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  Heath hopped off the ATV and followed Bruce over to the calf. The smell of decaying flesh made him sick to his stomach. He breathed in through his mouth to avoid inhaling anymore of the awful scent. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Last night, this poor little guy's mom scared away the coyotes before they could drag him off. Now, we'll wait for ʼem to return. Coyotes can't resist an easy meal.” Bruce pulled out the rifles and handed one to Heath. “I figured you must be a good shot, so we’re goin’ hunting.”

  The familiar weight of the cool metal settled in his hands. The rifle was similar to the semi-automatic he’d used in the Army. He looked through the scope, scanning the terrain. “It’s been awhile since I’ve shot a rifle. Not sure how my aim will hold up.”

  The men returned to the ATV and drove around to another hill, one which placed them downwind and gave them a good view of the carcass.

  Taking a prone position, Heath waited patiently, just as he’d been trained. Ranger school seemed so long ago. On those courses, he’d covered himself with branches and earth-colored face paint, and then waited in the woods for hours. Slowly, he would creep inch by inch until he lined up his shot. Sometimes, he’d work all day to reach his goal unseen. Nothing like the Rangers to teach a man patience.

  Even though they were in the shade of a mesquite tree, the air was still hot. The tree’s long, narrow pods littered the ground. Heath swatted at the fire ants crawling and stinging his arm. A few thunderheads hovered to the west. Besides the insects that buzzed around their heads, all was still. Not a coyote to be found.

  After two hours without action, they took a break for lunch. Bruce lifted out a red cooler from the ATV and unpacked the food, which was cold chicken, cucumber salad, and fruit. While they ate, Bruce talked about Alex.

  “I was disappointed when he came to me with dreams of culinary school instead of working with me on the ranch. He bought the old Wagon Wheel restaurant in town and totally gutted the place. It’s called the Desert Rose now, and they serve the best food in town.” Bruce put on his wide-brimmed hat and grabbed hold of his rifle. “You live here much longer, and I’m buying you one of these.” He pointed to his weathered Stetson. “It keeps the sun off your face and neck. Better than those baseball caps.”

  Heath slipped his old cap on his head. “I’m pretty attached to this hat. Belonged to a good friend.”

  “Must’ve been a good friend. The thing’s seen better days.”

  “He was the best.” John’s face flashed in Heath’s mind. The two of them in Afghanistan, walking across the base, and that beloved Warrior baseball cap resting on John’s head. The hat had been a Christmas gift from John’s wife. Now Heath wore it in memory of his friend’s loyalty, right up to the very end.

  After they finished eating, they got into position, and the minutes crept along.

  Suddenly, a lone coyote came upon the hill, sniffing the air. It let out a yip, and two more appeared. They began circling the dead calf.

  Bruce nodded and held his rifle in position.

  Heath lay still and studied the animal’s movement through his scope. One was acting as lookout, while the other two ate. Heath leveled his rifle at the coyote on the left.

  Bruce gave him the thumbs-up and aimed at his own target.

  The center of the animal’s body lay in his crosshairs. Heath slowed his breathing into a controlled, steady rhythm. His finger gave slight pressure on the trigger. Blinking once, then twice, he fired. Bruce’s shot followed immediately.

  Both coyotes dropped, and the third one ran off.

  The men rode over to the other hill and tossed the dead coyotes in the bed of the ATV.

  “I’ll have one of the other guys come out here with the tractor to haul away the calf carcass. Thanks for your help,” Bruce said.

  When they returned to the barn, Heath finished his work for the day and took a long, hot shower. The sound of gun shots still rang in his ears. His hands shook from the ghost feeling of the gun. The experience had breathed life into memories he’d just as soon forget.

  He checked the time—still too early to head out for the evening. So he lay in bed, only meaning to shut his eyes for a minute. His eyelids grew heavy as the weight of his body lifted. The room suddenly felt hot and dry. He was no longer in the bunkhouse but in a dirt hut surrounded by scared women and children. “Where is he?” he screamed in English.

