by Christa Wick
The ears twitch. Her body language is defensive.
Caiden grips my belt with both hands.
"We're gonna keep walking backward, Sarge. Slow and calm."
"What if I trip?"
The question trembles past his lips.
"You're not allowed to trip, Sarge. You keep one eye on the ground and one on those cats. The pilot is going to plant that chopper right in the middle. When he does, those cougars will tuck tail and run."
Reaching the rock face, we have nowhere left to retreat.
The cougars slink forward. Their swift pace shrinks my balls faster than an ice bath.
"Hey, cougars!" I shout. "Go home! You stink!"
I sound ridiculous, but shouting is part of disrupting the cats' hunting instinct. And, maybe because of the cavalier tone I adopt, Caiden stops shaking so hard.
"Yeah!" He shouts with me. "You stink! Go home!"
"We gotta look big, Sarge." I slowly wave my arms and keep shouting.
The adult female slows to a stop. Almost as tall, but leaner, the other cougar mimics its mother. The helicopter hovers a little off center of the animals at sixty or seventy feet off the ground.
"Why aren't they landing?"
"Just keep cool, Sarge."
Risking a glance up, I see a familiar body with coal black hair. Emerson has a rifle butt jammed against his shoulder and his eye pressed against the scope.
"Are they going to shoot it?" Caiden asks, a thread of distress binding his words.
"If they have to."
"With a tranquilizer, right?"
"No."
The kid releases a heart-wrenching groan at my reply.
The mama cougar looks ready to bolt into the woods.
"Hold this!" I shove the can of bear spray at Caiden then scoop up a fist-sized rock, my gaze staying locked on the cats.
I throw and shout at the same time.
"Go on! Git!"
The rock hits the hind end of the adult female. She leaps to the side then sprints all the way back to the tree line.
I find another big stone. I wave one arm, toss with the other.
It doesn't hit, but lands close enough to punch the dirt in front of the juvenile's face.
The cougar sneezes then begins to pace. It stops, studies us for a second, then advances in our direction. Reaching behind me, I grab the can of bear spray. Dust from the rotor wash whips in the air.
The cat creeps a few feet closer. At the tree line, its mother yowls. It is only a matter of time before she returns to protect her offspring.
Tightening my grip on the spray, I estimate the cougar's distance. The nozzle can hit approximately fifteen feet out, but the stream will last no longer than ten seconds. With the wind, I expect a lot of the canister's contents will blow back at us.
"Cover your eyes!" I shout. I don't know if I issue the order to protect him from the spray or the potential sight of Emerson putting a bullet through the animal's heart.
Probably both.
The cougar edges closer. Caiden presses his face against my back, his arms circling my waist.
I shout at the animal.
"Last chance, you mangy fur ball!"
I bring my arms straight out in front of me, just like some assassin in a video game rushing his target with two pistols spitting bullets as fast as he can pull the trigger.
Only, I don't have bullets, just a chemical spray and a loaded flare gun.
The cougar rushes me. I squeeze the trigger on the spray. A stream shoots forward. The cat tries to reverse direction. Running too fast, it trips and barrel rolls.
For half a second, a hundred-pound predator scrambles at my feet. Then it's off, running a haphazard streak, its path guided by the distressed calls of its mother.
I blink, eyes watering from the light mist of bear spray that blew back.
"We're good, Sarge," I say, squinting and guiding him further down the rock face. "You just keep your eyes closed a little bit longer. You don't want this stuff anywhere near them."
Or near his nose or tongue, I think, starting to drool and tear up even worse.
The chopper descends. I turn Caiden to face the plateau then curl around him so that the small gravel kicked up by the wash bites at my back instead of his.
When the skids hit the ground, I scoop the boy up and run for the helicopter, my gaze nervously jumping between our ride out of here and the woods where the cougars disappeared.
Emerson takes Caiden from me, pivots sharply and straps the boy into a seat. I jump aboard. The door slides shut and locks. Something big and fuzzy with a face full of red bristles hovers in front of me, tilting my head to the side and flushing my eyes.
