Patricia Potter - The Soldier's Promise

Rumors had started several days ago when the power was turned on. Then talk accelerated when several residents of Lake Road reported seeing a man in a Jeep turn into the driveway and enter the house. It rankled Eve that the new resident was so abrasive. Her town was friendly and welcomed newcomers with open hearts and hands full of goodies. She hated to see them hurt even if, she admitted, they could be rather aggressive in their attempted neighborliness.

There was also a dog. A big one, according to reports. And it wasn’t on a leash. No one could describe it exactly because apparently the man and dog walked only in the middle of the night. And that in itself spurred more talk. Sometimes her small, eccentric town reminded her of a game she used to play when a child. Someone would whisper to the person next to her, and the secret would go around a circle, being embellished all along the way until a mouse turned into bigfoot.

As the beleaguered mayor of Covenant Falls, she didn’t need this nonsense today. Not when this afternoon there was an informal council meeting. The council planned to discuss hiring a new police chief within the month. The council wanted to name one of the current officers, Sam Clark.

Over her dead body.

She looked at her watch. She had a few more minutes. She called down to Merry, who served as both city clerk and bookkeeper. “Have you heard anything from the county about a change in ownership on the Hannity property?”

“Not yet,” Merry said, “but a Mr. Manning was in here around noon, asking about building permits for a porch. I told him we needed proof of ownership first, and he said he would provide it. He also wanted a copy of the property survey. I was so busy with the tax bills, I asked if it would be okay if I got it later in the day. He said yes, and he would be back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?’

“You were at lunch, then I was swamped with those bills.”

“How was he?”

“Polite enough, although he didn’t talk much. Looked a bit rough, but I liked him.”

Eve had to smile. She had yet to find someone Merry didn’t like.

She would probably like Genghis Khan. But it made Eve feel better. Obviously he was no squatter if he wanted a building permit and a land survey.

Ordinarily, she would have asked Tom MacGuire to quietly check out the newcomer.

He had been police chief for the three years since her father had been killed, and had been with the county sheriff’s department as head of detectives before that. He was genuinely kind as well as efficient. But he was at home today, and she really didn’t trust his officers to handle the matter with any finesse.

That drew her back to her immediate problem. Tom planned to resign because of heart problems. Finding someone to replace him was daunting, especially when small-town politics entered into the equation. There were less than three thousand permanent residents, and policing usually involved speeders, bar brawls and domestic conflicts. But there was the occasional fatal accident, lost child or robbery. She needed officers with diplomacy for domestic problems, and experience and judgment for the others. Tom had all that, and the affection and respect of the community. But he’d had a second heart attack, and his wife insisted he retire.

The problem was the city couldn’t pay enough to attract someone like Tom. He’d served because he loved Covenant Falls. He was also a second father to Eve and honorary grandfather to her son, and she wasn’t going to risk his life by trying to keep him.

She picked up her iPad and made her way to the small council chamber. Maybe she would visit the stranger in the morning. Quiet the rumor mill.

* * *

JOSH WORKED ALL morning on the interior of the cabin, and was just finishing cleaning the last room. The needed repairs were endless; the more he cleaned, the more problems he found. But he welcomed the work.

He’d temporarily fixed the roof and scraped most of the paint from the walls of the main room. He had to patch holes and sand rough spots, then prime the walls before painting.

He’d cleaned the windows, although he wasn’t sure that had been a good idea. Blinds were a necessity since the community was so interested in his affairs, but the local hardware store had none that fit.

He also needed furniture. All he had now was a folding bed, a cheap chest of drawers, the cooler and an old sofa that had somehow survived years of neglect in the cabin. Probably only the fact that it was alligator ugly kept it from disappearing with the other stuff.

But even as it was now, the cabin suited him. It was as broken as him and Amos, and the work kept him from thinking. Remembering.

He quit at midnight. The cabin was hot, but nothing close to the brain-searing heat in Iraq and Afghanistan. His T-shirt was drenched with sweat, some from the heat, some from work and the rest from the pain that never left him.

Josh ran his fingers over his cheeks. Stubble partially covered a scar. It wasn’t vanity that made him cover it, but he didn’t like questions and he sure as hell didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t deserve it. He’d been team leader and had lost eight of ten men. Their faces haunted him every night.

He grabbed a beer and went to the window that overlooked the lake and considered his future. The army had given him the only family he’d ever had, and the Rangers had given him pride and purpose and confidence. And then three months ago, he’d been discharged with several useless medals and a bum leg. Bitterness—and drink—had almost destroyed him until he’d finally found Amos. Then he had a new mission. Dave had asked one thing of him before that last mission, almost as if he knew he would die. He wanted Josh to do what he could to help Amos, the military dog Dave had handled for four years.

He was doing a pretty damn poor job of that one. Amos usually ignored food and ate the minimum to stay alive even when Josh tried to tempt him with steak.

“We’re a great pair,” he told Amos, hoping for a reaction. A thump of a tail. A lifting of an ear. Anything.

Nothing. Just that empty stare.

He went out onto the porch. Clouds nearly hid a new moon and most of the evening stars. He smelled rain, and a cool breeze brushed over him.

Time to walk Amos. He preferred walking late in the night when no one else was around. He went back inside and called to the dog.

“Duty time,” he said. Dave’s words every time they went on a mission. He remembered when Amos had snapped to attention, eager to go. But now he stood slowly. Years of training said obey, but that was all he did. There was no joy in it. Only reluctance to leave a safe place.

Canine PTSD, according to the diagnosis at the Daniel E. Holland Military Working Dog Hospital at Lackland Air Force Base. Josh was told that after Dave’s death, the dog had refused to obey any orders and cowered when approached. But Josh thought the behavior resulted as much from a broken heart as PTSD. Dave and Amos had been inseparable from the day they were teamed.

“Amos,” he said with more authority, and the dog finally moved to his side. Progress. Small, maybe, but progress nonetheless.

With the moon entirely blocked now, the night was black. There was no light, but neither of them needed it. Josh’s eyes were trained to see in the dark, or maybe he’d been born with that gift. He’d always been able to see better than his team members. They always said he was more cat than human, both for his night vision and the speed with which he could move.

With Amos plodding stoically at his heel, Josh followed Lake Road to where it ended in a path. He no longer moved like a cat, smooth and fast. Hell, an eighty-year-old great-grandmother could beat him in a foot race.