  The group huddled in the corner, shaking their heads and shivering.

  He grabbed hold of a young boy, maybe five or six years old, and held him by the collar. “Tell me where your father is.”

  The boy’s mother cried and reached out for him.

  Heath pulled him closer, out of her reach. Still holding the boy’s dirty shirt, he walked outside and stepped into the blinding sun. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Spread out before him on the ground were the bodies of women and children—all dead.

  Flies buzzed around the carnage. The smell made him gag. He ran over to a small bush and emptied the contents of his stomach. The boy he’d been holding only seconds before was lying on the ground dead, next to his deceased mother. His vacant eyes stared up at Heath. His mouth twisted in pain.

  Standing in a sea of death, Heath felt a familiar panic rise, making him want to run, but he found his boots stuck in mud. He screamed for help. All was quiet. Looking at the ground, he saw hands ascend through the mud to grab hold of his leg.

  A scream broke from his lips right before he awoke in the bunkhouse. Taking a few deep breaths to calm the tremors racking his body, Heath focused on the room around him. This is real, not the dream. He rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Standing in front of the sink, he splashed cold water on his face. After drying off, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Murderer.” He acted as judge and jury, pronouncing guilt and a life sentence in one breath.

  Once he shook out the last web of the dream, he grabbed his wallet and left the house. His Harley rested under the shade of an ash tree. He straddled the bike and hit the ignition. The deep, throaty sound of the engine drowned the screams still echoing in his head.

  He rode fast and careless down the country roads. If he crashed and died, who’d care? The world might be better off without him. Pain and regret clawed at the hole in his chest.

  Finally, he drove across the Hickory River Bridge and toward the brick buildings that comprised downtown Liberty Ridge. The Damn Yankee bar sat in sharp contrast to the otherwise quiet street. People milled around on the outdoor patio, and a constant stream flowed in and out the door. He parked his bike on the street and went inside, searching for a much-needed release.

  ****

  A buzzing sound startled Grace out of a good dream. She blindly reached over, slapped down her hand on her nightstand a few times before making contact with her cell phone. “Hello,” she said in a raspy voice, still half asleep.

  “Hey, it’s Molly. Can you come to the police station?”

  Now she was wide awake. She pushed her hair away from her face, and then had to go back to remove a few strands stuck to her lips. “Why? What happened?”

  Molly cleared her throat. “Your dad hired Heath Carter, right?”

  Grace glanced at the clock. Why would Molly call in the middle of the night to ask about Heath? “Yeah, he’s been working at the ranch.”

  “I know he saved you from drowning, so I’m calling you first. He’s sitting in one of my holding cells.”

  Grace sat up like she was spring loaded. “Was he arrested?”

  Noise sounded in the background, and the phone crackled.

  “No, I put him there for his own safekeeping,” Molly said. “I’m hoping you can talk to him and reason with him. He might listen to you, plus I thought not involving your dad was for the best.”

  “What did Heath do?” Did she really want to hear the answer? After flipping on the light, she held the phone to her ear while slipping on a pair of shorts.

  “I’ll explain everything when you
get here.”

  “Leaving now. See you soon.” Her breath came out in short, shallow bursts. Nervous tension buzzed inside her belly. She hoped whatever he’d done wasn’t too bad. And took comfort in knowing Molly would have not called Grace if she thought Heath was dangerous.

  Twenty minutes later, when Grace walked into the Liberty Ridge Police Station, she approached the young male officer behind the front desk. “I’m here to see Molly Hernandez.”

  The officer flashed a toothy smile. “You must be Grace. I’ll let her know you’re here.” He picked up the phone and made a call.

  Molly quickly appeared from out of the police bullpen and escorted Grace to her desk.

  She lowered herself onto a chair and scooted her bottom to rest at the edge of the padded seat.

  Molly pulled her chair forward, resting her folded hands on top of a tall stack of paperwork.

  “Spill, Molly. What happened?”

