Silent Heart

by Amy Lane

  Damien swore and went to his knees, propping his good one up, using the tree they were by to lean on until he could push up on one leg, then trying weight on his bad one. It was awkward and ungainly and—

  “Is that all?” Preston demanded. “Oh my God. I’m going to have to teach the dogs to wipe my ass. If that’s the only show I get to see, that’s not nearly as bad as what I’ve got going.”

  Jesus. “If I find the dog wiping your ass, it’s over between us,” Damien snapped. “Now hang on a minute while I figure out how I’m going to get you up.”

  Preston rolled his eyes and pulled both feet underneath him, standing from a squat without much problem at all.

  “That’s disgusting,” Damien muttered. “That’s really disgusting.”

  “I spend most of my time running with the dogs,” Preston said guilelessly.

  “I don’t even know if I’m talking to you.”

  “My thighs and calves are really well developed.” Oh, that smug bastard.

  “Just stand there and look pretty while I load and saddle the horses.” Damien felt like sticking out his tongue, but that would be childish and wrong. He gave Preston a sour look as he set about his chores and was surprised by Preston’s expression.

  “What? What is that face?” He could swear it was Preston’s sunshiniest smile.

  “Damien’s back,” Preston said happily. “I missed him.”

  “I’m right here. Dying to find your brother so I can kick his ass.”

  “I’m so happy!” Preston said.

  Damien couldn’t help it. Before he set to work, getting their food out first, he grinned back. And winked.

  Preacher Gets a Say

  IT took them a while to get started. Damien actually had to sew his horse’s reins back together because he’d apparently cut them the night before in his hurry to get away from the flash flood.

  After Preston relieved himself and brushed his teeth, Damien gave him his tablet while he worked, and the meditation time helped, but as the sun rose higher in the sky—and the heat became more and more oppressive—Preston got more and more impatient. He managed to wait until Damien was ready to go before he begged him to check the satellite phone for a message from Glen.

  “Nothing from Glen,” Damien said, looking. “But Buddy left a text. He said he found someone with a crop duster near where he’s camping out. If we can find a strip to land the plane, he can fly it here.”

  “I haven’t seen anything like that,” Preston said. Scrub on the side of the mountain, trees on the ridge, and the road that was a five-foot swath of dust at its most generous. “There was nothing on the satellite either.”

  Damien frowned. “I wonder….” He bit his lip and texted for a moment, smiling when he got the answer back. “Good.” He texted again, then turned the phone off to save power. “I asked him to be ready to fly one of us to Las Varas. Buddy can fly a plane fine, but he doesn’t know squat about choppers. If we need to relay to get to the helicopter, Buddy’ll be ready.”

  He put the phone back in his duffel and double-checked the packing before giving all the horses an alfalfa cube for energy.

  “You ready for help on the horse?” he asked, and Preston tried not to groan.

  “This show’s gonna be better than your show,” he said glumly.

  Damien had no idea how graceful he was, even when he was struggling with his injury. Preston felt like a tree—and it was worse now with his shoulder sending shooting pains to his neck every time the bones rubbed together. His wrist was one big swollen ache too.

  “Here. Let’s walk the horses for a bit. See those rocks up the trail? I’ve got an idea.”

  The boulders were scattered on the downslope of the mountain like God’s marbles, and Preston was pretty sure he knew what the idea was. Sure enough, Damien led Chewie to a medium-sized boulder, one Preston had no trouble climbing, even without his hands. Once there, Damien held the horse still while Preston lay down on his stomach across the saddle and then swung his leg around so he was facing forward.

  “I’m going to hold on to his reins too,” Damien said. “If I had a saddle, I’d tie them to the pommel, but I don’t, so it might be slow going for a little. Once we get to Hole in the Rock, maybe we can buy a new saddle, or find another way to get you back to where Buddy’s waiting with the trailer.”

