Chapter 4

Dustin swallowed some pain and antidepressant medicines. He removed his sneakers, shucked his jeans, and unhooked his prosthetic lower leg and foot. Today was the longest he’d worn the apparatus, and after removing the protective covering for his stump, he was almost glad to have the air from the ceiling fan hit it. He tugged on the shrinker, or elastic sock, to aid in circulation while his pain meds worked and he slept.

The room ZQ assigned him was thankfully on the ground floor with a private bathroom. Two exits—one to the rest of the house and one leading outside—were designed for making life easier. There was a king-sized bed, nightstand, chest of drawers, and closet. Nothing fancy, but adequate, and Dustin suspected things were set up that way to encourage men to leave their rooms and interact with others. The Old Man always had a reason for doing things—like taking him to that decrepit bookstore today.

A large wad of shame niggled at his gut as he replayed the scene in his mind. He couldn’t deny he’d acted like an ass. The experience at the McDonald’s earlier still had him in a foul mood when he stomped into the bookstore, and he’d taken it out on someone who’d tried to be kind. Kelcee had never once stared at his scars or treated him different in any way.

Even though they’d exchanged heated words, there were some things about her he found intriguing, but in his condition it was best not to go there. He wouldn’t wonder how long or soft her strawberry blond hair was when it was free from the tight bun she wore it in today. Nor would he think about how the golden flecks in her green eyes, ignited with anger, made him want to provoke her more, just to see the beautiful phenomenon again. And for damn sure, he didn’t want to consider how her plush curves would feel against his body.

For the first time since the explosion, he hardened at the thought of a woman. Nice to know that part of his anatomy still worked. Too bad it would take a special kind of woman to want him now—scars, stump, and mood swings.

What he really wanted to know was why she carried a load of wariness on her soft shoulders. As usual, ZQ was right. She was hiding from someone.

Moving her checkout counter with an extension for her computer to one of the windows would be ideal. With this setup, she’d be near the door to greet her customers. He could imagine a comfortable upholstered chair in the corner for her to sit on and read when business was slow.

Why was she worried about being easily seen from the street? She mentioned sitting on the front porch when business was slow. What was the difference? The difference was fear. Fear made you think in a skewed way. Normal things didn’t make sense when you were frightened out of your wits. Maybe he needed to sketch the idea out and present it to her again. She might open up about why she didn’t want to be stationed in front of the windows.

He rolled to his side and reached for the pad of graph paper Kelcee had given him and then snatched his cellphone off the nightstand. Time to man up. He dialed the number she’d written on the back of the tablet in neat penmanship using purple ink, with flowers doodled around it, scrolls and all. She was a whimsical person, hiding something behind it. He could sense it in her eyes and hear it in her voice when she protested moving the register to the window.

“Bookstore by the Falls. How can I help you today?”

“Kelcee, this is Dustin Franks. I was in earlier.” He stretched out on his back, allowing the pain medicines to do their thing.

There was a pause. “Why, yes. The man with the tiny teacup and the gigantic attitude.”

He almost burst out laughing. The spitfire wasn’t going to make this easy. What the hell, he was used to tough. “I called to apologize for the way I acted earlier. When I get tired or have a surprise sprung on me, my PTSD rears its ugly head. I just called to tell you there’s not a thing wrong with your ass.”

There was another pause and then laughter, warm and rich, seeped into the fissures of his frozen soul. “I can not believe you just said that.” Her laughter continued and he smiled.

“What, no man’s ever complimented you on your curves?”

“Well, no, not over the phone. You are one piece of work, Dustin Franks. Or should I call you Dust, like ZQ does?”

He was suddenly dealing with a jolt of something ugly. Who the hell had flattered her figure? Settle your ass, man. You just met her and it did not go well.

“Dustin is fine. We used a lot of nicknames in our SEAL team, but now that I’m on medical leave, Dustin works.”

“How long do you expect to be on leave?”

“I go back to the medical center in San Antonio for another eval in two months. We’ll talk then about my taking a desk job or a medical discharge. I think my SEAL days are up unless I work extra hard in therapy and on my own.”