  “Heath was in an altercation tonight.” Molly sighed. “At the Damn Yankee. He could have been seriously hurt.”

  Grace’s stomach dropped to her feet. “So, he’s all right?”

  “From witness statements, he was drinking heavily. Then picked a fight with three Navy boys. The match was not fair, and Heath’s lucky he got out of there in one piece. A couple other guys stepped in to break up things. When I got to the scene, Heath was sitting on the curb outside the bar. The guys who broke up the fight were keeping an eye on him to make sure he didn’t get into any more trouble.”

  Mild-mannered Heath had started a bar fight? That couldn’t be true. During his time on the ranch, he seemed like a quiet, gentle man. She’d forgotten she didn’t know a lot about him. His calm exterior could be hiding danger. “He wasn’t arrested.” Grace folded her arms around her churning stomach. “That’s good…right?”

  One of Molly’s dark brows lifted. “No one is pressing charges, but I held him for a few hours to allow him to calm down and sober up. I hope you’ll take him to the ranch.”

  “Let me talk to him.” Uneasiness gripped her. What kind of condition was he in? And would he accept her help?

  Molly led her through several corridors, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the quiet hall. After Molly unlocked a door at the bottom of the stairs, they entered the small room that held four jail cells. Only one cell was presently occupied, with its door closed.

  Grace approached, her insides twisted with nervous jitters. She looked into the cell and saw Heath lying on his back on a low cot. An arm slung over his face.

  “Heath,” Molly barked. “I’m willing to release you to Grace if you agree to go directly home. No more trouble.”

  Besides the small rise and fall of his chest, Heath lay perfectly still. He gave no sign that he’d heard Molly.

  The remainder of Grace’s patience evaporated. What an ingrate! He was ignoring them. First, she’d been awakened in the middle of the night to come to the police station. Then, Heath didn’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge her. Her temper flared, but she quickly reined it in. She might be crazy for agreeing to see him home but she did owe him her life.

  “You’re acting like an idiot,” she snapped. Letting her anger show might be the only way to get through to the thick-headed fool. The good cop approach obviously wasn’t working. “Get up. I want to head home and get back to sleep.”

  Molly’s dark brown eyes widened. Her jaw hung slack. “You go, girl,” she whispered.

  Very slowly, Heath lifted himself to a sitting position and set his feet on the cement floor.

  Dried blood caked one eyebrow and the side of his beard. Marks dotted his arms, and a dark shadow covered his left eye.

  “I didn’t ask you to come.”

  His voice was hoarse. “You look terrible.” She smiled like she would for a willful child, which was exactly how he was acting. Where was the gratitude? “You either come with me, or I call my dad. Which do you prefer?”

  When he stood, he grunted, and then walked toward them on unsteady legs. “Let’s go.” His hands gripped the bars.

  Molly placed the key in the lock then hesitated. “You promise to go straight home with Grace?”

  “Yes.” He sighed and rolled his eyes upward, staring at the ceiling.

  He was the one acting exasperated when in all fairness, Grace had every right to leave his sorry butt in jail. She recoiled at the smell of alcohol wafting toward her.

  Once the door was rolled away, Heath followed her out of the holding cell area.

  When they arrived at the front desk, Molly turned to face Grace and Heath, hands on hips. “Heath, I don’t expect to see you around my police station again. And Grace, call me when you get home.”

  “Yes, Officer.” Grace hugged her petite friend.

  Heath mumbled something and opened the door.

  She stepped out into the warm night air, followed by Heath. The fresh air instantly soothed her irritation and worry. “My car’s parked over there.” She pointed to the lighted parking lot next door.

  Around her, the town was silent and dark. The sidewalks and streets were empty of activity. A block away, one stoplight blinked red in a one-sided conversation.

  Grace began walking toward her car. When she turned her head to look over her shoulder, she saw Heath headed in the other direction. “Where are you going?” she hollered after him. Her question didn’t cause him to hesitate, but he actually quickened his gait.

  “I’ll go to the ranch but not with you. I’ll walk.”