  Preston shook his head, feeling useless. It was the logical thing to do. He was going to slow them down on horseback, and they didn’t even know how Glen was doing. But he didn’t want to leave Damien. He knew it was superstition—he knew Damien wouldn’t just ghost him—but he finally had him. They’d finally been together, and Damien seemed to want to stay. More than that, Damien seemed happy to stay. Joking and bullshitting and teasing. The Damien that Preston had first been attracted to like a lodestone was there with him. Preston didn’t want to jinx that in any way, and dammit, riding a horse with broken bones hurt.

  A thing Damien seemed to know instinctively, as he set their pace a little faster than a walk, a little slower than a canter. Preston held on with his knees and thighs, bracing with his core until he thought his stomach muscles were going to pop out of his back. They both knew he was toast if Chewie decided to rear up or give them any trouble whatsoever, but Damien had such a handle on SnakeEyes that his horse didn’t even look back to nip.

  Preston could only be grateful.

  They rode steadily, and broke to water the horses and have a snack about two hours in. Preston stayed on Chewie’s back, because no matter how bad his ass was aching, the fire in his collarbone and wrist was even worse. The sun was just starting to get high when the terrain around them changed just a little, leveling out so the road widened. What appeared to be businesses on either side—many of them modest buildings made of wood and brick—were no longer standing, including a larger building at the end of the road that might have been a brick church, once functional and friendly.

  Today, all of them were collapsed, as well as most of the buildings on the street.

  The church had been large enough to hold the entire town, and what looked to be half the population was outside, rooting among the rubble and calling out names.

  “The whole town,” Damien murmured. “Holy wow.”

  Preacher gave an excited bark at the new people, and then he whined, pawing the ground like he wanted to work.

  “They’re trying to find survivors,” Preston said softly. Or bodies. “Damien, tell them to let Preacher help!”

  Damien sped the horses up, then came to a stop in front of the large group of people in front of the church, most of whom had paused in their rescue efforts to turn toward him. He spoke rapidly to the crowd, and a middle-aged woman wearing tattered jeans and a T-shirt stepped forward, wiping sweat from a face made haggard with lack of sleep and worry. Damien talked to her intently, and she nodded a couple of times, then spoke to the crowd. All of them looked at the dog and then at Preston, with his arm in a sling. Preston raised his bandaged wrist, and a few of the larger men stepped forward, arms raised, and Preston looked to Damien, who was sliding off his horse stiffly, the discomfort of the ride without the saddle marking every move.

  “What do they want?” Preston asked, feeling helpless. He wasn’t great with words anyway, but he didn’t even speak this language.

  “Trust them,” Damien said. “They’ll catch you. Just lean sideways and they’ll help you off the horse.”

  Preston swallowed and wondered if this was how Damien felt when Preston asked him to trust that they could be together. He was putting himself in the hands of people who might not be able to catch him.

  Preston could catch Damien—he had to have a little faith.

  He shifted his weight to the left, and the arms lifted into the air caught him, being very careful of his injured shoulder as they lowered him to the ground.

  Oh, the blessed, blessed ground.

  He actually stomped his feet a couple of times, trying to stop that subtle feeling of movement from maki
ng him wobble. Horses. Chewie had been great for the last bit, but Preston was a long way from being excited about getting back in the saddle.

  Damien’s steadying hand on his good shoulder helped him get his bearings. “We’ll start around the church,” he said softly. “Because it collapsed during the first earthquake. But your brother and Cash were last seen near the general store yesterday morning. It’s the only place with cell reception and….” He grimaced.

  Preston didn’t even have to ask what that face was. “The aftershock hit when he was texting us.” He swallowed. “Glen’s smart,” he said.

  “And Cash sounds like a survivor. Let’s let Preacher do his job here first, and go check out the store.”

  A hard decision. Probably the right one, but not an easy one to make.

  Preston took a deep breath and whistled sharply for his dog. “Can you get the treats out of Sunshine’s packs?” he asked. Preacher showed up at his feet, and Preston held his bandaged hand like there was a reward between his fingers and gestured toward the church. “Preacher—mark!”

