Chapter Four
Crew almost felt bad about playing poker with some of the guys in the program. Most were decent players. Some, like Pope, possessed skills that were so professional it was scary.
And others, like Truman, were terrible. Hell, Truman’s German shepherd, Ranger, had a better poker face.
He watched the young guy’s lips twitch in the grimace Crew had picked up early as his tell.
Pope caught it too—he shot a sideways glance at Crew before shifting his attention to his own hand of cards.
Two months before, Crew started organizing poker as a way to get Pope out of his room. Before he did, the guy had holed himself up all day and prowled the hallways all night.
Before long, Crew realized he enjoyed the camaraderie and the competitive spirit. After all, betting on who performed ranch chores faster didn’t have the same feel.
Crew scanned the faces around the table. All damn good men. Guys he’d gladly fight alongside if it ever came down to it. Guys he was glad to call his friends.
But did anyone ever keep in touch after they left the program?
The thought slid in sharp and unwelcome. Leaving wasn’t some abstract future anymore. His review date was coming up. He could already hear the words.
You’ve made significant progress.
Translation: time to go.
Time to figure out who the hell he was without a schedule, a safety net and men who understood what it meant to live with blood on their hands.
The fist that always seemed to clamp around his stomach when he thought about leaving was back, squeezing harder than usual. When he left, he’d miss Truman’s awful poker face and how they all ignored that Bobby struggled to stack the chips one-handed.
He’d miss the structure most of all. The rules. The walls. Outside this place, there were no therapists checking in, no alarms reminding him to eat or sleep. Just choices.
Too many of them.
He’d miss other things too—Chef’s fluffier-than-clouds buttermilk biscuits, music therapy with the world-renowned Juliette Malone, wife of Theo. Hell, he’d even miss art therapy with Honor. He hated working with tiny beads, but painting helped, especially if the therapy baby was there.
Navy.
He forced himself to think her name just to prove he could. Because if he left, there would be no more afternoons with her balanced on his knee either.
Truman issued a grunt and folded, as they all expected.
Crew sent the younger man a sympathetic look and made a mental note to talk to him about masking his face better. The therapists might want honesty, but in poker, it was a punishment.
“Better luck next time, bro.”
Truman slumped in his seat. “Pass the pretzels.”
Crew pushed the bowl his way, and Truman grabbed a handful like it might save him next time while reaching down with the other hand to settle on Ranger’s head.
The game continued with the kind of trash talk that came with men playing cards. The atmosphere in the rec room relaxed, and soon the place felt even less like a rehab center and more like they were just a group of friends getting together on a Friday night.
Pope eyed him over the cards fanned in his broad hand. Each knuckle carried a stark black letter—PAST and PAID. He’d never explained what the ink meant to him, but Crew—and a few of the others—had their theories. Time served. Damage done. A debt he believed he’d already paid.
Crew took a sip of water.
“Looks like Crew’s getting a little hot under the collar,” Pope drawled, slicing him another look. “You nervous, buddy?”
Crew grunted. “If you call a full house cause for nerves.”
Chuckles rippled around the table.
“Or maybe you got sunburned from all that time you spent out back today.” Pope arched a brow at him. “With that beautiful woman.”
Crew refused to rise to the taunt about Fern. But mention of her made something tighten deep inside his chest.
“Willow hired her to create a community garden.”
The teasing stalled.
“A flower garden?” Bobby asked.
“Food and other things.”
One of the amputees Crew had in mind when he mentioned the garden needed to be more accessible looked up from his cards, brows pinched. “Yeah, for the rest of you to use.”
Crew shook his head. “There will be raised beds you can roll your chair right up to. And benches for others who can’t stand long.
” He relayed all the ideas he and Fern discussed, even though he was thinking of the pink flush in Fern’s cheeks and the bright gleam of excitement in her eyes more than the modifications.
He also felt mighty bad about the disappointment on her pretty face when he told her that he probably wouldn’t be around long enough to see the garden be completed.
When he finished, Pope angled his jaw upward. “You seem invested. Is it the garden or the girl?”
If he got to stay, he’d start with the garden, then maybe switch to the girl.
The thought hit hard enough to make his nerves jump but he covered his reaction in time.