"Is the boy injured?"
The mouth shouting into my ear belongs to Nygård.
"Bug bites, blisters." Ready to collapse, I push the doctor toward Caiden. "But check him again."
Nygård moves away from me. Emerson fills the void. Little brother guides me to another seat and straps me in. His fingers trace my torso. Spotting the bloody gash in the t-shirt, he lightly probes the surface of the bandage.
"Fuck," I growl, momentarily forgetting that Caiden is with us.
Emerson moves on, stopping when he reaches the splint.
"Don't even think about it," I warn.
He lifts his hands, signaling a truce. Snatching up a radio, he sinks into the last empty seat.
"Just need to give Mama a full report," he says right before I shut my eyes and fall fast asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dozing lightly, I wake when Caiden slides his fingers against my palm. I peel my eyes open. The roof of Mama's house fills my vision. I squeeze the boy's hand.
"Think they saved us some breakfast?"
His head bobs.
"Nope," Emerson jokes. "I ate it all."
Taking the remark seriously, Caiden scowls at my twin.
"Careful, baby brother. After the night me and Sarge had, those are fighting words."
The helicopter lands. A gaggle of females waits for us. There's Delia and Madigan, Mama, Siobhan, Betty Rae, and at least five more ladies from the Women's Planning Committee.
Seeing my head bob as I count each of the elderly women, Emerson laughs.
"The planning committee made sure the coffee kept flowing and everyone searching had some food to take with them."
The efforts undertaken to find him seem to suddenly dawn on Caiden. The corners of his mouth drop. His brow pinches.
He looks at me with a shamed gaze.
"I caused all this trouble?"
Again, I don't know what to say—especially because the boy doesn't interpret things the way another kid his age might.
"A lot of people were worried," I manage to answer at last. "Maybe we can come up with an idea on how to show our appreciation."
He nods, some of his anxiety alleviated. I stand and help him out of his seat harness as the rotor blades come to a stop. Emerson slides the door open and leaves first. I follow, then turn and grab Caiden, swinging him out and down.
Delia descends on the boy, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Seeing her tears splash against his cheek, I look away.
It's hard to watch all that love and pain. I know she would argue with me if I said it right now, but she is a great mom. And, while I don't have the full story on Madigan's childhood, I am glad Delia was there to help raise her up.
Reaching around Caiden, Delia grabs my hand and squeezes, her lips moving to thank me. I smile, step back, and accidentally bump Mama.
"I was waiting for you to realize I was here," she teases with tears in her voice.
I wrap her in a hug, suppressing a pained grunt when she accidentally hits the gash on my side. I'm hoping she doesn't notice the injury.
The hand is much harder to hide. With a tender touch, she grabs my elbow. She runs her fingers up to my wrist, then rotates my hand to examine the rushed splint job.
Nygård, just off the chopper, assures Mama and Delia
he will finish examining us and re-do all my self-care.
Once again, I urge him to deal with the boy first.
"We need to replenish his electrolytes," he agrees. Turning to Delia, Nygård gestures at the boy's lower half. "And you should check him for ticks."
A fresh shudder runs through Caiden.
"Doctor's right," Mama chimes in. "You let your mom check while I cook you up a big breakfast."
It's just the bribe Caiden needs. He follows Delia quiet as a lamb into the house.
I expect Madigan to leave with them, but she doesn't. In fact, I realize that she didn't touch Caiden at all.
Of course, Delia was exercising an absolute monopoly on the kid.
Still, why is Madigan here? I can't believe it was my brother who might have dragged her with him.
I turn, catch her gaze. Her hand shoots out, secures mine and squeezes. Her face holds a million nuances of emotion. I want to explore each one, but Mama turns her attention back to me. Maddy discreetly withdraws her hand.
"Jake is with Leah in her room."
Only mildly surprised by the preschooler's absence on the lawn, I nod.
