep Booker alive until help arrives. Please. I’ll do anything you ask. I swear.”

  His friend gave a horrible choke and then his eyes went glassy.

  “No!” he called out. “Dammit, no. Come on, God. Help us!”

  Jake pressed harder on the wound, his fingers searching for a pulse. Maybe Booker wasn’t dead. Maybe he’d only fallen unconscious. Maybe God was keeping him alive until the medic could reach them.

  But Jake knew it was a lie.

  When he needed God the most, the Almighty had let him down. Again. How many times had he prayed for a fellow soldier to be saved? Too many to count. It was like God didn’t care enough about any of them to lift a finger. And if Jake hadn’t taken his hands off the wound to save himself, Booker might still be alive.

  Unable to locate a pulse, he slumped against the wall beside his friend and put his head in his hands. It’s not fucking fair. It should have been me. How am I going to face Booker’s wife and tell her I couldn’t bring her husband back? Darren, Randy, and Monty are going to be so upset when they find us. His close friends were only a few blocks away, clearing other buildings.

  His commander radioed him for an update. Jake made himself relay the news that Booker was gone. Another team was coming his way, he was told. He just needed to hang in there.

  Hang in there? What did it matter? Booker was dead.

  His hands were bathed in blood, and he couldn’t take his gaze off the torn flesh of Booker’s neck. He made himself close his friend’s eyes.

  Then he reached for his rifle like he knew he should. Like he’d been trained to do.

  But he didn’t care if anyone took him out.

  ***

  Jake awoke in a rush. His skin was clammy. His heart was pounding. And then he felt it. The horrible greasy nausea in his belly.

  He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. The inside of his mouth was dry, and though he knew it was a trick of his mind, he could taste the dust in that alley where Booker had died.

  When he turned on the bathroom light, he soaked in its warm glow. Even though he was thirty-three now, and Booker had died five years ago, he still couldn’t sleep in the dark after one of these nightmares.

  He turned on the cold water and leaned over the sink, plunging his sweaty head under the faucet. I’m not going to throw up. I’m not.

  But he did.

  There was no stopping it tonight. After it was over, he leaned his head on the toilet seat, praying the dry heaves would stop. They always hurt his throat, and as a country singer, he didn’t like anything harming his voice.

  Singing was his salvation. His music had healed him in a way he’d never imagined. He just wasn’t healed all the way yet.

  Tonight he wondered for the millionth time if he ever would be.

  He’d done everything he was supposed to do, from therapy to meds. And it had worked…to an extent. He wasn’t afraid to leave his house any more; he didn’t break into a cold sweat whenever he heard a loud noise; he no longer felt compelled to ignore phone calls and texts from worried friends; and he didn’t flash into a rage if someone cut him off on the highway.

  But nothing seemed to permanently stop the nightmares.

  This time, he’d gone six months without the dream of Booker coming back to haunt him.

  He’d been so hopeful the nightmares were gone for good… And that hope had given life to a new one.

  A few months ago, he’d met Susannah McGuiness, his friend J.P.’s sweet and beautiful sister. He’d fallen for her in the space of a few minutes. Her voice had wrapped around him like a cool breeze after a hot day, and her moss-green eyes had seemed to reach all the way into his tattered soul.

  She was as magical and creative as the fairy tale pictures she’d painted in a tree house for her niece and nephew. And she’d taken the photos of abused women and made them into a work of art for the charity concert he’d headlined with another country singer and friend.

  And then there was her smile. It was like a warm slice of apple pie, the kind that made everything good in the world after a backbreaking day. She was beautiful and funny too, and he was so crazy about her he could barely string together complete sentences in her presence.

  But because he hadn’t trusted himself to be completely cured of all his shit, he hadn’t asked her out on a date—even though he’d wanted to do that more than he’d wanted to win another Country Music Award.

  They’d worked on that charity concert together, and he’d even held her hand once. What a shock of attraction that had been! He’d never been so affected by an innocent touch. Still, he’d played it safe and asked her to redecorate his new house in Dare River, right outside Nashville. This way, he could see if he could be in her presence without risking a return of the nightmares. Because the strange thing about them was that they always came back when he was happy, when he started to let himself think he could form a full life for himself.

  He’d called off two relationships in the last five years because of the nightmares. There was no way he was going to do what his daddy had done to his mama. He’d seen the cracks in their relationship at an early age. The wild mood swings his Army colonel daddy blamed on anything from the dog barking too loud to the extra traffic in Little Rock, Arkansas as he drove home from work had been manifestations of his own PTSD, a topic rarely discussed at that time and never acknowledged by his tough-as-nails daddy.

  Then there was the way Daddy had treated his two sons, not giving them much choice about following in the family foot
steps by going into the Army. Jake’s older brother, Aaron, was still serving, and he was just like Daddy.

  No, Jake wasn’t going to let himself carry on that tradition.

  But with Susannah, he’d dared to let himself think things might be different. As each nightmare-free night had passed, the hope in his chest had bloomed bigger and brighter. An invitation lingered just behind his lips each time he and Susannah saw each other, and the look in her eyes told him that she wished it would voice itself.

  Now that was over. Another dream turned to ash.

  Susannah was supposed to come over to the house for her first consultation this morning. That must have been the trigger for the dream. When Jake was able to stand, he rinsed his mouth out and looked into the mirror. The jagged bullet scar on his shoulder seemed uglier in the light—his daily reminder of what he’d seen and done.

  “I vow I will never get involved with a woman again until I’m totally okay,” he reaffirmed to the harsh image of himself in the mirror.

  He put his hands under the faucet to wash them. But even though the water ran clear, to him it looked like Booker’s blood. His gut surged anew, and he stumbled to the toilet and dry heaved until his stomach muscles trembled.

  “God,” he said when he finally was able to push away.

  He hadn’t even gotten a brief interlude to believe in the possibility that he and Susannah could be together. It was over before it had even started, before he’d been able to push her long brown hair back behind her ear or kiss her sweetly on her rosy-red lips.

  His heart broke. It was like being doomed to a life of darkness.

  He was never ever going to be okay again.

  Chapter 2

  Susannah McGuiness schooled herself not to go gaga over Jake Lassiter on their first consult. Sure, he’d held her hand a couple of times, and when he looked at her, he made her feel like she was the only woman in existence. But he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in her romantically. If he had been, he would’ve asked her on a date instead of asking her to decorate his home in Dare River.