Margaret Daley - Her Holiday Hero

Emma resisted the urge to squirm under his intense glare. “Is he here when you have panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares?”

Jake winced, a mask falling into place as if he were shutting down all emotions.

The problem was a person couldn’t block his feelings forever. They were there in the background, ready to strike when he least expected. Emma said, “A service dog can help a person with those kinds of things. When someone has a panic attack, the dog’s trained to calm him. The animal can be trained to wake up a person who’s having a nightmare. Flashbacks often lead to panic attacks or at the very least, emotional upheavals. A dog can be there at all hours to console, be a companion. Not to mention they’re great listeners.”

A tic twitched in his hardened jaw. “Does he talk back?”

Emma grinned. “I can do a lot with the dogs I train, but I haven’t accomplished that yet. But they can understand a lot of commands, if properly taught. Shep has been trained in all those areas.”

Jake stood. “Thanks for coming.”

Jake’s polite words and neutral expression didn’t totally cover a hopelessness in his eyes. Emma could identify; she remembered how, when her husband died, she’d struggled to pay off his debts. She was still paying the hospital bill every month from the last time Sam was admitted.

Emma followed Jake from the living room. Shep trotted next to her. Ben’s captain opened the front door and moved to the side to allow her to leave.

She stepped outside and pivoted. “Where did the boys attack Josh?”

He took two steps out onto the porch and pointed to the right near the wooded area. “There, and they fled into the trees. You didn’t get around to doing the sketch of the small one.”

“I’ve got another idea if you’re willing.”

His forehead wrinkled, wariness in his eyes. “What?”

“Josh has a yearbook from last year. Would you be willing to look through it and see if you recognize any of the kids?”

“I’ll try.”

She smiled. “Great. I can bring it by tomorrow after work if that’s okay.”

He nodded, a solemn expression on his face.

“Then I’ll see you around six.”

She had started down the steps when he called out, “Tell Ben I’ll be okay.”

With a glance over her shoulder, she said, “You should call him and tell him yourself.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“I can give it to you.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” He turned back into his house and shut the door.

As Emma walked home, she couldn’t get Jake Tanner out of her mind. That haunted look in his dark eyes when she had talked about Ben’s problems, and later what a service dog could be trained to do only reinforced in her mind that he needed help. Her brother had tried to deny it, too, and it had made things worse. She prayed Jake wouldn’t. Tomorrow she had another chance to persuade him to try Shep.

* * *

The enemy surrounded Jake and what men he had left in the small mountain village, gunfire pelting them from all sides. The terrorists were closing in. He was trapped.

He signaled to his men to fall back into a house. He covered them as they made their way inside the shelter, then zigzagged toward it, seeking cover wherever he could. But as he ran toward the hut, it moved farther away from him. Escape taunted him. A safe haven just out of reach.

Someone lobbed a grenade that fell a few yards in front of him. He dived to the side, the explosion rocking him.

Crash!

Arms flailing, Jake shot straight up on the couch, blinking his eyes. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. They burned. Everything before him twirled and swayed. He scrubbed his shaky hands down his sweat-drenched face, then drew in one deep inhalation then another. He folded in on himself, his arms hugging his chest, his head bent forward. Afraid even to close his eyes, he stared at his lap until his rapid heartbeat slowed. When the quaking eased, he looked up at his living room in Cimarron City. Not in a tent or hut in Afghanistan.

Safe. Quiet.

His gaze fell upon a lamp on the floor, shattered, along with a broken vase his grandma had cherished as a gift from his granddad. The sight of it destroyed what was left of his composure. His hands began to tremble more. Cold burrowed deep into his bones. He stuck them under his armpits.

Focus on the here and now. Not then. He shuffled through images in his mind until he latched on to one: Emma Langford, Ben’s sister. He zeroed in on her light blue eyes, as bright as sunshine. He shifted his attention to her dazzling smile. He couldn’t look away. The warmth of her expression chased away the chill.

He finally relaxed against the couch cushion. He couldn’t believe he’d invited her back today. That realization earlier had driven him to take a short nap before she arrived since he hadn’t slept much the night before. For that matter, since the nightmares began a couple of months ago, he slept only a few hours here and there.

He couldn’t keep going like this, or he would stop functioning altogether. The very idea appalled him. In the army he’d been a leader of men who went into tough situations to protect and defend. Now he couldn’t even leave his house without fearing he would have a panic attack and appear weak.

Lord, why? You brought me home to this—living in fear? How am I supposed to get better? What do I do?

His gaze returned to the mess on the floor, then trekked to the end table where the lamp and vase had been. He pushed to his feet to clean up the shattered pieces.

The chimes from the grandfather clock in the foyer pealed six times. Emma would be here soon. He hobbled toward the kitchen and retrieved the broom and dustpan. The glass lamp was beyond repair. He swept the shards and tossed them into the trash can.

Then he turned his attention to the vase. His granddad had created pottery bowls and vases in his spare time. This was one of the few left. He picked up each piece and laid it on the end table, trying to decide if he could fix the vase with glue. Maybe it was possible with time and a steady hand.

The doorbell sounded, jolting his heartbeat to a quicker tempo. Emma. She can’t see this, he thought, as though it were a symbol of his weakness. He opened the drawer on the end table and hurried to place what was left of the vase inside, then closed it.

It took him a minute to limp toward the foyer. Maybe she’d left. He hoped not, and that surprised him. When he opened the door, she stood on the porch with that warm smile and her hands full with a slender book and a plastic container.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the door,” was all he could think to say.

“I figured it would. You’re still recovering from a leg injury. It might be a while before you’re up for a jog.” She stepped through his entrance. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made beef stew this morning in the Crock-Pot and had plenty to share with you.” She lifted the lid for him to see.

His stomach rumbled. The aroma filled his nostrils and made his mouth water. He’d had breakfast but skipped lunch. “How did you know I haven’t eaten much today?”

“A lucky guess. I’ll put this in your refrigerator, and you can heat it up when you feel like it.” She walked toward his kitchen. Pausing at the entrance to his dining room, she looked back at him. “Then I’ll show you the yearbook.”

He started to follow her into the kitchen but decided not to and headed for the living room. “I’ll be in here when you’re through.” He wanted to make sure there were no remnants of the broken vase or lamp on the floor.

After searching around the couch, he walked lamely to the leather chair with an ottoman. His left leg ached. He must have wrenched it when coming out of his nightmare. As he laid his cane on the floor by him, Emma came into the room. He lifted his leg onto the upholstered stool.