Patricia Forsythe - Her Lone Cowboy

Turning, she grabbed another chair, pulled it close and then bent to lift his leg. Holding the back of his knee with one hand and his ankle with the other, she gently raised his leg to rest on the chair. She knew he probably would have protested if the pain hadn’t obviously stolen his breath.

“Thank...thank you,” Caleb said when he could get air back into his lungs.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, stepping back because she instinctively knew he would hate it if she hovered.

He shook his head, his eyes avoiding hers.

“Then I suppose Sam and I had better go. I have to read him Goodnight Moon and then half a dozen books about cowboys before he goes to sleep...” Her voice trailed off. The man clearly wanted to be alone and she was only prolonging things. “Well, good night.”

Caleb’s eyes finally turned to her, guarded and full of pain. She fought the urge to bustle around getting him an ice pack or a hot compress for his leg—to do something to help. She mustn’t, though. He didn’t want her help and he certainly didn’t want her pity.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

She didn’t know if it was for the cake, the visit, for catching him so he wouldn’t fall or because she was finally leaving. Feeling as if she was abandoning him, she turned, crossed into the living room and collected her son, scooping him up from his place beside Bertie and setting him on his feet.

“Time to go, sport,” she said brightly, capturing his hand. “Say goodbye.”

“Aw, Mom. Me and Bertie was gonna...”

“Say goodbye,” she repeated, sweeping him toward the door.

“Goodbye—”

The word was barely out of Sam’s mouth before she whirled him out the door and closed it behind them. She hustled him across the porch and down the steps to the Jeep, lifted him inside and strapped him into his booster seat. She jumped in behind the wheel, fastened her seat belt and had them on their way within seconds.

“Is somebody chasing us, Mom?” Sam asked. He tried to twist to look behind them. “Is it the bad guys?”

She laughed and hoped it sounded genuine. “No, of course not. It was time to go, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay.” He sat back. “I love Bertie,” he said with a sigh of happiness.

“Okay, but you don’t go visit him without being invited.” She didn’t know how to tell him that such an invitation almost certainly wouldn’t be forthcoming. All she could do was hope he’d forget about Bertie if she kept him busy with other things.

Her neighbor wanted to be left alone to deal with whatever was bothering him. She would respect that and she would do her best to make sure Sam understood.

As she turned into her drive, though, she wondered how recent the injury to his leg was and how it had happened. Although she was pretty sure it hadn’t been that long ago, the faint scar on his face wasn’t new. What on earth had the man been through?

* * *

CALEB’S EYES JERKED open with a start, his right hand flying out to search for his rifle. When his hand didn’t close on the familiar stock, he came fully awake, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He didn’t need his gun. He needed to find that kid—the little dark-haired boy with the big grin who’d invaded his dreams. He shook his head, trying to free himself from the image of the child waving then disappearing in the flash of a fireball. He groaned, trying to orient himself.

Home. He was home at his own place, not on guard or on patrol in Afghanistan, not sleeping on the ground beneath a Hummer with O’Malley’s stinking feet near his face.

He started to turn over, but a strong twinge from his bad leg had him falling back against the pillows with a sharp breath whistling between his teeth. After several minutes the spasm passed and he was able to sit up, massage his tortured leg for a while, then turn to put his feet on the floor and sit with his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands.

When the pain subsided, he lifted his head to glance at the clock. Midnight. He’d only been asleep a couple of hours. It was those blasted painkillers. Whenever he had to take them, as he had right after Laney and Sam had left, they knocked him out, but then he’d jerk awake too soon, sure he was back in a war zone. He’d be half off the bed, looking for his soldiers, before reason would kick in and he’d know where he was.

Most of the time he could keep the memories at bay, but often they’d plague his sleep, coming in nightmare form, seeping under his defenses like smoke curling beneath a closed door. He knew if he opened the door, the memories would blaze up in a flash fire to consume him.

Taking a painkiller before he slept almost always triggered the nightmares, but they came more often when he took nothing at all.

Caleb rubbed his palms over his face, shoved his feet into the worn-out slip-ons he kept next to the bed and then stood cautiously, waiting for his leg to become accustomed to his weight once again, before walking through the house to work out the stiffness. Down the hall, past the two empty bedrooms, he moved into the living room, where he stood in front of the big window—uncurtained because he had no clue how to go about buying drapes and had no desire to learn.

As he stared out at the yard, he heard coyotes, the bothersome pack that roamed the area and had probably been responsible for the disappearance of many domestic animals. No doubt, the predators had dens in the nearby Mule Mountains, where they hid out, waiting for some unsuspecting cat or jackrabbit to happen by—

A sudden scream split the air, sparking a shiver up Caleb’s spine. That sound wasn’t made by a coyote, but he didn’t know what had made it since he’d never heard it before.

It came again, high and sharp. It wasn’t human, but it ignited a memory of a fire fight, of Mack, wounded, fallen, clutching his side as he tried to swallow cries of anguish that would attract more enemy fire to their position.

Memories overwhelming him, Caleb rushed to the door, grabbing his rifle on his way out. He didn’t know where the attack would be coming from, but he was ready. Crouching, moving stealthily, he slipped off the porch and hunkered down into a shooting stance as far as his bad leg would let him. His gaze swept the yard then the area beyond.

He saw something ahead of him, moving through the low bushes, too fast and steady to be a man doing the belly crawl. What was it?

The creature turned its head. Caleb saw the flash of yellow eyes. It wasn’t human. But what was it? Confused, he stepped forward. The crack of a stick breaking under his foot snapped in the air and jerked Caleb back to reality.

Whatever he’d seen in the yard disappeared with a gentle whoosh of sound.

He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, working to recall why he was standing out in the yard in his underwear. He glanced down. He held a piece of one-by-two-inch board, the one he used to prop open the living-room window.

Hands falling to his sides, he stood for a minute, concentrating on his breathing, letting his waking nightmare dissipate as he shoved the memory back into the mental vault where he kept it under lock and key.

His gaze moved out past the yard and the barn to the pasture where he’d encountered Sam and Laney earlier, then beyond to their house where a porch light speared the darkness. He couldn’t even see the outline of the house, only the glow of the light, a faint beacon of reassurance.

Reassurance? He didn’t need reassurance. He needed to be left alone.

He lifted the board, holding it up in front of his face. He’d thought it was his rifle; that he was going to protect his home with it.

No. He couldn’t be a neighbor. It wasn’t time yet.