"He was hoping you could visit her. She has been inconsolable, sobbing almost continuously. She's thrown up at least three times and I can barely get her to drink, let alone eat."
I nod again, leaving Mama with Madigan and the ladies of the Women's Planning Committee.
Reaching Leah's room, I hear the dainty sniffles of heartbreak through the closed door. I knock. Jake's deep baritone bids me enter.
"Sutty!"
My name is more a sob than a word. I cross the room quickly and sit on her bed. She climbs onto my lap straight away and clings to me.
"Did you find that boy?"
"Yes, Honey Bee. Caiden is down in Gam-Gam's kitchen with his mom and the new doctor."
Her head bobs. The green eyes look pale and bloodshot. Her skin is splotchy, a network of spidery, broken capillaries attesting to the hours she has spent crying.
"I asked my mom to keep you and that boy safe. Did she?"
"Yes," I rasp as Jake, seemingly extraneous to his daughter's happiness or sorrow, slips through the open door and into the hall.
"That boy's daddy help, too?"
"Yes. He and your mom lifted my flare up so high that the pilot had to see it."
She offers a trembling smile.
"Was his daddy really the butterfly?"
The question is a trap of sorts. It was the damn butterfly and my beloved Aunt Dotty's musings during Volunteer Day that served as the catalyst to yesterday's misadventures.
When I don't answer right away, Leah pushes the question at me again.
I stare into the green eyes. For four years, the little girl has been raised up in the same faith in which my parents raised me. For one so young, she has suffered far too much heartbreak. She needs to believe in the butterfly, the mysterious appearance of the two feathers, and the magic of sunlight rippling on the water.
But it's hard for me to answer. It's hard for a soldier to fight a war and keep the faith he started with. The men I served alongside—some of them found God for the first time, others lost him.
"Is it even possible?" Leah asks.
"Honey Bee, if you see a butterfly and think it's your mom, chasing it won't get you closer to her."
Fresh tears begin to well. I brush a thumb across her cheek.
"You have something better than butterflies. All you have to do is quiet your mind and open your heart. That's a gift you can use at any time."
Placing her hand on my chest, I show Leah how to take deep breaths.
"Now close your eyes," I coach. "See your mom. Long red hair, the color dark like mine and Addy's."
Eyes shut, Leah nods.
"Green eyes, just like you and me and Gam-Gam. When your mama smiles, her cheeks swell bigger and there is a little line that crinkles across the bridge of her nose."
I stroke a finger against the same spot on Leah's face then continue building a picture of Dawn, not just how she looked but how she was.
"Her laugh sounds just like silver bells, and—"
Leah stops me with a whisper. "I see you, Mama."
Her head bobs. The lips continue moving like she's deep in conversation with someone. Then her mouth wriggles with fresh pain.
"Please visit daddy so he's not so sad."
Her sweet, selfless prayer hits me in the gut. Except for Leah and Mama, I've been more than a little closed off since I exited the Army. It's not so bad with most of my family, but I was away when Dawn met and married Jake. And the man was always guarded.
It doesn't matter that I now know and understand his reasons. Since my return home, I have viewed him as nothing more than a ghost, his presence less visible than my dead sister's absence.
Starting today, that all changes—for Jake's sake and for Leah's.
Cupping the side of my face, she looks up.
"Do you think my mama heard me?"
Holding Leah to me, I kiss her cheek.
"Honey Bee, I know she did."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Leaving Leah's room, I find Madigan in the hall. She holds her lips rolled tight. The eyes are downcast, the cheeks flushed. When she looks up, the topaz gaze is shiny with the threat of tears.
I yearn for the right to take her in my arms and offer her the comfort she so clearly needs.
"Doctor Nygård is done with Caiden," she rasps. "He's ready to see you."
"And you?" I ask, remembering her unusual behavior after the helicopter landed. Of all the people there, I was the only one she touched, albeit fleetingly.