“Wow. If you had your choice…”

“I’d go back in a heartbeat. Fighting beside my team brothers is where I belong.” His moods were swinging madly from normal to jealousy to depression. It was time for him to end the call before more of his demons surfaced. “I just wanted to call and clear the air. Give me a few days to settle in before I start working on your plans. Then I’ll be around to suggest some simple ways to spruce up your shop. Okay?”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want to do, yes.” Her voice had a breathy quality to it over the phone. He’d noticed it in the bookstore, too, but had been so agitated, he refused to acknowledge how it affected him. Hell, he’d responded to the whole feminine package, something he wasn’t prepared for or happy with so soon after his divorce.

“When would be the best time for me to come? Around closing time? Then maybe you’d allow me to take you to dinner to make up for the way I acted today.” His hand slapped over his eyes. I did not just ask this blondie-redhead out on a freakin’ date.

“It’s going to take me awhile to get used to being out in public, but I can’t hide forever. As a certain fiery redhead said, ‘I need to get over myself.’ ”

“Well, I should apologize for that needless remark. You have PTSD to deal with. I’ve got my redheaded temper, even though one would call me a strawberry blonde. I guess we both regret things we say and do from time to time.”

She’s an understanding soul.

“How about giving me a week or so to work on some ideas, then I’ll have a few plans ready for you to look over. Normally it wouldn’t take me that long, but I also have therapy every day for another month, every other day for a month after that.”

“Okay. I close at six, noon on Wednesdays. I’m closed all day on Sundays. If you have any questions, just call.”

“I will. Thanks for forgiving my attitude earlier.” He ended the call, relieved the apology was over.

Someone knocked on his door, waking him from a nightmare. Or was it part of the dream? As point man, he’d just entered the building with Wysocki behind him. It was room-entry work, a SEAL specialty craft, safely clearing a house room by room. In one, a toddler sat on the floor crying. Wysocki, father to three, never noticed the trip wires across the baby’s legs before he reached to pick him up to console him. The knocking repeated; thank God, the dream faded before the explosion hit. Dustin rubbed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Supper’s in fifteen minutes. Mom’s outdone herself to cook you a nice welcome meal.”

Dustin sat on the edge of the bed, his arms and hands trembling. “Okay. Thanks.”

“There are some clean clothes in the drawers if you want to freshen up before we eat. It’s up to you. There’s a safety bar in the shower if you want to take a quick one.”

He almost felt like a new man, rested and scrubbed clean, when he followed his nose toward the food and soft conversation.

“Take the biscuits out of the oven, Zane. JJ, there’s iced tea in the fridge. I’d be right pleased if you’d pour.” A gray-haired woman in a pair of faded jeans and a red plaid top set a platter of fried chicken on the table, glanced up, and beamed a smile. “Is this my new boy?” She came at him with open arms. “You know I always wanted lots of children, but the good Lord only gave me one.” She winked at Dustin. “I have to admit, at times, Zane was almost too much for any mother to handle and I’d have to go to bed with a migraine. May I hug you in welcome, Dustin?”

“I’d be honored.” He leaned into warm, strong arms and she patted his back.

“My name is June, but my love, bless his dear departed soul, always called me Junebug, so now most everyone does.” She rested a palm with gnarled fingers on Dustin’s chest. “You will, too, okay?” Her bright red lips curled into a smile. “I hope you like fried chicken and homemade apple pie.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

She waggled a crooked finger at him. “The name’s Junebug.” She pointed to a chair. “This will be your chair, next to JJ’s.”

He sat at the oval oak table in the large country kitchen. “Guys, I’ll take Kelcee’s drawing back. I called earlier to apologize and told her I’d bring in some ideas next week sometime for her to look over.”

JJ worked his way around the table, filling the glasses with tea. “Sounds good. Plan is on the coffee table in the living room. The commander was hoping you’d change your mind.”

“Your work will be better than ours, but don’t be afraid to ask for assistance. Even a lead carpenter has carpenter helpers.” ZQ reached for a basket to put the biscuits in. That’s when Dustin noticed he was in his bare feet and wore an artificial foot of sprinter carbon spring.

Before he had a chance to filter his words, the questions were out, hanging in the air between them. “When did you lose your foot? Where? How?”

“Afghanistan.” ZQ shrugged a shoulder as if it were no big deal. “Remember when most of the team left our position in the mountains of Hindu Kush? I stayed behind with the master chief to finish packing up our larger gear and communications equipment. When the helicopter came to load it and haul us off, we were ambushed. I got this little wound plus a couple rounds in the shoulder. I was sent home for a patch job.”

