Patricia Potter - The Soldier's Promise

They were home in a few moments. They lived two miles from the heart of town and one mile from the lake. She and Russ had saved during the first years of their marriage, then bought a five-acre piece of land inside the city limits. Russ and his buddies had built a ranch house and barn, and she still had the two horses they’d bought together. She also boarded Stephanie’s horse, which paid for her many vet bills.

A cacophony came from the house as Nick jumped out of the truck and waited impatiently as she unlocked the door. Nick opened it, and four dogs, barking madly, rushed out.

Braveheart, a mismatched pit-bull mix, hung back as usual. Badly scarred and terrified of people, he’d been found half-dead alongside the road. Nick had named him Braveheart because he thought the encouragement might help cure his fear.

Miss Marple—the part beagle and who knew what else—charged to the front. Eve couldn’t help but grin at Nick’s naming processes. Miss Marple was so named because she was always on the prowl for a misplaced sock. She, too, had been found along the road, but, unlike Braveheart, she didn’t lack self-confidence. Captain Hook, a three-legged Chihuahua mix, added her high, piercing voice. Fancy, who was anything but Fancy, was probably the plainest dog Eve had ever seen, but she was also the most loving. Inside was Dizzy, a coon cat that spent his time chasing his tail.

Nick had named them all after much thought, and it said much about him the way he turned their weaknesses into strengths. Her son had been boisterous and curious and active until his father died. Then he climbed inside himself, but now he seemed to be emerging again. She watched as he gave each dog a moment of attention, then ran to the barn, the troop of dogs following him.

Lord, but he filled her with joy. She ached with it. She wanted to hold him so tight nothing could ever harm him. She knew how fragile life was. Russell had been all strength one day, and the next...

It didn’t bear thinking about. Watching the dogs following Nick as if he was the Pied Piper reminded her that she hadn’t seen the dog at Joshua Manning’s home, the one that had Marilyn so upset. She suspected Marilyn used the dog only as an excuse to learn more about her neighbor. To tell the truth, once Josh Manning had mentioned voice control, she’d relaxed. She hadn’t seen an ill-treated dog on voice control. And, truth be told, as rude as Josh Manning had been, she hadn’t sensed meanness in him.

Who was he? If she was right about him being a soldier, it followed that he wouldn’t want to talk about his experiences. But he seemed to carry it to the extreme. Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe he’d met Dave Hannity somewhere else. Or, as Tom had surmised, maybe he was a relative.

She wished she could remember more about Dave Hannity. His family had spent summers at their cabin on the lake. She’d met him at the annual Fourth of July picnic and other summer events for several years. He’d been a swimmer and runner, and Russ had known him better than she.

Now David, too, was dead, apparently in the service of his country.

They had lost other young residents in Iraq and Afghanistan. Too many for a small town, but then the military attracted small-town kids. There weren’t many other opportunities.

As for Mr. Manning and Dave Hannity, maybe Tom would have some answers tomorrow, and she could reassure Manning’s neighbors.

His image sprung into her mind again. His face was hard, the angles stark. It was...more interesting than handsome. There was a presence about him, an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude that perversely intrigued her.

“Mom, I’m hungry.” She hadn’t seen Nick approach from the back of the barn. Again he was followed by his four little tagalongs. She looked at him and hoped he would never have to go to war. She hugged him—hard—until he wriggled free. She didn’t want to let him go. She never wanted to let him go. She wanted to protect him against grief and loss and disappointments.

He’d already had too many.

And, she suspected, so had Joshua Manning.

CHAPTER FOUR

JOSH WOKE WITH a start. Sunlight was streaming though his windows.

He stretched and glanced at the clock. A little after 0700 hours. It was the first time in days that he’d slept more than four hours without the nightmare. Or night sweats.

But then he had worked late into the night, first replacing the rotten boards on the porch, then scraping paint from the walls of the main room. Work, it seemed, was the best sleeping aid.

He thought about the day ahead and the growing list of things to do. Not for the first time, he wondered why in the hell he didn’t just walk away.

He heard the soft snoring of Amos and knew why. Amos needed a safe place where he could learn to play. Learn to feel safe. Being dragged from one temporary place to another would not be helpful.

But, he admitted to himself, maybe part of him wanted to stay, too. A part hidden deep inside. He’d never belonged to anything but the army and his buddies, and that, he’d learned, had no permanence.

He needed a challenge, and the cabin was certainly a challenge. He hadn’t known what to expect, but he sure as hell hadn’t anticipated the amount of work needed. He welcomed it. Bringing order to chaos was something he knew.

And once this place was fixed, it wouldn’t be half-bad. He envisioned a large porch that overlooked the lake and the mountains beyond. But then what?

Josh turned to the edge of the bed and ran his hand over Amos’s back as he’d seen Dave do countless times. Amos would usually roll over and beg a belly rub. But Amos ignored the overture, merely looked at him with a gaze that held a sorrow and confusion that broke Josh’s heart.

He’d read and heard about dogs like Amos. Greyfriars Bobby for one, the little Scottish terrier who wouldn’t leave his master’s grave until he died, or more recently tales of other service dogs who’d mourned for their handlers.

“Aw, Amos,” he said. “One of these days you’ll offer your belly to me, too.”

He hoped. It was the least he could do for Dave—Dave, who’d had his own demons. Maybe that was why they’d bonded as much as two loners could.

Time to get up. The vet—Stephanie—was coming today. He needed to clean up as much as possible. He stood slowly, ignoring the pain that flared. He needed to do the exercises he’d neglected the past few days. But first Amos had to go outside.

“Come on, Amos. Latrine time.” Josh pulled on a pair of jeans and opened the door. Amos reluctantly left the safety of the cabin and did his business, then returned immediately to the door. No sniffing. Or playing or wriggling with delight.

“What am I, chopped liver?” he asked Amos as he opened the door. Amos didn’t bother to answer as he slunk inside.

Josh stayed outside and soaked in the cool breeze. The sun was a huge golden ball rising in the east, and the fresh, spicy scent of evergreens filled the air. He was beginning to understand the appeal of the cabin.

He needed his coffee. He brewed his in an old-fashioned percolator he had found in the general store. He’d had enough bad coffee to appreciate the good. He poured cereal into a bowl, got milk from the cooler and knew he had to do something about a fridge.

Josh spent the next thirty minutes on the exercises prescribed by his doctor and physical therapist. His leg would never be what it once was. New manufactured parts had taken the place of old ones, particularly in his ankle. There had been three operations, including two bone transplants and one to fuse his left foot where the main nerve had been severed. He would never have the old mobility, but he was grateful for what he did have. A lot of guys in the hospital had much, much less, and their courage was humbling.