Jake Tanner had pulled out the desk chair in his home office
and started to sit
when the front doorbell chimed in the blissful quiet. He
would never take silence
for granted again. A long breath swooshed from his lungs as
he straightened and
gripped his cane, then limped toward the foyer. Through the
long, narrow window
with beveled glass, he could make out his neighbor standing
on the porch.
Marcella Kime found a reason to see him at least a couple of
times a week. He'd
become her mission since he'd returned home to Cimarron City
from serving in the
military overseas. A few days earlier she'd jokingly told
him she missed her
grandson, and he would do just fine taking his place. He
still wasn't sure what to
make of that statement. He had returned to Cimarron City, a
town he'd lived in for
a while and visited often to see his grandma. Dealing with
family, especially his
father, the general, had been too much for him three months
ago when he'd been
released from the military hospital.
He swung the door open to reveal Marcella, probably no more
than five feet tall, if
that, with her hands full.
"Good morning." She smiled as she juggled a large box and a
plate of pastries. He
reached for the parcel.
"The Fed Ex guy left this late yesterday afternoon. I meant
to bring it over
sooner, but then I had to go to church to help with the
pancake supper. You're
always home so I was surprised he couldn't deliver the
package."
"Went to the VA hospital in Oklahoma City."
"Oh, good. You went out." She presented the plate of
goodies. "I baked extra ones
this morning because I know how much you enjoy my cinnamon
rolls. I'm going to put
those pounds you lost back on in no time. I imagine all
those K rations aren't too
tasty."
"I haven't had MREs—meals ready to eat—in six months, and
no, they aren't tasty. In
the hospital I was fed regular meals." But he hadn't wanted
to eat much. He was
working out again and building up his muscles at least.
"Oh, my. K rations certainly dates me. That's what they were
called when my older
brother was in the army."
His seventy-five-year-old neighbor with stark white hair
never was at a loss for
words. After she left, his head would throb from all the
words tumbling around
inside. He wanted to tell her again that she didn't need to
worry about him, that
in time his full appetite would return, but she continued
before he could open his
mouth.
"I'd come in, but I have to leave. Saturday is my day to get
my hair washed and
fixed. It needs it. Can't miss that." She thrust the plate
toward him. "I'll come
back later and get my dish."
After placing the parcel on the table nearby, he took the
cinnamon rolls from his
neighbor, their scent teasing that less than robust
appetite. "Thanks, Miss Kime."
"Tsk. Tsk. Didn't I tell you to call me Marcella, young man?
Your grandma and me
were good friends. I miss her."
"So do I, Miss—I mean, Marcella."
When she had traversed the four steps to his sidewalk, Jake
closed his front door,
shutting out the world. With a sigh, he scanned his living
room, the familiar
surroundings where he controlled his environment, knew what
to expect. Even
Marcella's visits weren't surprises anymore.
Jake balanced the plate on the box, carried it into his
office and set it on the
desk to open later. It was from his father and his new wife—
a care package as
they'd promised in their last call. Finally, they weren't
trying to talk him into
coming to live with them in Florida anymore. He needed his
space, and he certainly
didn't want to be reminded daily that he'd let down the
general—he wouldn't follow
in his father's footsteps. He needed a sense of what this
house had given when he
was growing up—peace.
He snatched a cinnamon roll as he sat in front of his
laptop, his coffee cup
already on his right on a coaster. While he woke up his
computer, he bit into the
roll and closed his eyes, savoring the delectable pastry.
Marcella sure could bake.
Before getting started in his course work for his Ph.D. in
psychology, he clicked
on his email, expecting one from his doctor at the VA about
some test results.
Only one email that wasn't junk popped up. He recognized the
name, a message from
the wife of a soldier who had served under him in
Afghanistan. His heartbeat picked
up speed. He should open it, but after an email a couple of
weeks prior where he
discovered one of his men had died from his injuries in an
ambush, he didn't know
if he could.
His chest constricted. But the woman's name taunted him.
With a fortifying breath,
he clicked on the message. As their commanding officer, it
was his duty to know
what happened to his men, even if he couldn't do anything
about it.
