Roxanne Rustand - High Country Homecoming

“This was always the foreman’s cabin, but I hear the last one left last November. Looks like Jess has done quite a bit of work in here.” He backed toward the open door and spun on his heel to leave.

At the touch of Chloe’s hand on his sleeve, he froze.

“Thank you,” she said. “This will be perfect.”

He nodded and made his escape without turning his right side toward her, avoiding the inevitable for a little while longer.

Initially, he’d been self-conscious, and had become adept at concealing his scars with collared, long-sleeved shirts and by the way he angled his face away during a conversation.

Now it was just a reflex.

For the most part, he’d learned to mask his more invisible and aggravating losses. The significant loss of his hearing, even with hearing aids. Loss of perfect vision in his right eye.

But even though he no longer cared what people thought of his appearance, he did dread the automatic gush of sympathy and empty platitudes from strangers who could surely care less.

But it was all relative.

Seeing Chloe again brought back his dark, helpless sense of being damaged, though his war injuries didn’t hold a candle to the crushing burden of what had happened on this ranch when he was just a kid.

Why did she have to show up while he was trying to start his life over?

Until last spring he’d been a Marine, an invincible warrior in control of his life. Now he was a disfigured man with disabilities, with nightmares that could hit without warning.

He’d spent the past six months recovering from multiple surgeries, knowing the military would never take him back for active duty. But last month, that sense of hopelessness had changed, thanks to an old buddy from the Marines who recommended him for a job. A perfect job.

And so he’d applied for a field position with a nationally acclaimed, high-tech security company. The recruiter had been doubtful, wondering if Devlin was still capable, but had given him until the first of July to prove he could handle the job.

And Devlin would do it. No question.

He would focus on regaining his strength, his dexterity. His accuracy with a weapon. And by July 1 he would be packing his bags for New York so his could reclaim his life, and a future. Having a firm goal had given him a new sense of hope.

But now, with Chloe’s arrival, instead of peace, he felt as if he were wavering on a fragile precipice with unknown, dangerous water below.

Was it the memory of her endlessly cheerful smile? The way she’d always tried to convince him that everything in his world was rosy, when as a young boy he was dealing with grief and guilt that never faded and a father who...

Even without hearing her footsteps, he sensed her coming up behind him. Stifling a sigh, he stopped in his tracks and spun around to face her.

“Look, I know we weren’t exactly friends when my dad was the foreman here. In fact,” she added with a rueful smile, “I suspect I was an awful pest.”

That much was true.

She’d shadowed his every move and asked a million questions every day, so in return he’d learned to retaliate by being a relentless tease—taunting her about her carrot-red hair, her freckles, her skinny legs—anything to just make her go away.

Never in a million years would he have told her that her hair was the prettiest color he’d ever seen, or that he’d always thought her freckles were cute. Looking back on his cruel younger self, he felt a flash of remorse.

“We were just kids. And you were almost like a sis—” He stumbled over the word.

“Sister,” she said softly, her eyes all too knowing. “I never knew the right things to say. But I saw the pain you and your brothers went through after your little sister died. And how cruel your dad was to you boys afterward. I just wanted to make things better somehow. Instead I probably drove you all crazy.”

His sense of guilt sharpened.

Life hadn’t been easy for her either, with an alcoholic father and a mother who’d ditched them both. Yet there she’d been, a little girl earnestly trying to help everyone else at the ranch after Heather’s death. Grandma Betty had called her a pint-size Pollyanna, but in return, he hadn’t been kind at all.

“Um... I can see my arrival is a surprise,” she added with a fleeting, wistful smile. “But don’t worry. I’ll be working in my cabin, making my own meals, and I won’t be a bother. You’ll hardly ever see me. Promise.”

The impact of her words hit him like a fist to the gut.

He’d put in his latest set of hearing aids from the VA this morning to give them one last try—though they sure didn’t help much and were aggravating to boot. Now he almost wished he hadn’t, because her meaning was all too clear. She figured making herself invisible was the best way to make him happy, and the sad part was that she was right.

Feeling like a jerk, he started to dredge up an apology, but she walked away without turning back.

* * *

After finishing up the late afternoon chores, Devlin glanced at the time and headed back to his cabin.

He’d felt edgy and off-balance since Chloe’s unexpected arrival, though there certainly was no reason for it.

She planned to keep to herself.

He planned to do the same.

In fact, once the rest of the family came home from California, Dev would work on remodeling his cabin—when he wasn’t running and lifting weights—and their paths would rarely cross again.

He collected a .22 Winchester 190 rifle from a padlocked closet and some boxes of ammo from a locked cupboard in his bedroom. The intense, laser-like focus of target practice had never failed to settle his thoughts. After a few hundred rounds or so, he’d definitely have everything back into perspective.

He headed over the rise just beyond his cabin. Below, the ground fell sharply into a broad, grassy meadow rimmed on three sides with a high, curving hillside that created a perfect rifle-range backdrop, while the fourth side opened up into a heavy pine forest leading up into the foothills.

Sure enough, the old wooden target frames were still there, though several were falling into disrepair. He sauntered over, found a dozen old tin cans scattered on the ground nearby and then lined them up on the almost-horizontal crossbar of one of the targets. Then he strode back to a triangular boulder marking a distance of a hundred yards and loaded .22 LRs into the magazine.

It had been almost nine months since he’d felt the weight of an assault rifle in his hands. The simple .22 in his hands had been his grandfather’s and felt like a toy in comparison.

But before he could raise it high enough to look through the site and fire, a searing jolt of pain tore through his damaged shoulder.

He winced.

Forced himself to continue.

Struggled to focus.

The shot went wild, pinging off a distant boulder with a puff of dust and rock chips.

One after another were the same, until he’d burned through a hundred rounds and had hit one of the tin cans maybe thirty times, his frustration and anger at himself growing with each pull of the trigger.

He’d refused to believe what the VA docs had told him. He’d been a crack shot—scoring 349 at his last marksmanship qualification—so what did they know?

But lifelong skills and sheer strength of will weren’t enough to overcome the truth.

He had just partial vision in his right eye, due to irreparable damage. His shoulder-replacement surgery six months ago had been only a partial fix at best, so it would never be the same.

Was this pathetic performance his future? Or could he regain his strength and skills by July, and qualify for the career he’d been offered?

Maybe it was just a foolish dream, but from now on, he was going to work at it every single day. Weight lifting. Running. Target practice. And he wasn’t going to stop until he reached his goal.