May 1
"Clay!" Paula Olsen screamed in horror. One
second her little blond two-year-old had tumbled headfirst
out of the Red Flyer wagon onto the asphalt. In the next
second, a stranger plucked him away as a snarling black Lab
in the town's Dog-Walkathon lunged forward to sink his
teeth into her little boy.
It was all over in an instant. The man more or less thrust
Clay into her arms, giving her a glimpse of darkly lashed
green eyes. She looked her son over. Except for a red bump
on his head from the fall, she didn't see a mark on him.
"How can I ever thank you?" she called out to the man.
But he'd disappeared without saying anything, making it
impossible for her to thank him properly. It was no use
calling him back. He moved like the wind and was already gone.
She heard a male voice in the crowd say, "Ooh-eee! I
believe that was J. W. Cody's son! I thought he was
still overseas!"
Two and a half years ago a pregnant Paula had done the
master plan for the landscaping of John Walker Cody's
spectacular new ranch house, the latest addition to the
famed Cottonwood Ranch built on their 600,000 acre spread
outside Markton, Wyoming. The fabulously wealthy Codys were
the premier family of rodeo in the northwestern part of the
state. She was aware he had a daughter and four sons, all
rodeo champions, but she'd never met any of them.
If her recollection was correct, one of them was an officer
in the Marines. Could that be Clay's rescuer? If so, he
was out of uniform.
He'd been tall, maybe six foot two or three and in his
late twenties, but she only caught a brief view of chiseled
male features. For some strange reason she couldn't get
rid of the fleeting impression that he'd looked…haunted,
and not just because of the incident.
"Oh, Paula—" her friend Angie Gregson spoke behind
her, holding Danice. She'd been pulling her two-year-old
in a wagon right in front of Paula. "Talk about a close
call!"
"It was," Paula whispered in a shaken voice, hugging
Clay tighter. The man had a familiar build and
midnight-black hair, like J. W. Cody, so she figured the
stranger had to be a Cody. While everyone else stood there
frozen, only someone with his quick instincts and skill
could have pulled Clay away from those gaping jaws in time.
"Listen, Angie… I'm going to take Clay to the car
and get the stroller. Without a restraint, the wagon's
just too dangerous." The thought of what would have
happened without the stranger's masterful intervention
refused to leave her mind.
"I'll go with you. Some of the big dogs are scaring
Danice anyway."
Paula nodded. "I'm pretty sure it was that huge
black Lab that frightened Clay, but when he fell out of the
wagon, he ended up scaring the dog." Together they
pulled the empty wagons down the sidewalk and around the
corner to Paula's car.
For the families living in Markton, Wyoming, a town of 997
people, the First of May was a big deal. The annual dog
parade drew people from all the surrounding communities,
including nearby Cody where she and Angie lived in the same
apartment complex.
The two of them had made a special trip over here for the
fundraising event showing off people's own dogs as well
as those from the Humane Society. Paula wished she could
laugh about it, but the close call—even though all the dogs
were on leash—could have sent Clay to the hospital to be
stitched up. After losing her husband, Brent, in the war in
Afghanistan eighteen months ago, she couldn't fathom
anything serious happening to Clay.
"Are you all right?" her brunette friend asked after
they'd loaded their toddlers in the strollers.
"I will be in a minute." If that man was a Cody, she
knew where to find him and thank him.
An intuitive Angie touched her arm. "If you want to go
home, we can."
"Don't be silly." After eighteen months of
grieving for Brent, she would have thought she was getting
past the worst of it, but for some reason this incident
brought her emotions to the surface once more.
"We've been looking forward to this." She
wasn't about to let what happened ruin their plans.
"It's getting warmer out. Let's drop in the
ice-cream store on our way back to the dog parade."
"And then let's walk around Old Trail Town. I'm
craving one of those Wild Bill Cody chili dogs."
"Sounds good to me." Maybe the walk would bring back
Paula's appetite.
Moments ago Walker Cody had left the motel on foot only to
run into a dog parade, of all things. To see so many animals
at once brought out children's excited cries and
laughter from the adults, but Walker's attention had
been captured by a blond toddler in a little wagon who was
frightened by them. It reminded him of his own fear of
horses as a child.