“I’m not in the market for getting to know a woman.” He stared at his cards. His hand was garbage—but then again, maybe he was bluffing about more than poker.
Pope pushed a pile of poker chips toward the pot in the center of the table, raising the bet. “Then you won’t mind if I volunteer to help her.”
Crew flattened him in his stare. “Sit this one out.”
A smile tipped the corners of Pope’s mouth, something they only saw at the gaming table. “Anyone else hear that? Sounds like interest.”
Truman tossed a pretzel at Crew. He dipped his head to the left and caught the snack in his mouth. Cheers erupted, the moment diffusing…but not disappearing.
The strange pressure in his chest grew heavier. Because if he let himself want this—this place, this life, or dream about someday having a beautiful woman of his own, with rosy cheeks and grass stains on her knees—leaving wouldn’t just be a transition.
It would be another loss. One he may never recover from.
Pope flipped his cards over.
Four of a kind.
The table went silent.
Pope raked in the chips, eyes locked on Crew. “Looks like you lose this round,” he said quietly. “Question is, what are you really betting on?”
Crew didn’t answer.
For the first time since he’d arrived, he wasn’t sure whether he was playing to win or killing time before he walked away.
* * * * *
“Let’s give you some nutrients so you can grow big and strong,” Fern murmured to a row of geraniums that were looking a little droopy for this early in the season.
Holding a watering can with a mixture of water and plant food, she drifted down the greenhouse row, giving each plant a nice soaking. On Saturdays, the shop was only open until noon, but this morning was particularly slow, which meant she’d gotten a lot of other small tasks done.
After the first hour, Marla left to meet a friend, which left Fern alone to close. While she loved talking to her boss, she enjoyed the slow times when the sun shone through the greenhouse walls and could let her thoughts roam.
Sometimes her mind bounced between boring things—shopping lists and chores to do at home. Other times, she pondered a book she was reading or the deeper themes of a TV show she’d watched.
Or she found her mind wandering to a rugged, handsome vet whose smile did things to her insides that she couldn’t remember feeling before.
She stopped midway through watering the last geranium and stared down at the floor. A push broom was laying there like someone dropped it right in the middle of sweeping.
Only she hadn’t.
It wasn’t there earlier. When she dipped her fingers into the dirt of the pots to test how dry they were, she’d looked down the row between the geraniums and marigolds. That broom definitely was not there.
Her heart giving a hard, pulsing thump, she swept a look around the greenhouse.
No one was here. She was alone.
But now, her thoughts were turning to something heavier. Darker.
She picked up the broom and carried it to the closet in the very back of the greenhouse. After she resumed feeding the geraniums, she tried to push away the feeling that someone was watching her.
Scanning the area, she called out, “Hello? Anybody there?”
Nobody answered.
She shook her head and went back to her task. After she finished the geraniums, she washed out the watering can in the big sink. When she turned, she remembered she needed to put away the plant food she left out.
When she reached the spot she left it, the bag wasn’t there.
Was she losing her mind?
She looked on the low shelf where it belonged, and sure enough, the bag was sitting there. Did she forget that she already put it away?
She started toward the front of the shop to begin the closing jobs. First, the task of winding up the hoses. As she neared the first one, she saw it wasn’t unwound. It was already in a neat coil.
Her stomach bottomed out.
Oh god. No. It couldn’t be.
This was too much like her past, when Chris would come home and yell at her for leaving things laying around, but as soon as she went to tidy up, she’d find that he already put everything away.
She raked her fingers through her hair. “I’m just tired…” Her voice trailed off, because she knew she’d gotten eight restful hours of sleep and didn’t have a taxing day at work.
Pulling out her phone, she sent a text to her boss.
Thanks for cleaning up the hose and putting away the fertilizer. Sorry I didn’t get to them sooner.
Marla replied a moment later. I didn’t put them away. Actually, I left a few things undone. I was in hurry to meet my friend.
Fern stared at the screen, panic rising inside her.
Think, she urged herself. She was distracted while watering the plants, and the memory of Crew’s muscled arms scattered her mind like petals on the mountain wind.
But she wasn’t so distracted that she would forget she left out a broom or that she’d already put away the plant food and coiled the hose.
Again came that lurch in her stomach that she associated with Chris.