Hidden: Part 1 Read online

  “That too.” Travis moved to the rear of the gelding and started picking a hind hoof.

  “You know what split them up?”

  “Got some ideas.”

  He waited but Travis offered nothing. Sully knew it was a sore subject. He didn’t mention that he hoped to get his parents back together again.

  When Travis resurfaced, he cleaned his pick and placed it in the tack box, and then he stretched, arching his back. “You hungry? I’ve got some leftover pizza.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Few days.”

  Sully chuckled. “That’s a hard offer to turn down, but I’m gonna say no.” The meds were finally kicking in, allowing him to focus on hunger and thirst. “Let’s go to Beamers. Grab some burgers. I’m thirsty as hell for American beer.” Alcohol had been prohibited on military bases in Afghanistan. It’d been a long fifteen months since Sully had tasted a cold one. “I’m buying.”

  “Well hell then, let’s go.” Travis wasted no time wrestling into his sheepskin jacket and pulling his wide-brimmed hat low on his forehead. Sleek eagle feathers were tucked around the band.

  Out in the brisk cold, they crunched across the tattered ice. Travis fished the remote from his pocket and aimed it at the garage. The groaning door lifted to reveal Sully’s white Ford F-350 Super Duty. A truck with muscle. Sully ran his hands over the polished surface. “I missed you, baby. Thanks for keeping her clean, Travis. She got enough gas to get to town?”

  “We’re going in this.” Travis circled the truck.

  Sully followed. A white pygmy car was parked next to the Ford. It looked like his truck had laid an egg. “A Prius? Who belongs to this?”

  “Me,” Travis growled. “It gets great mileage. It’s good for the planet. I don’t want any crap. Get in.”

  Sully folded his body into the passenger seat. Travis fit in just fine at five-foot-nine, hat and all, but at six-foot, Sully’s Stetson rubbed against the ceiling. “Look at this fancy dashboard. GPS?”

  “Yeah,” Travis said with undisguised pride. “It talks to me in a sexy voice. I have surround sound too. Wanna hear Garth Brooks?”

  “Shit. You spoiled American. I just left a province where folks don’t own cars. There aren’t any roads. Just goat trails. They live in ancient stone houses without plumbing. The women wear pup tents with peepholes for clothing. It’s forbidden for men and women to look each other in the eye.”

  Travis glanced over and met Sully’s eyes. “Ain’t this country great?”

  “It ain’t perfect, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

  Miles off the beaten trail, Wild Horse Creek didn’t see too many tourist dollars. Sully noticed that a few shops had gone out of business. The empty buildings stood like carcasses with blackened windows and weed-filled lots. The two-pump Arco station, General Store, Mac’s Feed and Tack, and Gilly’s Pawn and Thrift shop were still in business, some outfitted with hitching posts for folks who rode into town on horseback.

  It was after eight p.m. No sign of life except for Beamer’s Bar and Grill. The neon sign out front pulsed in the night like a heartbeat, splashing blue and red across the shiny hoods of the trucks in the lot. As he walked into the half-filled restaurant, Sully felt like he was falling forward into the future. Overseas, he’d served himself from steaming metal containers in the brightly lit chow hall, sitting with hundreds of Marines dressed in green and brown cammies, voices raised above the tinny clatter. Here the interior was softly lit, and the folks seated at tables looked relaxed, blue-jean casual, voices murmuring. The smell of grilled food made his mouth water. The half dozen men hugging the bar took no notice as he and Travis straddled barstools away from the crowd. It took a minute for the bartender to extricate herself from a rugged-looking cowboy leaning over the counter and stroll over to them. She was a shapely blonde dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut sweater. Her earrings and dainty gold chains shimmered in the soft light.

  “Hey, Travis.” She flashed a smile. “Haven’t seen you for a while. Who’s your friend?”

  “This here’s Sully. Sully, Britney.”

  Removing his hat, Sully met Britney’s hazel eyes, nodded.

  “Hey Sully.” She leaned over and wiped off the spotless counter, giving him a ringside view of her ample bustline. God bless America. Sully smiled, grateful to see a woman who wasn’t dressed in combat gear or imprisoned in a burqa.