  And that was it. Preacher took off, sniffing and whining. Within five minutes he’d stopped at a sloping rise that indicated a fallen wall. He barked three times and sat, pawing at the ground nearby, and Preston shouldered Damien happily on his good side before going to give his boy a reward.

  Damien called out to the woman he’d spoken to, and she marshaled the townspeople. As a group, they gathered under what was left of the wall supports and lifted, creating a tiny triangle of space between the wall and the debris underneath it.

  A child was the first one to crawl out, sobbing and battered, but alive.

  Then a roar went up from the township, and Damien grabbed one of the beach towels and a bottle of water, then handed them to the tearful man—possibly a relative—who had helped the child emerge.

  Preacher barked again, and another child came out, followed by a mother, and two teenagers behind her.

  Damien pulled supplies for each of the victims, and Preacher paced and whined in an anxious circle.

  “Good boy. Leave it. You can leave it now. We’re good.” Preston fondled Preacher’s ears and gave him another small treat, and then whistled again and gave the command, “Preacher, mark!”

  Two more times Preacher found a place in the rubble that housed an air pocket, and six more people were helped out. Preacher loved finding live targets—the children, in particular, wanted to pet him, lavish him with love, and Preacher licked their faces, much as he’d licked Preston’s the night before.

  Comfort. It was the lesson all dogs knew in their bones.

  And it was needed—because the dogs trained in search and rescue got depressed when their targets didn’t move. The dogs used after the 9/11 disaster had needed people new to them to pretend to be lost so they could find someone and know that people could be okay.

  Preston tried not to hold his breath and hope that Glen would be a happy find and not a sad one.

  In the meantime, Preacher circled the church once more as Damien and the woman in charge conversed about who was left.

  “One more,” Damien said. “Preston, there’s one more person in there—”

  And then Preacher went to ground.

  He dropped, resting his chin on his paws, and whined.

  Oh no.

  He was better at finding live targets, but Preacher was a smart dog. He knew the signal for targets that weren’t moving.

  “Damien?” Preston hated that signal.

  Damien took a look at Preacher’s attitude and nodded soberly. “I’ll tell her,” he said. “They’re missing an elderly man. I don’t think they’re surprised.”

  And with that, Damien spoke in low tones to the town’s leader, his face a study in compassion. The woman’s face crumpled, and Preston’s stomach churned. Oh, poor woman. This man was someone she’d loved. Damien squeezed her shoulder, and she launched herself at him, sobbing. He held her for a moment, because he was all that was kind, and called out to one of the men helping people from under the last spot Preacher had found.

  The man trotted over—he must have been the woman’s husband because he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and issued some sharp orders to the people around them. The remainder of the searchers moved to where Preacher whined, his depression at finding a nonviable target palpable.

  Damien and Preston locked eyes, and Damien turned toward the woman’s husband, speaking quickly. The man nodded and jerked his chin toward a solid building about two hundred yards away. Damien moved to where Sunshine was standing patiently as rescue workers pulled out water and beach towels from her travois, and he gathered up a bag full of water, saltines, and beach towels for himself. Then he looked at Preston and nodded.

  Preston whistled sharply, twice, and gestured with his bandaged wrist toward the building.

  “Preacher, mark!”

  Preacher leapt up from his vigil by the church and went loping off into the distance. Preston pulled in a painful breath.

  “I hope he only does that once,” he said softly.

  “God, me too,” Damien muttered. “Glen, you asshole, you’d better be okay.”

  Preacher started barking excitedly, bounding around the demolished store with his tail wagging.

  Damien and Preston looked at each other with painful hope and began a slow jog toward the ruins.

  Love on the Run

  “DAMIEN, you asshole, I know that’s you out there! Preston, come get your fucking dog and let me out of here!”