He noticed the boy start to stand up, then topple out,
drawing the big Lab's attention. When it growled and
bared its teeth, a woman's terrified cry followed. It
was the kind he'd been trying to block from his
subconscious since leaving Iraq.
Acting on pure instinct, Walker had torn through the line of
onlookers and swooped the boy away before the person holding
the leash could get control of the dog. But to his horror
the incident brought on one of his flashbacks. While hugging
the wailing child to his body, pressing him against his
plastic-surgery scars, he'd broken out in a cold sweat.
Get away, Cody! Don't hurt anyone. Please, God,
don't let me hurt anyone.
Blindly he handed off the child to the frightened woman
standing next to him. Among the cacophony of sounds coming
from the dogs and the crowd, Walker took off on a run. The
last image in his mind had been of a pair of hot blue eyes
turning to him in gratitude.
Her words had been spoken in English, not Arabic, which only
added to his confusion and stayed with him all the way down
the next block, where he found a bolt hole. Once in the
men's bathroom at the Spotted Horse Saloon, he vomited.
Nothing came up but bile. He hadn't had an appetite
since he'd flown home from Bethesda Naval Hospital three
days ago. While he'd escaped the full blast of an IED,
his two best buddies had taken the brunt. They would never
get the chance to come home and live in a walking nightmare.
Post-traumatic stress disorder. That's what every guy in
his outfit thought about, whether they admitted it or not.
It was what they dreaded if their maimed bodies
made it back. He'd had three episodes in the hospital
where he'd been for the past two months, but this
flashback had come when he couldn't pull out the dime he
kept in his pocket.
He reached for it now and pressed it in the palm of his
hand. His counselor at the hospital told him, "When you
feel unreal, disoriented, 'crazy,' like you can feel
your mind slipping away, hold that dime in your hand very
tightly and say to yourself, 'I am not crazy. I am not
in Iraq. This isn't really happening now. I am safe
now,' over and over again. Be very sure you tell
yourself, 'I am safe now. I am not in Iraq.' The
feeling of safety is crucial during the flashbacks.
"Also tell yourself, 'I am not going to hurt
anyone.' Many returning vets suffering flashbacks are
afraid they're going crazy and they'll hurt people.
They're not crazy, but the danger to yourself is real,
because sometimes you might try to rationalize the situation
by believing that it's better to hurt yourself than to
hurt anyone else. Yo u need that spoken reinforcement to
help you regain your feeling of being in control of
yourself."
Walker reached in his pocket and pressed the dime into his
palm, repeating the words like a litany. He was no longer
aware of time or place. When he eventually became cognizant
of his surroundings, he staggered over to the sink. No
sooner had he rinsed out his mouth than he saw the
reflection of a wizened cowboy in the mirror behind him.
The man in the cowboy hat and boots stared at him with a
measure of curiosity and compassion. Walker knew he looked
like hell. Fearing the stranger would ask him what was wrong
or worse, offer to help him—forcing Walker to tell him to
mind his own business—he put the dime back in his pocket and
left.
To his chagrin, the bartender nodded to him. Walker had no
choice but to go over to the bar. He asked for a bottle of
water. When the other man handed it to him, he put down a
five-dollar bill. "Keep the change."
Outside the doors he rested against the wall and drank the
contents before he went back to the motel. En route he
stopped at the convenience store for a pack of gum. After
the furnace he'd lived in for the past twenty months
while deployed in Iraq, Markton's seventy-five-degree
temperature felt cool to him.
The tail end of the dog walk was passing by farther down the
street. Volunteers followed to do the cleanup. This was one
event that must have been thought up while Walker had been
in the military. After leaving his motel room earlier to get
some fresh air, the kind you could only get at a 6,200 feet
elevation, nothing could have surprised him more than
walking into a dog parade.
Minus the six years he'd served in the Marines in
various parts of the world, and the four years before that
spent in Missoula, Montana, getting his college degree,
he'd lived his whole life on the Cottonwood Ranch
outside Markton. He knew the town as well as any other
local, yet he'd never stayed at the old Rocking J Motel
located around the corner before.
Built in the forties with few amenities, it would hardly be
noticed, but it was exactly the kind of place Walker had
wanted and needed on his return. For the moment all he
required was a bed, a shower, an old TV that still worked to
blot out the fragments of horror flying loose in his head,
and no family except Jesse who'd always been
his hero.