"Can we talk a little later?" She delivers the request with a jittery sigh. "Your mom is driving Adler and Emerson crazy, but I'm pretty sure it's you she wants to keep hugging."
I nod. Maddy eyes the rip in my shirt, her gaze contouring its bloodied edges and the size of the bandage beneath.
Taking a firm grip on my hand, she leads me down the hall.
"Doctor first."
Madigan leaves me with Nygård. When he finishes, Mama is there to claim me. She squeezes me then rubs her hands over my face like she's gone blind. When she cups the sides of my head, it is with considerable pressure.
She offers a little shake.
It's hard to tell if I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble with her, or if she just wants to chain me to her side so I won't do anything like yesterday ever again.
I get my answer when Mama hugs me.
"I think you have some things to make up for with Teddy."
"I was just the angel sitting on his shoulder, Mama. He came back a hero. He's got bragging rights for the rest of his life for how he kept that bird up in the air!"
She rolls her eyes and laughs. "Angel my double-wide biscuits. And he's sixty-nine…so you better make sure he has plenty of opportunities to brag."
I kiss her forehead then extricate myself from her arms.
"I believe I have another niece hiding somewhere in this house—and I haven't seen her, let alone held her in my arms."
Mama drops the lecture and leads me to the nursery. Sage sits in a cozy chair with her feet up and a contented smile on her face. The baby is in Siobhan's arms as she sits in the rocking chair.
Grinning, my cousin looks up at me. "Told you I'd get to hold her first, loser."
Reaching the rocking chair, I motion her to get off her butt and hand me the baby.
"Come on, give her up."
"Fine," Siobhan laughs as the infant grunts. "I'm pretty sure she just made a homecoming present for her Uncle Sutty."
Taking the baby, I lower my weary body onto the rocking chair. Her red hair is fine as down. The midnight blue eyes are open and slowly blinking.
Sage moves until she is perched on the edge of the ottoman and within arm's reach of her daughter. She strokes the infant's head once then meets my gaze.
"Sutton Lee Turk, allow me to introduce you to your niece, Dorothea Isabelle Turk."
"Hello, Dotty Belle."
Mama laughs. Sage groans.
Dotty Belle just squirms and offers another grunt. This time it's clear what the little stinker has done.
"I've got her," Mama offers. Bending to retrieve the baby, she feathers a kiss on my forehead. "You and I aren't done talking, but I'll give you a day's reprieve."
A look at Sage reveals that she is still fatigued from the birth and the chaos that followed. I give her hand a gentle pat.
"You need to get some rest, little mama. Nygård said the last of the searchers are rounded up, moving together in large groups and safely on their way back. All the excitement is done. Enjoy your daughter and take care of yourself."
She rolls her hand so her palm curls upward around mine. There's a flash of reprimand in her eyes, but then she laughs and clasps my hand more firmly.
"I seem to remember that your last return home after some scary heroics were followed by a wedding not long after."
Her tired face brightens with a cheeky grin.
I kiss her cheek and whisper.
"Don't jinx it, dear sister."
Feeling like I have a short window of time before someone drags me somewhere to lecture or advise or hug the stuffing out of me, I go in search of Madigan.
I check the guest rooms, the library, the great room and kitchen. When I do find Maddy, it is nowhere I would have expected—in the playroom next to Sage's office.
Leah is not only with her, but resting in Madigan's arms. They sit on a jumbo bean bag, one of the preschooler's beloved books closed and to the side.
They don't notice me at first. I stand quietly and watch. Leah is whispering, telling Madigan about my sister Dawn. Madigan listens intently. The exchange between them is sweet to watch—and wholly remarkable.
It is remarkable because Leah is touching Madigan, the trace of the child's fingers against the curve of Maddy's cheek as soft as her whispers. She touches Maddy's ear, examines a lock of the thick red hair, then plants a palm against Maddy's cheek before repeating the process.
From the little I know of Maddy's past reactions to my own touches and from observations of the same sensory issues with Caiden, Maddy should be climbing the wall.
