Chapter Two #2
Before she finished speaking, her father shook his head. “You know how small the pool I swim in is. I gave that man my word. If I ask to back out of the deal, no one will trust me again.”
Fatigue from trying to explain life’s realities and years of shouldering more than her share of responsibility swamped her. How could someone in her early thirties, who’d lived so little, be so bone-tired?
Then she remembered. Three months, and four days.
The thought revitalized Carly, and a calm enveloped her. With each passing day, she grew closer to riding off into the sunset.
Time for tough love and preparing her dad for the changes to come.
“I won’t manage the ranch’s finances anymore. Consider this my two-week notice.”
His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open. He tried to speak, but sputtered, stopped, and started again. “What’ll I do?”
Rhett Butler’s famous words about not giving a damn rattled through Carly’s head.
Cliché, but fitting, the phrase would be satisfying to throw at her father.
It would also be petty, and she refused to give into the childish emotion.
“You’ll have to figure it out. I hate managing the ranch finances.
I always have. I only handled the books to help, but I’m done. ”
Since becoming executive director, she’d dreaded getting out of bed in the morning.
She wanted to leap out ready to tackle the day because she couldn’t see living her life any other way.
And that meant leaving Service before she became a bitter woman with a house full of regret and cats as her only companions.
“Two weeks, then you’re on your own with the ranch,” Carly said, resolve ringing in her voice. Then she turned and walked away. For the first time, she felt as if she’d taken charge of her life.
*
The giant Welcome Home, Owen! Service is Proud of You banner hanging above the traditional Southern-style porch of his parents’ house, along with half the town crowded on the front lawn, sent a queasy feeling roiling through Owen’s stomach.
Settled on a small ranch a mile from town, his parents’ place was the perfect blend of privacy and access to town.
Except today. He swallowed hard and concentrated on his breathing, hoping the breakfast burrito he’d eaten during his layover would stay down.
“Surprise!” his parents shouted in unison from the Suburban’s front seat as his dad parked the truck in the driveway. “We decided to have a small welcome-home party.”
Lord help him if they’d decided to throw a big bash.
“I wish you’d warn—” He paused, swallowed hard, and chose another word. “I wish you’d told me.”
His mother peeked over her seat and smiled. “Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, and I know you. If we’d have told you about the party, you’d have asked us not to have it.”
She had that right. He’d never been one to make a big deal out of something, and even less so now.
The last thing he wanted was attention and a party over his return.
It didn’t feel right celebrating he’d gotten out with his skin attached, when Landon, or rather the pieces they scraped up, came home in a box and lay buried in a plot in Service’s cemetery.
Damn. Coming back to Service is gonna be harder than I expected.
No avoiding dealing with it now. Time to cowboy up and barrel through.
“How many invitations did you send? It looks like half the town’s here.”
“I didn’t formally invite anyone. I just mentioned to a handful of people that you were coming home and said if they wanted to stop by, they could.”
His father shut off the engine. “You know the folks in Service. We honor our veterans, especially heroes like you.”
Damn. He hated that word associated with him. Landon was the hero for throwing himself on the suicide bomber to save the rest of them.
The memories clawed at Owen, tearing up his insides.
No, he refused to go there now. He couldn’t.
Not with friends and neighbors he’d known most of his life, surrounding the truck, cheering and calling out greetings, their gazes locked on him with pride.
Owen inhaled deeply, trying to shut out their excited voices pricking at his skin.
Forcing himself to smile, he waved back at folks.
After another deep breath to prepare for this performance, he opened the truck door.
When he stepped out, the chaotic mix of voices and cheering created an indiscernible noise pounding in his head.
The crowd advanced on him with hands outstretched to shake his while others thumped him on the back.
“Give the man some room,” his father’s voice boomed as he cleared a path with Owen stumbling behind him. If his dad’s chest puffed out any farther, he’d bust out of his best blue dress shirt. “Y’all come inside. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to Owen.”
Owen staggered forward hoping his legs, stiff from sitting too long, would hold him. He misjudged the porch step and stumbled. His mother materialized beside him, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. “Take my arm.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Where’s your cane?”