“But you went back.” And I’ve been whining my ass off as if this man has never taken a bullet in his life. Don’t I feel like a self-centered, childish bastard?

ZQ set the basket of biscuits on the table and slumped into the head chair. “Gotta admit going back wasn’t easy. Won’t be easy for you either, my brother. I had to prove I could do the job. You know how it is, Dust, staying a SEAL is hard as hell. I was years older than those young farts going through their initial training. Plus, getting used to running and swimming with a prosthesis was a bitch.”

Hell, Dustin knew that. Nothing was as good as the original body equipment.

ZQ fiddled with his fork. “What I have on now, I use for running. For swimming, I have to change into another style. I had to go through part of BUD/S again. The only thing that helped was my cunning and knowledge.”

JJ sat on the other side of Dustin. “What he means is he could barely cut the mustard.” All three men laughed, comfortable in picking on each other.

“But none of the team heard about it.” Dustin shifted to look at JJ. “Did you know? Scuttlebutt between most of the guys was our officer in charge was going through some special training and would join us once that was completed.”

“I’d heard the same thing you did, man. I think ZQ was afraid we’d call him a one-footed bastard behind his back.”

“How could I possibly keep the respect of my team as their OIC if they looked on me as anything less than ready for battle? Let’s change the subject. This is damn boring.” The commander never did like talking about himself.

“Not to me. I love hearing about my son’s SEAL life.” Junebug carried over a bowl of mashed potatoes. Then she placed two clean chrome dog’s dishes—one full of dry food and the other full of water and ice cubes—at the empty chair at the foot of the table. JJ nodded and Nance quietly jumped onto the chair. Junebug stood behind the dog and tied a bib around her furry neck. I can’t believe I’m seeing this. A goddamn bib on a SEAL service dog.

Junebug sat and looked at Dustin. “In this house, we say grace before we eat and hold hands while the head of the family prays.” She reached over and ZQ took his mom’s hand, and when she extended her other hand toward Nance, the dog placed his paw on top of hers, as if the canine knew what all was happening. Nance did the same for JJ’s hand and he whispered what a good girl she was. She licked his thumb and looked at him with adoring eyes.

If that dog mutters “amen,” I will shit myself laughing.

As they passed the food, Nance concentrated on emptying her two bowls. She did stop once and sniff at the platter of fried chicken when it crossed the table in front of her. JJ snapped his fingers, and her muzzle quickly dipped into her food dish again.

Dustin shook his head in amazement at how well JJ still had Nance trained. The retired SEAL had worked with Nance from the time she was a little pup. JJ was her parent, her boss, and her best friend.

Conversation turned to ranch talk and that Gina Wilson, the physical therapist, was coming in the morning to work with Junebug and evaluate Dustin. Meanwhile, he enjoyed the best meal he’d had since he’d left home. Although he had to admit, as he reached for his third biscuit, his mother couldn’t make them like Junebug. But, then, Mom’s came from a tube.

Once Nance’s bowls were empty, she woofed at JJ, who stood and untied the bib that said, “I love my daddy.” JJ opened the back door and Nance pranced outside.

Dustin leaned back in his chair, full as a tick, and grinned at ZQ. “Was Nance wearing one of your old bibs?”

ZQ rolled his eyes.

“Why, yes, she was,” Junebug chirped in that cheery way she had about her. “I’ve kept all of my son’s things, boxed and labeled in the attic. Is everyone ready for pie?”

ZQ stood and kissed his mother’s forehead. “You sit and rest, Momma. Talk to Dust. I’ll clear the table and bring the pie for you to cut.”

JJ grabbed Nance’s bowls. “I’ll bring the coffee and cups. Wait until you taste Junebug’s coffee. If you thought her homemade biscuits were out of this world, which they are”—he leaned over and kissed her silver hair—“just wait until you take your first sip of her java.”

Junebug must have captivated JJ’s heart. Dustin never imagined the quiet, solemn man could be as open and easygoing as he was with this older woman.

A smile deepened the wrinkles of her cheeks and she fiddled with the button on her cotton blouse. “See how they spoil me? Austin, that’s my late husband, and I tried for years to have a baby until, finally, we’d given up. Then one morning I got sick”—her blue eyes glistened with joy—“and I just knew we were finally getting our miracle.”