  If she’d had something hard to throw at his head, she would have. Anything to get through his thick skull. “The ranch is ten miles away, and you’re hurt. Stop being difficult and come with me.”

  “Go home. Leave me alone.” Heath continued down the empty street.

  Grace followed. The decision to chase Heath was the definition of stupid. She knew that. But deep inside, she trusted him. Rational or not, she couldn’t imagine him ever hurting her. On the ranch, she’d dealt with willful animals. She knew how to get them to yield and relent to her direction. Would those same skills work on Heath? Or was his stubborn anger a whole different beast?

  As he stepped on to the Hickory River Bridge, she reached out to touch his arm. Time to find out what you’re made of.

  Chapter Eight

  Without hesitation, Grace reached out and tapped Heath’s arm.

  In an instant, he swung around with his fist in the air until recognition dawned in his eyes.

  Heath yanked down his arm to lock it at his side.

  Her heart thumped inside her chest. “It’s me.” Grace stepped away out of self-preservation. Luckily, he seemed to be returning to the present. The urge to touch him again burned her fingertips, but she restrained her hand. Not a good idea to poke a grumpy bear. “Please let me take you home. I don’t understand why you won’t come with me.”

  “My problems aren’t for you to understand.” He stared into the dark river, a deep scowl furrowed his brow and pulled at the corners of his lips.

  “I want to, if you’ll let me in. Tell me what’s wrong.” She reached over to touch his arm but pulled away.

  He turned to face her.

  Even in the dark, she could see the storm brewing in his hazel eyes.

  “No,” he snapped. “Go home. I don’t want your help.”

  Grace stood still and firm, not willing to give in. He reminded her of an angry bull, ready to direct its rage at whoever crossed its path. She remembered when she was thirteen and Dad had instructed her to stay out of the east pasture. Of course, she didn’t listen. When he went into the barn, she snuck through the fence and darted across the field, which was the quickest route to her tree house. She made good time until Slash, their large bull, appeared in her path.

  He grunted and swung his head, his massive horns cutting the air—swoosh, swoosh.

  She stopped mid-stride, standing in the middle of the pasture, alone and scared. Dad once explained the bigger the show, the bigger the fear. Don’t submit and
whatever you do, don’t run away. But Slash, standing thirty-feet away, didn’t appear the least bit afraid.

  Grace gathered every single scrap of courage, puffed out her small chest, and moved slowly toward the fence. She knew not to turn her back on the bull. Thankfully, Slash lowered his head to munch on sweet-grass and let her go in peace. After that day, she had never ventured near that bull or that field again.

  Now, as she watched Heath, she replaced her fear with determination. She’d get him into her car, even if the process took the rest of the night. “Why did you pick a fight with three men? Do you have a death wish?”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation.” His words were slightly slurred. “You’re the kind of person who sees the best in everything. You think the world is full of sunshine and roses. Well, it’s not. You have no idea what’s out there.” He took a step to leave, but his boot hit an uneven board and sent him stumbling forward.

  Grace reached to steady him and pulled him upright. His skin felt hot to the touch. Empathy swelled inside her. “You’re right. I haven’t seen the things you have. But that doesn’t make me any less capable of helping you. Everyone needs people in their life who care about them, so don’t walk away from the ones who do.”

  “I don’t need anybody, least of all you.” His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the wooden floorboards.

  “Well.” She set her hands on her hips and looked around at the empty bridge. “Sorry, but I’m all you got right now.”

  “Go home, Grace. Leave me alone.”

  His voice held a deep sadness. Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m not letting you wander off in the middle of the night, still tipsy and injured.”

  His arm extended toward her, sending her heart fluttering wildly, like the wings of a hummingbird.

  “Oh, Grace.” He ran an index finger down her bare arm. “Don’t….”

  Heath’s soft touch flickered sparks across her skin. His long hair was a disheveled mess, and he was still bloody from the fight. To anyone passing by, he would have looked like a menace to her safety. She held out her hand.