  Glen’s voice, echoing out from under a downed wall, was one of the sweetest things Damien had ever heard. Well, besides Preston’s voice after Damien had come down from the mountaintop, that is.

  “Glen!” Damien called out as he neared the fallen structure. “The fuck you doing there, man!”

  “Trying not to bleed out. What sort of asshole question is that?” Glen sounded weak and irritated, and while the weak was worrisome, the irritated was a blessing.

  It meant he was okay for the moment, and Damien could work with that.

  “Preston, your brother’s an asshole,” he said as Preston drew near.

  “I knew that. Is he okay?” Preston sounded winded, and Damien figured between the altitude and the pain, he probably had the right to be.

  “He’s hurt!” came a man’s voice, younger than Glen’s and shaky. “His shoulder’s squashed and bleeding, and he’s hot.”

  “Dammit, Cash, I’m fine,” Glen said, but he didn’t sound convincing.

  “You’re not, and it’s my fault.”

  Damien raised his eyebrows and looked at Preston, who shook his head. Neither of them was going there. Whatever was happening between Glen Echo and Cash Harper was obviously not their jam.

  “I’m gonna lay this one at the feet of God,” Damien called, because judging from the layers of debris, Damien had enough work to do. It appeared a wall had fallen wholesale—no breaking or convenient crumbling. He was going to have to lift up a corner and see if Cash and Glen could be pulled out from under the entire thing. But if the wall had fallen on Glen, things could be tricky. “Now, guys, someone needs to tell me where to lift so I don’t squash you!”

  “I’m pinned under a counter at the southeast corner of the building,” Glen called. “Cash is mostly under a metal shelf. It’s protecting him from most of the pressure, but I’ve got half the goddamned building on my shoulder.”

  “What happens when we lift from the southeast?” Damien asked, searching the rubble for leverage to try just that.

  “It all shifts to his back!” Cash called out.

  “So that’s a bad idea.” Damien moved to the other side of the wall, where Preacher was digging frantically. “How about here?” He bent his knees and tried a corner of the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg and lifting with his shoulders, back, and core.

  “Augh!” Glen’s scream, ripped from a shredded throat, made him stop in a hurry.

  “Okay, then. Fuck.” He closed his eyes, e
nvisioning the problem. The wall was resting on the counter that was resting on Glen—he needed it to rest on something higher. Think, Damien, think! “Fulcrum,” he said after a moment. “We need a fulcrum next to Glen that will take some of the pressure when I lift from here. Cash, you got anything?”

  “The shelf I’m under would wor—”

  “Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” Glen panted. “All the fuckin’ trouble I went to, keeping you safe?”

  “Not worth it,” Cash sobbed, and Damien growled.

  “Shut up, Cash. Glen says you’re worth it, you’re worth it. Now hold up. I see some cinder blocks.”

  Oh God—heavy. He dragged the first one to the corner of the wall and shoved it in, then got down on his stomach and peered into the darkness until he spotted a pile of dusty, blood-stained khaki shirt.

  “There you are, asshole,” he said into the sweltering cave of debris. “Thought you could get out of work next week?”

  “What are you doing down here, gimpy?” Glen asked, turning his head so Damien could look into his hooded blue eyes. So much like Preston’s, but with a big dose of snarky bastard where Preston had directness, and a little dash of snake-shit mean. “Why isn’t my gigantic brother helping you out?”

  “He fell off another goddamned horse,” Damien told him, shoving at the cinder block until Glen grunted as it pushed against him. “Broke his wrist and his collarbone.”

  Glen’s shoulders shook under the weight of the wall. “Fuckin’ figures. Tell him to stay off the damned things.”

  “No, no—he’s got plans. He’s gonna get them for the ranch. We’re gonna go riding together.” Damien kept talking, because if he and Glen were talking, Glen wasn’t hurting.

  “Invite me to the wedding. I’ll try to be busy that day.”

  “You’ll be the best man and love it. Now shut up. I’m going to get another block.”