Page 34 of Fighting for Valor
For the next half an hour, Charlie chases a ball around the exercise yard, always bringing it right back to me and dropping it at my feet, and I start to think maybe I can do this. Take care of these animals and find my way back to some sort of normalcy.
Until I have to take the dog inside. He follows without complaint, but locking him back in his kennel sends me over the edge, and I run from the building, unable to say a word to Melissa as I head for the bus stop a mile away. This was a mistake. One I don’t know how the hell I’ll ever get over.
Melissa calls as I code myself back in to my apartment. “I’m sorry,” I say before she can even get a word in. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to let you down.”
“Son, you didn’t let anyone down—except maybe yourself.” She sighs over the line. “Your therapist sent you here because Safe Haven has a bit of a reputation for helping vets find their way back from where you are right now. My son, Aaron, couldn’t, and when I lost him, Safe Haven was what kept me going.”
“Shit. I’m—”
“Don’t go saying you’re sorry. Not again. I don’t know your history, and I’m not asking. But I understand PTSD better than you might think. If you need to start out slow, you can take care of the dogs outside the kennels for a while. Or work with the horses. Or feed the goats. Come back tomorrow. Try again.”
Words won’t come as I stare out the large windows at the lake, shrouded in shadows.
“Rick?”
“Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow,” I force out, and end the call with a rough, “Thank you.”
I still have a couple of hours before dark, so I change into a pair of basketball shorts, grab a set of twenty-pound barbells from the closet, and push myself through a grueling workout. My shrink would say I’m punishing myself. Maybe I am. Or maybe this is all I have to keep me sane. I just don’t know anymore.
A light summer rain falls as I spread out my sleeping bag in the church doorway a little after ten. Times like this, I think maybe I should try to sleep at my apartment. With all of the windows open and the rain tapping on the metal overhangs, I might be able to handle being inside. But what if I can’t?
Every night, I expect someone from the church rectory to try to convince me to go to a shelter or to come inside so they can tell me how God will save me. And as I stretch out, my muscles still tight from my workout, it hits me. Ryker. The man’s done his damnedest to protect me since he pulled me out of that well.
And I’ve repeatedly told him to go the fuck away. “You’re a piece of work,” I mutter to myself, and a quick inhalation from the sidewalk causes me to jerk my head around. Brown eyes meet mine, and the woman from last night freezes. In one hand, she carries her set of kitty cat brass knuckles, and in the other, a grease-stained bag.
“I…uh…b-brought you something,” she stammers as she climbs the first step and then stops.
“Hoping to bribe me into not axe murdering you?” She flinches and squeezes her eyes shut for a brief moment. “Bad joke. Sorry. But Ripper…really is my name. Or what everyone calls me.” I push up to sitting and rest my back against the church door. “And I’m not a charity case.”
“Didn’t say you were.” She thrusts the bag at me, and when I don’t move, drops it next to my hip. “We had extra. It’s rainy and kind of cold tonight. I thought…a hot meal might…shit. Never mind. Take it or leave it.”
She turns, and the scents of cheese and salsa waft up from the bag. “Wait a minute, sunshine.” Digging into the paper, I find an aluminum foil pan covered with a healthy serving of enchiladas lightly covered in cheese and red sauce, a half pint of refried beans, and a bag of marinated carrots and jicama. “This smells great.”
A hint of pride straightens her shoulders, and the corners of her lips curve into a half-smile. “Thanks.”
“You made this?” I grabbed a granola bar and an apple at my apartment, but my stomach rumbles at the prospect of something so very different than my everyday diet. The first bite takes me back to my mama’s cooking, and I think I moan a little.
In the light of the street lamp, her cheeks glisten with the misty rain and turn a bright pink. “I work at a food truck. Today’s menu was Mexican comfort food.”
“My mama learned how to cook from my abuela, who grew up in Mexico. These are the best enchiladas I’ve had since I left Texas.”
She toys with a blue pendant hanging from a silver chain around her neck. Joy and sadness battle for control of her features, but joy seems to win in the end. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
A tendril of long brown hair plasters itself to her cheek as she stares down at her sensible black shoes. Her ankle’s wrapped in an ACE bandage, and as she fidgets, I can tell she isn’t putting all her weight on it. “You okay? After last night?”
“Oh. Yes. I should…go. Let you eat in peace.”
“Wait.” I don’t know why I’m stopping her. But the idea of her being hurt and that I caused it, doesn’t sit well with me. “What’s your name?”
“Cara,” she says quietly.
“You live…uh…close by?” Her eyes widen, and I kick myself. If she didn’t think I was a stalker or an axe murderer before, she does now. “I just mean…it’s wet out. And you weren’t the most graceful last night. I…be careful, okay?”
A scowl twists those heart-shaped lips, and she levels me with an acerbic stare. “I’m not the one sleeping on the streets with no defenses. And I’m very graceful. When I want to be. Good night, Ripper.” Her curtsey is a little lopsided since she isn’t putting her full weight on her right foot, but she turns on her left heel and starts limping away.
“‘Night, Cara.” As the rain intensifies and I dig back into the takeout container of enchiladas, I wonder why it’s easier for me to talk to a stranger than it is the men I consider my brothers.
Pulling out my phone, I thumb out a text message to Ry and Dax. “Coffee tomorrow? Broadcast at ten?”