  “Our tequila drinks are on special tonight,” she drawled, looking at him through a fringe of dark lashes. “Can I talk you into a margarita?”

  It’d been a long while since a woman had taken notice of him. Unprepared, he looked down for a moment, blinked back up at her. “A Deschutes River Ale, and line up three shots of Cuervo for me.”

  “Three, hmmm. That happens to be my lucky number.”

  A snappy comeback eluded him. His talent for flirtatious banter was packed away in cold storage, frozen solid.

  “That all?” she asked, tucking a strand of blond hair behind an ear.

  “A burger. Extra mayo.”

  “Fries with that?”

  “Yeah. Please. And extra ketchup.”

  Travis cleared his throat.

  Britney tugged her gaze away from Sully.

  “I’ll have a burger, fries, and a Corona,” Travis said.

  “Coming right up.” She cast a flirty smile at Sully and sashayed through the double doors into the kitchen. Both men followed her with their eyes.

  Travis shook his head and grinned. “Man, you sure haven’t lost it with the ladies.”

  “Helluva surprise to me.” With his shrapnel scars and pasty face, Sully felt like a dull replica of himself. He didn’t have the energy to put into something that had nowhere to go. His personal life was going into cold storage, too. The fear of losing the ranch pushed all self-interests into another hemisphere.

  Britney returned, set down two frosty mugs of beer, lined up three shot glasses, and filled them with tequila.

  “Thank you kindly,” Sully said.

  She waited for a moment but he gave her no encouragement and she ambled back to the cowboy. Without hesitation, Sully threw back two shots, felt the heat spread through his chest and belly.

  Travis raised a brow. “You might want to take it easy. We got time.”

  “I’m drinking for two,” Sully said quietly. He pushed up his left sleeve, revealing a half dozen names tattooed on his forearm in bold, black ink. The first four were buddies he’d lost in the battle of Cusol, 2004. Taliban stronghold. Fierce resistance. House to house combat. The fifth got blown to hell by an IED last year. Close friends. Gone. And now, Eric.

  “Fucking war.” Travis scowled. He touched Sully’s forearm near the wrist. “This ink’s fresh. Eric Steeler.”

  “Died three weeks ago.”

  “Same time you got hit?”

  Sully nodded. “He saved my life, and two other Marines. He was my squad’s medic.”

  A glint of understanding flickered in the old Paiute’s eyes.

  Sully held up his glass, pictured Eric grinning under the desert sun. That’s how he wanted to remember him. “Semper Fi, Doc.” He knocked back his last tequila.

  “Oohrah,” Travis growled.

  “Oohrah,” Sully growled back, grateful for the company of another vet. It didn’t take long for the alcohol in his empty stomach to hit his bloodstream. His mood elevated. The world softened. It felt good. He signaled Britney. “Line up three more for me, sugar.”

  With a tilt to one corner of her mouth, she refilled the three glasses. “What’re you celebrating?”

  “Buddies.” A little blurry eyed, he turned his forearm upward, revealing the sacred list.

  Her smile wavered. “Iraq?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  A shadow of empathy darkened her eyes. “Thanks for your service. Your first round’s on the house.”

  “Great,” Travis said.

  Britney left and he and Travis continued drinking, holding tribute to six Mari
nes who had paid the ultimate price. While he polished off his burger and fries, Sully’s thoughts returned to Eric. His best buddy had grown up in nearby Bend. His enlistment was up too, and they had planned to hit Beamer’s together their first week back. Eric should be sitting here with him right now, getting shit-faced, flirting with the blonde bombshell bartender, and making plans to go back to med school. Instead, he was dead at twenty-two. Shipped home in a body bag. The alcohol loosened the storm gate that held back combat memories. An image of Eric lying in a filthy ditch bleeding to death reared up in his mind, so vivid, Sully could smell the cordite and sulfur from the explosives. Shame seared his brain like a hot branding iron. As squad leader, he’d been responsible for the safety of his men, but he failed to bring Eric back alive.

