High Country Homecoming. Roxanne Rustand

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      Sure enough, the old wooden target frames were still there, though several were falling into disrepair. He sauntered over, found a dozen old tin cans scattered on the ground nearby and then lined them up on the almost-horizontal crossbar of one of the targets. Then he strode back to a triangular boulder marking a distance of a hundred yards and loaded .22 LRs into the magazine.

      It had been almost nine months since he’d felt the weight of an assault rifle in his hands. The simple .22 in his hands had been his grandfather’s and felt like a toy in comparison.

      But before he could raise it high enough to look through the site and fire, a searing jolt of pain tore through his damaged shoulder.

      He winced.

      Forced himself to continue.

      Struggled to focus.

      The shot went wild, pinging off a distant boulder with a puff of dust and rock chips.

      One after another were the same, until he’d burned through a hundred rounds and had hit one of the tin cans maybe thirty times, his frustration and anger at himself growing with each pull of the trigger.

      He’d refused to believe what the VA docs had told him. He’d been a crack shot—scoring 349 at his last marksmanship qualification—so what did they know?

      But lifelong skills and sheer strength of will weren’t enough to overcome the truth.

      He had just partial vision in his right eye, due to irreparable damage. His shoulder-replacement surgery six months ago had been only a partial fix at best, so it would never be the same.

      Was this pathetic performance his future? Or could he regain his strength and skills by July, and qualify for the career he’d been offered?

      Maybe it was just a foolish dream, but from now on, he was going to work at it every single day. Weight lifting. Running. Target practice. And he wasn’t going to stop until he reached his goal.

      A twig snapped. He suddenly sensed that someone was watching. He spun around and froze, scanning the hill behind him, all of his senses on high alert.

      But no one was there.

      * * *

      Devlin stopped at the main house, let himself in through the back door and unlocked the pet door so the twins’ puppy could go out into the fenced yard at will.

      Even with a half-grown pup chasing around the kitchen after a tennis ball, the house felt empty with everyone gone.

      He’d arrived late Sunday night, and during the first two days he’d been here, he’d discovered that the little blonde twins seemed to be everywhere all at once, playing with their rascal of a puppy. Building forts with blankets. Trying to be “good helpers” when Grandma Betty or Abby—who had been hired as their nanny and who was now Jess’s fiancée—were trying to make a meal. Which meant a lot more spills in the process, though no one seemed to mind the extra mess.

      There was so much more laughter in the house now—nothing like the grim silence Devlin and his brothers experienced while growing up. Even with Grandma Betty’s best efforts to make it a happier home after Heather’s death and Mom’s passing the next year, it had felt as if the life had been drained from the house and everyone in it.

      Devlin looked in the fridge and found a 9ʺ x 13ʺ pan on the middle shelf, read the directions on the sticky note affixed to the foil wrap and snorted.

      Reheat at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Don’t worry about pre-heating the oven. Frozen microwave-ready bags of veggies in freezer. Coconut cake on the counter. Tell Chloe to come to the house for supper. She’s had a long trip today. J

      Betty had added Chloe’s cell number in larger print and underlined it twice, apparently guessing that Devlin might not follow through.

      He sighed as he turned on the oven and shoved the pan inside, imagining a meal with Chloe across the table, chattering away. Maybe he could just ignore the note...

      Nope.

      He’d been career military; as tough, hardened and relentless as any of his buddies. But he still didn’t dare ignore his grandma’s orders. She’d always loved Dev and his brothers to pieces, but she’d also instilled in them a deep sense of respect and responsibility.

      If he failed to be thoughtful, just the disappointment in her voice would make him regret it.

      He dutifully made the call on his amplified cell phone, though when Chloe politely declined, he breathed a sigh of relief and said he’d drop off some dinner on his way up to his own cabin, anyhow.

      Just as he was pulling the casserole out of the oven, he heard a loud knock on the back door and Chloe let herself inside. “I figured I’d save you the bother and just come down.”

      She gave a startled laugh as the pup raced over to her and collapsed at her feet, a mass of waving paws and wagging tail. She bent down to rub his fat belly.

      She looked up at Devlin, her head cocked. “What is he? Some golden retriever mix, I’d say.”

      “I’ve been told his mom was a golden, father unknown.”

      “What’s his name?”

      Devlin shot a quick, pained glance at her over his shoulder as he settled the hot casserole on a trivet. Then he turned back to face her so he could read her lips as she spoke. “Uh... Poofy. Thanks to the twins.”

      “Not exactly the name of a hardworking ranch dog, but he’s such a big fluff ball that I can see why.” Chloe laughed. “Do the twins belong to Jess?”

      He hesitated, debating over how much to say. “He adopted them this past winter. Their mom is Lindsey, our youngest cousin. She...well, she just couldn’t handle raising them.”

      He searched the freezer for frozen vegetables and held up microwavable bags of corn and green beans. “Preference?”

      “Either.”

      He tossed the green beans into the microwave and pushed the buttons for about four minutes.

      When he turned around again, Chloe was staring at him, and he realized that she’d finally seen the scars.

      Multiple operations had repaired much of the visible damage, leaving a jagged scar that trailed from his right temple to the corner of his jaw, but as it descended along his neck and into the collar of his shirt, the scarring was heavier.

      At least his shirt covered the worst: the twisted, gnarled flesh that draped over his shoulder replacement and upper arm, where much of the bicep muscle was gone forever.

      “Devlin.” She rose slowly and moved closer, lifting a hand to cradle the side of his face. “What happened?”

      He jerked away, resenting the pity in her voice. Alarmed at the unexpected warmth that flowed through him at the touch of her hand.

      He didn’t talk about the details with anyone. Not the shrink back at the VA hospital, not his docs. And here in Montana, he certainly wouldn’t be talking to Jess or Abby or anyone else. СКАЧАТЬ