ZQ set the pie, a large knife, and dessert plates in front of her. “I had the best parents in the world, Dust. Growing up on this ranch, even with all the work, was a charmed life with my folks.

“That’s why when Zane retired and came home to help with the ranch, we couldn’t understand his behavior.” She picked up the knife with the wide blade, gently cutting the air with it as she talked. “I’d heard of men coming home with PTSD, but I thought that mainly centered around nightmares or fear of leaving the house or something.

“Austin and I would hear Zane cry out in the middle of the night as if he were fighting the devil himself.” She cut the pie in half, then stopped, and stared at Dustin. “We began to notice small things set him off and he’d go into a rage. It upset his daddy so, when his son would get like that. I worried it would wear down Austin’s resistance to the cancer even more.” She finished cutting the pie and placed pieces on the plates.

ZQ handed them around. “Keep on with your story. You’ve already told JJ and curious Dust, here, will soon notice the hole anyway. This kid never misses a trick.”

She chuckled and winked at Dustin. “I’ll remember that. How’s the pie, darlin’?”

Dustin had never tasted anything like it. An explosion on his tongue—sweet, tart, and cinnamon-spiced, all at the same time. “Junebug, it’s fabulous.” His gaze settled on the empty pie pan. “Did you only make one?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Raising this human garbage disposal, do you think I ever make just one of anything?”

Dustin leaned toward her. “Now, what’s this big story you were going to tell me?”

Junebug nodded as she chewed and swallowed. “Supper was about ready one day. Austin was sitting where Zane is now.” She motioned with her fork. “I called for Zane, but he was staring at the television set. The news was on and a clip was being shown about that awful ISIS blowing up a village and killing children. I called him again, but it was like he was in a trance.” She took another bite.

Dustin glanced at ZQ, saw the sweat bead on his forehead, and knew he dreaded hearing what his mother was about to say. Yet, he’d told her to tell the story. Ah, he was punishing himself, just like Dustin relived the explosion that had killed Wysocki. Every time he did, he asked himself if there’d been something he’d done wrong. What clue had he missed?

“When Zane finally stormed into the kitchen, he was in a frenzy, ranting about how if he’d trained his team better he wouldn’t have lost so many men. His mission wouldn’t have gone to hell and back. I tried to calm him down, but he had me rattled. I’d never seen him like that! Thank goodness Austin’s back was toward us because my son raised his fist to me. That’s when I grabbed a frying pan and threatened to whoop his sorry behind. I said some things. He did, too.”

She exhaled a long sigh. “My big mouth kicked into Texan-high-gear, and I started laying a guilt trip on him about upsetting his daddy when he was sick with cancer. Well, fudge and buttermilk, next thing I knew Zane was beating up my new refrigerator, screaming, and saying things that didn’t make a lick of sense. I just backed away in tears.” She sipped at her coffee and wiped moisture from her eyes.

Then she made a large arc with her hands. “All at once, this loud ka-bloom liked to deafen us both! Austin had reached for his granddad’s shotgun he kept in the corner over there, for emergencies. He fired toward the ceiling.” She pointed upward to a large hole Dustin hadn’t noticed. “Well, we both swiveled to see him on the chair, ceiling dust and chunks of plaster over his head and shoulders.” She leaned toward Dustin and snorted. “Hell, he looked right comical.” She covered her mouth with her wrinkled hand and giggled a little. “Austin was a gentle soul, until you got him riled.” She sipped more coffee and smiled. “God, he was a good man.”

Dustin quickly tore his attention from the hole above him, his hands fisted on his thighs and his breathing rapid. Sweat poured down his back. There’d been so many houses in the Middle East with similar holes in their walls. He forced his concentration on Junebug as she continued with her story. He could not have a flashback now.

“ʻEveryone sit the hell down at this table,’ Austin bellowed. ʻThe three of us are gonna hold hands—in love, dammit—and talk!’ ” She lowered her voice in what Dustin assumed was her imitation of her husband laying down the law. “Our confrontation opened the channels of communication about our boy’s emotional and mental state. We learned a lot about what he was dealing with and what PTSD could really do to a person. As a result, the three of us grew closer.” She reached for her son’s hand. “Change didn’t happen overnight, that’s for sure, but I’ve got my boy back.”