  Blinking hard against the pressure of tears, he forced the sickening image into some dark hidden chamber of his soul. Longing for a few hours of oblivion, he threw back his last drink. Tomorrow, he’d wake up to a slew of ranch problems, including the bad news Travis was holding back. He rested his forehead on his folded arms over the bar and heard Britney slap the check on the bar top.

  “Your friend dead?” she asked Travis.

  Sully opened one eye.

  “Just dog-tired.”

  “Too bad. Tell him next time, maybe ease up on the shots.”

  “Yeah, poor kid,” Travis chuckled. “Can’t hold his liquor.”

  “I can hear you,” Sully said, slurring his words. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and placed a few bills on the counter, then started sliding off the barstool.

  Travis propped him up against the counter. “You ready?”

  Sully nodded, his head in a fog, the room spinning around him.

  “Hang tough,” Travis said.

  The blonde beat them to the door and held it open. “Welcome back to the States, Sully.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Lab panted over her shoulder from the backseat as Maggie Steeler pulled into the driveway of her office and parked her Jeep Cherokee next to Brennen’s Mercedes. She turned off the engine and watched the snow feather her windshield. The office was tucked away in a grove of juniper trees, their branches drooping under a heavy burden of snow. It made her think of the shoulders of weary soldiers stationed in cold places far away from the comforts of home. She thought of her son. Dead. Killed in a shithole on the other side of the earth.

  The world looked cocooned and soft under the billowy mounds of white, but the peaceful landscape was a complete disconnect from the storm raging inside her. The pain of grief washed through her in persistent waves, never receding, sometimes so intense it compressed her lungs until she could barely breathe. Crying jags erupted without warning, triggered by any small memory of Eric, and the house was booby-trapped with memories. She counted the hours of the day until she could take her sleeping pills and escape, though nightmares often invaded her dreams. The challenge started all over again as soon as sunlight spilled across the windowsill. Uncontrollable emotions had kept her imprisoned in the house until today. Shivering as the heat dissipated in the car, Maggie did a quick check of her image in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. Mascara wasn’t even an option.

  The Lab whined behind her and Maggie heard his tail thumping against the window. She opened the door and the dog was out in one bound, paws imprinting the flawless snow, powder flying, his nose ruffling the surface. He was ecstatic. She watched in wonder, wishing she could absorb a miniscule amount of his joy. She followed Homer’s leaping form across the icy sidewalk and up the stairs to the craftsman-style house she co-leased with Brennen. Homer shook off his dusting of snow and they entered the warmth of the small waiting room. Lining the walls were six comfortable chairs, end tables covered with glossy magazines, potted plants, and framed photos of flowered meadows. The smell of fresh coffee and sounds from the kitchen greeted her, which told her Brennen was conducting his morning ritual, bonding with his expensive cappuccino machine. She crossed the room quietly, hoping she could make it to her office without alerting him.

  “Maggie, what are you doing here?”

  She turned to face him. “I work here, remember?”

  Middle-aged and stiffly collegiate, Brennen stood in the doorway of the kitchen holding a coffee mug crowned with foam. Gray-haired, distinguished, with a carefully put-together style that said expensive casual, he always reminded her of Ralph Lauren. A transplant from the Upper East Side of New York, Brennen’s image consciousness never ceased to amaze her. He imported coffee beans from exotic places like Ethiopia, loafers from Milan, and cobbled lamb’s wool sweaters from Scotland. He had never adjusted to the casual ease of Bend, a small Oregon resort town where people typically dressed down in jeans or athletic wear.

  “You’re supposed to be off for another week,” he said.

  “I emailed my clients to let them know I’m back.”

  He lifted his cup above his head as Homer jumped up against his thighs.

  “Down, Homer. Sorry.” She gently grabbed the dog’s collar. “He’s excited to be back.”

  Frowning his distaste, Brennen brushed snow from his gabardine slacks. “Cappuccino?”

  “No, thanks. I’m caffeined out.”

  He approached her noiselessly on his cushioned loafers and peered at her over his reading glasses. “Christ, you look like hell.”

  “Thanks, I needed to hear that.” She unlocked the door to her treatment room and switched on the light. Immediately, the peacefulness of the room enveloped her. A place of quiet and healing, where she had done a lot of good work over the last fifteen years.