Thanks to the cooperation of his superiors, no one knew
he'd been wounded, let alone that his service in the
Marines had come to an end. That was the way he wanted it.
Once back in his room, he reached for the house phone. One
of these days he'd be forced to get a cell phone, but
not yet. He couldn't bear to be reached by anyone.
Though he'd e-mailed the family to stay in touch, his
older brother, Jesse, was the only one he'd talked to
over the phone, the only one he'd felt like talking to.
Jesse was the ranch cattle manager and had their
father's toughness, but he also possessed an innate
kindness reminiscent of their mother. When the boys were
growing up, Jesse was the one Walker looked up to and
trusted. Over the years, that had never changed. Of course
he loved his twin brothers and his sister, but they were
younger. Right now he needed Jesse's wisdom and
understanding if he was going to survive.
Answer it, Jesse. Please, God.
"Hello?"
His prayer granted, Walker sank down on the side of the bed
in sheer relief. The familiar, forthright voice caused him
to swallow hard. "Jesse? If you're not alone,
don't give me away."
After a long, distinct pause, Jesse said, "I'm by
myself in the truck on the way to the barn. Is it really
you, Walker?" He heard joy in Jesse's words. It
humbled him.
"Who else?" What's left of me.
"Where are you calling from?" Jesse asked.
The flashback had left his body trembling. "The Rocking
J Motel." He couldn't believe there were still some
old framed United Airlines Posters hanging on the
maroon-and-yellow-flowered wallpaper.
More silence while his brother assimilated the news.
"You've got to be kidding me! You're not really
in Markton, are you?"
Walker eyed the motel key sitting on the bedside table.
"Come to room fifteen and find out."
Jesse let out a low whistle. "You'll never know how
much I've missed you." His voice shook.
"I'll be right there!"
Walker closed his eyes tightly. Everything else in his world
might be in chaos, but Jesse never changed, thank heaven.
After twenty minutes of pacing, he heard the sound of a
truck pull up in the parking space outside the door. Walker
moved a corner of the curtain aside in time to see his
good-looking brother climb out of the cab wearing the white
Stetson and checked shirt that were his signature. The
thirty-year-old bull rider in the family didn't look any
older than the twins!
His throat swelled with emotion as he stepped to the door
and opened it. Their eyes met. Jesse's startling blue
gaze examined him from head to toe, silently noting how the
years had taken their toll on Walker.
"Go ahead and say it. It won't hurt my feelings. I
look like somebody's idea of a nightmare."
Jesse's eyes glistened with tears he couldn't
repress. "You came home. That's all that
counts." He caught Walker in a fierce bear hug, causing
his hat to fall off. "Are you back for good?" he
asked in a thick-toned voice.
Walker's breath caught. "Maybe."
"What does that mean exactly?" Jesse demanded,
relinquishing his hold.
He averted his eyes. "It means I'm out of the
service. As for anything el—"
But Jesse didn't give him a chance to finish the
sentence. He just hugged him again, harder. Though he was a
couple of inches shorter than Walker, he could pack a
wallop. Walker always thought his brother was bigger than life.
When they let go of each other, he noticed more lines of
experience around Jesse's eyes and mouth, but thankfully
everything else had stayed the same. With his short
silvery-blond hair, another legacy from their mother, his
older sibling always did stand out in a crowd. The ladies
loved him, yet he'd managed to stay single. In that
regard, he and Walker were a pair.
"I like the buzz."
"Ditto," Jesse answered with a smile, eyeing
Walker's Marine cut before picking up his hat. He sat on
one of the chairs set around the table and squinted at
Walker while he twirled it in his fingers. "I take it no
one knows you're home but me."
Walker snagged the other chair and flung a leg over to sit
with his arms against the wooden back. "You've got
that in one. I can't be around people yet."
"Understood. Hey, you know Grandfather Walker's
cabin up on Carter Mountain is vacant. Is that far enough
away for you?"
Jesse was reading his mind. Walker nodded. "But I
won't step a foot in it if you don't agree to let me
pay rent. I want that official and documented." He
didn't need his father accusing him of not paying his
own way.