He’d left the damn thing in the car because he wasn’t an invalid.
While the doctor insisted he needed it for stability, Owen managed fine without.
Course, he moved slower than a hog leaving the feeding trough, but if he took his time, he got where he was going.
More importantly, he had no intention of raising questions resulting from him waltzing in with a cane. “I’m not sure where it is.”
“I’ll check in the car.”
“Mom, forget it.”
“Then let me help.” Worry lined his mother’s delicate features as she hooked her arm through his, the way she had when he was a preschooler. To avoid a scene, he indulged her, figuring it could be worse. She could be holding his hand like a toddler.
“I wanted a small party tomorrow, but your father said everyone would show up whether we invited them or not and reasoned we might as well ask them to stay.”
Owen had figured the get-together had been more his father’s idea. The chance to show off the latest Crawford carrying on the family tradition serving his country.
As he and his parents made their way inside the two-story brick house, Owen shook hands.
Unable to sort out the voices to make appropriate responses, he nodded, and smiled instead.
How long would he have to stay before he could plead exhaustion from jet lag and head for his room?
An hour? No, better make that an hour and a half.
Once in his parents’ comfortable country-style house, Owen stared at the folks piled inside like a litter of pups on their mom at dinnertime.
He shook his head and changed his mind about half the people he knew in town being present.
Everyone he knew in Service, and a few he didn’t recognize, was here.
The good news was he could get the good-to-have-you-back/catching-up conversations out of the way today. The bad news was, there was no way he could speak to everyone who’d want to bend his ear in an hour and a half.
Plastering a grateful smile on his face, Owen prepared as best he could for showtime as the crowd closed in on him.
He backed up, trying to keep some semblance of personal space, but the hoard moved with him.
His heart rate accelerated at the sea of faces looming around him.
He fought back the panic, knowing if the emotion gained control, he’d be lost.
“I was sorry to hear about Landon, but I’m glad you made it back.” Miles Fisher, one of Service’s Gulf War vets clapped Owen on the back. “From what I read on that internet you were damned lucky.”
The words, said with genuine affection and meant to offer comfort, had the opposite effect, adding to Owen’s guilt. Lucky wouldn’t have been the word he’d chosen.
“Landon’s funeral was really something, worthy of a hero who gave his life to save his buddies,” the veteran continued. “Everyone in town turned out. Not only that, but the governor showed up to pay his respects.”
Owen nodded, swept his hat off, and resisted the urge to wring the bit of khaki fabric in his hands as grief bubbled up inside him with surprising speed and force.
Mentioning Landon damn near broke him. How long would it be before hearing his best friend’s name or thinking of him didn’t threaten to level him?
After regaining control, Owen glanced toward the older soldier, and damned if the man wasn’t waiting for him to respond.
What was he supposed to say to his comment?
I’m glad Landon’s funeral was a first-class event?
Wish I’d been there to see it and pay my respects to the best friend a man could have.
“I’m glad Landon got the recognition he deserved. ”
“Us veterans made sure of that. We wouldn’t let one of our heroes get slighted.”
Owen considered heading for the couch to sit, but any half-decent soldier knew better than to select a spot leaving him penned in and an easy target. Instead, he remained on his feet. He almost laughed. As if standing would help him execute a quick escape in his shape.
The older men, who clustered around him, kept multiplying like flies in a cow pasture. “But we’ll make ’em pay by putting all the intel you and your buddies found to use.”
When Owen failed to take the bait and launch into a story of what they’d found, the older man continued, “Course, when I was in the Green Berets, we didn’t tell everything to the media, but now you’re here with friends. How ’bout you give us the real scoop on what went down?”
An hour and a half? He’d be lucky if he could handle another fifteen minutes.
He scanned the room hoping an escape route would appear, and his gaze settled on Carly. Her slender shape had turned into feminine curves that could keep a man entertained for weeks. He turned to the men hovering around him. “Excuse me, I need to speak to Carly about tomorrow.”
*