His comrade was going in for another operation to repair the
damage from a bomb
explosion. Her words whisked Jake back to that day six
months ago that had changed
his life. The sound of the blast rocked his mind as though
he were in the middle of
the melee all over again.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his face. His
hands shook as he closed
the laptop, hoping that would stop the flood of memories. He
never wanted to
remember that day. Ever. The walls of his home office began
to close in on him,
mocking what peace he felt in his familiar surroundings. He
surged to his feet and
hobbled around the room, dragging in breaths that didn't
satisfy his need for
oxygen.
I'm in Cimarron City. In my house. Safe.
In the midst of the terror that day in the mountain village,
he'd grasped on to the
Lord and held tight as He guided him through the rubble and
smoke to save whomever
he could. But where was God now when he needed Him? He felt
abandoned, left to
piece his life together. Alone.
He paced the room, glancing back at the computer a couple of
times until he forced
himself to look away. Lightheaded, he stopped at the window,
leaning on his cane,
and focused on his front lawn. Reconnoitering the area. Old
habits didn't die
easily.
He started to turn away when something out of the corner of
his eye caught his
attention. He swung back and homed in on a group of kids
across the street—two boys
beating up a smaller child.
Anger clenched his gut. He balled his hands as another kid
jumped in on the
lopsided fight. That clinched it for Jake. He couldn't stand
by and watch a child
being hurt. Adrenaline began pumping through him as though
he were going into
battle, pushing his earlier panic into the background. He
rushed toward the front
door. But out on his porch, anxiety slammed into his chest,
rooting him to the
spot.
Jake's gaze latched on to the three boys against the one,
taking turns punching the
child. All his thoughts centered on the defenseless kid,
trying to protect himself.
Heart pounding, Jake took one step, then another. His whole
body felt primed to
fight as it had when as a soldier he vied with the other
part of him—sweat coating
his skin, hands trembling, gut churning.
No choice.
Furiously he increased his pace until he half ran and half
limped toward the group,
pain zipping up his injured leg. The boys were too intent on
their prey to notice
him. When he came to a halt, dropping his cane, he jerked
first one then another
off the child on the ground. He tried holding on to the one
he pegged as the leader
while reaching for the third kid, but the boy yanked free
and raced deeper into the
park with the second one hurrying after him.
"What's your name?" Pain radiating up his bad leg, Jake
blocked it as much as he
could from his mind and clasped the arm of the last child,
smaller than the other
two who'd fled and more the size of the boy on the ground.
The assailant glared at him, his mouth pinched in a hard
line.
The downed kid still lay huddled in a tight ball. As much as
Jake wanted to
interrogate the bully he held, he needed to see to the hurt
child. He memorized the
features of the third attacker then released him. As
expected, the third attacker
fled in the same direction as his cohorts.
That was okay. Jake could identify him. He wouldn't get off
scot-free.
Adrenaline still surging, Jake knelt by the boy. That sent
another sharp streak of
pain up his thigh. But over the months he'd learned that if
he concentrated hard
enough, he could ignore the aches his injury still caused.
"You're safe now. Can I
help you? Where do you hurt?"
For a long moment the child didn't say anything. Didn't
move.
Concern flooded Jake. He settled his hand on the boy's
shoulder. "Where do you
live? Can you make it home?" Should he call 911? Had the
bullies done worse damage
than he realized?
Slowly, the child uncurled his body. He winced as he turned
and looked up. Jake
took in the cut lip and cheek, blood oozing from the wounds,
the eye that would
blacken by tomorrow, the torn shirt.
"Let me help you home."
Wariness entered the kid's blue eyes. "I'm fine." He swiped
his dirty sleeve across
his mouth, smearing the blood.
"Who were those guys?"
The child clamped his lips together, cringing, but keeping
his mouth closed.
"The least I can do is make sure you get home without those
kids bothering you
again."
The boy's eyes widened.
"Okay?"
The child nodded once then tried to stand. Halfway up, his
legs gave out, and he
sank to the ground.
Jake moved closer. "Let me help." He steadied himself with
his cane.
When the boy stood with Jake's assistance, he wobbled but
remained on his feet.
"I've been in a few fights. I know you have to get your
bearings before doing too
much."
The child tilted his head back and looked up at Jake, ...