  “Sure you’re ready to work?” he asked, following her.

  “Yes.” Sitting home alone wasn’t helping. Every memory of Eric was a painful jab, keeping an open wound from scabbing over.

  Brennen sipped his coffee, brown eyes studying her, which put her in a defensive mode. Because he was a psychiatrist, and she a therapist, he never tired of pulling rank. Normally, it amused her, and they engaged in playful banter, but today, he was just plain annoying.

  She unwound a red wool scarf from her neck, removed her down jacket, and hung them on the coat-rack. “My patients need me.” She smoothed the wrinkles from her cream-colored turtleneck and chocolate-brown stretch pants. “I need them.”

  He randomly picked up objects from her bookshelves that her teenage patients found amusing—a Rubik’s cube, a cockroach entombed in a chunk of amber, a conch shell that held the sound of the ocean—and examined each before replacing it. He looked at her over a trilobite fossil. “Do you think you can be present with your patients right now, Maggie?”

  “Homer, off the couch,” she said, ignoring Brennen.

  “Patients aren’t here to take care of your needs.” A look of disapproval darkened his face. “They aren’t a distraction.”

  Anger rose in her chest but she caught herself and answered in a calm voice. “My patients are in good hands, Brennen. I’m fine.” She gestured toward the door. “I have a busy schedule.”

  “I’m here all day, Maggie.” To make some obtuse point, he studied a photo of her son dressed in full combat gear, emailed from Afghanistan two months ago, and put it down on the wrong shelf. “Come talk to me.”

  Maggie picked up Eric’s photo and sank onto the couch, the ever-ready tears spilling down her cheeks. Eric looked so young. Just a boy. Asked to do a dangerous job. His sensitive face looked out of place beneath his combat helmet, yet as a medic, he had served his Marine unit fearlessly and well, saving countless lives. His absence from her life felt like a part of her had been cleaved away and left bleeding. Grief was such an abstract injury. Invisible. Affecting all her clients in some respect. Divorce, death, estrangement, betrayal. As a therapist, she lent a steadying hand to suffering people who were navigating desolate, unmapped terrain alone. Now she too was lost and stumbling blindly.

  Brennen was right. She was falling apart, but doing something useful was the first step to healing. She’d been doing th
is work long enough to know how to set her own grief aside and focus on the people in front of her. Seeming to intuit her pain, Homer laid his head on her lap and watched her with sad brown eyes. “I’m okay,” she murmured, stroking him tenderly. He’d been a good therapy dog, bringing comfort to many troubled souls.

  After replacing Eric’s photo, she turned on the gas fireplace and took in her room. Everything neat and orderly. Ready. The snow fell softly past the window and she felt insulated in a place of safety. Yes. This was good. It was right that she should be here.

  She heard the front door open followed by footsteps. That would be her new patient, fourteen-year-old Sean Decker, with his mother, Rebecca, whom Maggie had spoken to by phone. Rebecca had told Maggie that she wished to address a list of grievances she had compiled about her son. Maggie specialized in working with families who were in crisis. She hoped to manage the session in such a way that the list would never surface. This mother was going to be her son’s toughest obstacle. Parents usually were.

  Maggie opened the door and put on a warm smile. Faces flushed with cold, Rebecca and Sean shook out of their snow-flecked coats and hung them on the coat rack. “Sean and Rebecca?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said, her expression tense.

  “Please come in. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Rebecca nudged her son. He shot his mother a hostile look and shuffled toward Maggie with the enthusiasm of a prisoner on a chain gang.

  “Hello, Ms. Steeler.” Tall and lanky, Sean provided a limp handshake and avoided eye contact, his long dark hair covering one side of his face.

  Rebecca breezed in behind him, all business, neat and professional in a gray pants suit, hair and makeup perfect. A manila folder was tucked under one arm.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Maggie said.

  Rebecca and Sean seated themselves on opposite ends of the sofa.

  “Is it okay if Homer says hello?” Maggie nodded toward the Lab, who waited obediently on his bed.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” Rebecca spoke for both of them.