His Small-Town Family. Lorraine Beatty

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      All she could do was nod. She could barely come to terms with how she—an intelligent, educated woman—had been so foolish and gullible. She’d lost herself in her relationship with her husband. Now she had to figure out who she was and who she wanted to be.

Chapter Two

      Ethan shook the hand of Reverend Stoddard, uttered a few polite phrases and stepped outside into the Sunday morning sunshine. Two different sermons today had provided plenty of spiritual strengthening. He’d attended Peace Community’s early service, eager to hear Jim Barrett preach. Then after a quick cup of coffee and a sweet roll at the Magnolia Café, he’d crossed the park and attended the late service at Hope Chapel. He’d enjoyed both services, but if he was going to join the PTSD group that Jim had referred him to here, he needed to support the church. That meant attending Hope Chapel on a regular basis.

      As he took the steps down to the sidewalk, someone called his name. He looked around to see a giant of a man coming toward him, hand outstretched and a friendly smile on his face.

      “You’re Ethan Stone, aren’t you? I’m Ron Morrison. Jim Barrett told me about you.”

      He nodded and shook the man’s hand. Ethan stood an inch over six feet, but Ron’s bulk made him feel short. Ron ran the only PTSD support group in Dover. “How did you know who I was?”

      “Jim Barrett gave me a good description. Besides, I know the look.”

      Ethan smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

      Ron gestured toward the sidewalk. “Why don’t we go over here and talk, if you have the time?”

      Ethan fell into step beside him until he stopped at a dark blue Silverado parked at the curb near the end of the block.

      Ron pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to Ethan. “We meet every Wednesday night in a room off the church gym. It’s not a large group. We average around five men, sometimes up to eight or ten. There’s no pressure to talk or share. You do that when you’re ready, or not at all. I just wanted you to know you’re welcome, and we’re here if you need us.”

      The card had Ron’s number and the church’s office number. He’d made a lot of progress in the past ten months. The flashbacks were under control, even though they still lurked in the dark edges of his mind, and it had been months since he’d had a nightmare. But he also knew ongoing support was vital. Paul had taught him to take it one step at a time. Face one fear at a time. He planned on following his friend’s advice. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

      Ron shook his hand. “We’re all in this together. Don’t forget that.”

      Ethan crossed over into the lush park surrounding the courthouse, his gaze taking in the charming nineteenth-century town. Dover, Mississippi, was exactly as Paul had described. From the town square with its majestic courthouse, bandstand and giant live-oak trees, to the charming brick buildings lined up on each side.

      April in Mississippi was a riot of color. Pink, red and white azalea bushes and colorful vines exploded from every corner. His photographer’s eye automatically began composing the perfect angles to capture the spring display. But he didn’t have a camera anymore and he wouldn’t ever again. He’d spent his entire life with the lens between himself and the real world. No longer.

      “Afternoon, sir.” A soldier dressed in camouflage fatigues strolled passed, nodding a greeting.

      Every muscle in Ethan’s body tensed. Caught off guard, the steel gate holding back his memories shook violently, allowing pieces of the darkness to slip through the cracks. He fought to maintain emotional control and keep his anxiety at bay.

      The Lord is my shepherd. The twenty-third psalm had been his anchor during recovery. Slowly the emotional storm in his chest eased, and he started back down the sidewalk.

      It had all happened too quick. One minute he had been taking pictures of the soldiers on patrol and locals at the neighborhood market, his lens focused on a mother and infant who had stepped into the frame. The next, fire and debris had rocked him off his feet. He’d continued shooting, keeping the lens to his eye, but the image that emerged shredded his soul. The mother and infant who had been standing near the market were lying on the ground.

      Something in his soul had died in that moment.

      The next thing he remembered was waking up in a hospital with shrapnel in his arm, a concussion and his emotions churning inside his gut like a tornado. Ten months later, here he was, still trying to get past what he’d seen, vowing to never take another photograph again.

      After stopping at Filler-Up-Burgers, a charming old gas-station-turned-restaurant, Ethan returned to his small room at the Dixiana Motor Lodge on the edge of town. The old-style motel was right out of a 1940s postcard. Small cabins laid out in an L shape were connected by a common roof and separated by narrow openings for parking a car. The interior provided all the modern conveniences, though the decor was a throwback to another era. After only a few days, however, the room was starting to close in on him. He’d have to find an apartment or a house to rent now that he’d gotten a job and was committed to remaining in Dover. Maybe he’d ask his new boss for some suggestions.

      He was looking forward to work tomorrow. Working at Latimer’s would give him a purpose and cover the service part of his rehabilitation. Ron’s group would provide the talking. Both were important keys to managing his PTSD. The service part he embraced. The talking, not so much. But as much as he hated to admit it, talking did help. With the Lord’s help, he’d learn to open up more, letting go of the fears one memory at a time until the past no longer had a stranglehold on his mind.

      Paul’s advice had been spot-on. Dover was the perfect place to find himself, to start fresh. Nothing here would drag him down into the darkness. He knew without a doubt that the Lord had brought him here to begin again.

      All he wanted now was someplace quiet and peaceful to make a fresh start. He wanted roots. Permanence. He’d lost himself on a dusty street in Afghanistan, and he’d come to Dover to find out who he was now and where he would go from here.

      * * *

      “Good morning.”

      The deep baritone with the husky rasp sent an unwelcome tingle along Nicki’s nerves. She didn’t want to notice Ethan Stone. Not as a man, anyhow. Only as an employee. A much-needed and efficient employee. One who arrived on time on a Monday morning, ready to work.

      “Hi.” She glanced up to find him standing on the threshold of her office, that lopsided smile softening his chiseled features. It would be easier to think of him as someone who worked for her if he weren’t so handsome. So capable and so disturbing. Thankfully he was a man of few words who went about his job with efficiency and determination.

      He looked more intriguing today. The stubble did little to hide the strong square jaw and high cheekbones below those beautiful brown eyes. He wore an unbuttoned red cotton shirt over a white T-shirt and dark jeans that hugged his legs. He was the image of strength and dependability, two things she needed right now.

      She’d learned the hard way not to depend on anyone but herself. She’d teach her daughter that lesson early. The only thing she needed to depend on now was that Ethan would hang around long enough to help her get the new layout in place. She was holding out hope that Gary’s findings wouldn’t drastically СКАЧАТЬ