Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Double L Ranch... A twenty-minute drive from Porter’s Corner
Crone
The crunch of gravel under his truck’s tires echoed the familiar rhythm of coming home as Crone guided the vehicle down the winding driveway.
The late afternoon sun painted the rolling meadows in swathes of golden light, while a red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead.
“There’s nothing like the sound of nature,” he murmured as he opened the window to listen to its shrill squeal carrying across the valley.
In front of him the large ranch house with its wrap-around porch emerged like an inviting mirage.
“I never get tired of the beauty of this part of Montana.” Crone’s gaze drifted over the mountains in the distance.
Like every time he visited his best friend, Jason Jaeger, peace enveloped him.
A peace that his secluded beach house in Costa Rica could never quite match.
The vastness of the landscape before him mirrored the emptiness he had cultivated within himself.
That black hole, a void he carefully maintained to keep the memories at bay.
“Perhaps it’s time I reconsidered my life’s choices.”
The words hung in the air as he parked the truck.
Costa Rica had served its purpose. It was a shelter when he needed to piece himself back together after the psychiatrist’s probing questions became too much to bear.
But isolation, initially a balm, had slowly morphed into a prison of his own making.
He’d withdrawn so completely that some days he barely recognized himself in the mirror.
The man staring back at him had become more ghost than human.
His interactions with the world had dwindled to brief exchanges with locals at the market and occasional satellite calls with his son, since his mother, Denise Beckman, who was an investigative reporter, carted him all over the world with her.
But Carter deserved more—not a father who had locked away his heart behind walls of silence and distance.
He needed a man who was prepared to fight for his rights as a parent.
The heavy soles of his boots echoed against the ground as he stepped out of the truck.
He looked up as a pair of meadowlarks trilled from a nearby fence post. Their sweet song was a stark contrast to the darkness of his thoughts.
The older he got, the deeper the sense of separation became.
Lately, he yearned to be the man who laughed easily and who could sleep through the night without waking in cold sweats.
God knew, one who didn’t flinch at sudden movements or search every room for exits.
He was slowly turning into a full-on hermit, and the realization struck him with unexpected force.
It was time to rejoin civilization. Perhaps, if fate was kind, he might even find someone who could love him.
A woman who could look past the scars, both emotional and physical, and see the man struggling to emerge from the shadows of his past.
As he headed toward the front door, each step somehow felt lighter than the last. Before he could reach the steps, the door flew open, and two small whirlwinds burst forth, followed by their parents—the massive frame of their father and the petite figure of their mother.
Or rather their very rounded, very pregnant mother.
Jagger and Moira. His throat tightened at the sight of them, two of the precious few he still called friends—friends who’d refused to allow him to completely wallow away.
His gaze met Jagger’s, and the familiar surge of gratitude and brotherhood washed over him.
This man had defied direct orders to abandon the search for Colonel Crone Lange and had returned to service solely to lead the team that pulled him from that hellhole after two years of torment.
Crone knew with bone-deep certainty that without Jagger’s stubborn determination, he wouldn’t be standing here today.
The truth of it was written in the scars that mapped his body.
If they had arrived two weeks later, there would have been nothing left to save.
Jason Jaeger hadn’t just saved his life; he’d given him a chance to live again. It was a debt Crone knew he could never repay, though he’d spend the rest of his days trying.
“We missed you dis much, Uncle C!” Little Gloria stretched her arms wide before she hurled herself off the porch at him.
Lunging forward and catching her was as fearful as it was instinctive.
His heart nearly stopped at her complete trust in him, trust he wasn’t sure he deserved.
He had forgotten how impulsive the little girl was, how she lived life with absolute certainty that the world would catch her when she fell.
Her small hands clasped behind his neck in what could only be described as a loving stranglehold.
The simple, pure affection in the gesture hit him like a physical blow.
The impact of her tiny body against his chest, and the warmth of her complete trust and unconditional love, unleashed a cascade of regrets he usually kept carefully locked away.
Crone’s heart skipped, then clenched painfully as his mind short-circuited.
He’d never had the honor of feeling his own son’s arms wrapped around him like this, never witnessed those first tentative steps, or heard the sweet laughter of complete abandonment that only children produced.
The loss of those moments carved fresh wounds in his soul.
Carter would be six at the end of the year and he had only seen him twice since his recovery.
“Uncle C?” Gloria’s worried voice pulled him back from the abyss of his thoughts as she peered at him.
Her bottom lip quivered slightly as her eyes stretched wide with concern beyond her years.
Something in his expression must have betrayed his inner turmoil.
A rare smile, usually reserved for times like these, split his face—the kind only these two little humans were capable of extracting from the depths of his battle-scarred soul.
Their presence was like sunshine as their innocent joy slowly thawed the frozen wasteland of his heart.
“I missed you too, poppet, but I’m not your uncle. I’m just—”
“Mommy!” Tears welled up in those big blue eyes as she whipped her head around to stare at her mother in absolute distress. Her lower lip quivered dramatically, and her fingers tightened their grip on his neck as if afraid he might disappear. “Why’s Uncle C our uncle no more?”
“Shit,” Crone cursed under his breath, immediately regretting the unfiltered response.
“Oohh!” Gloria’s little hands flew to her mouth with theatrical horror, and her eyes grew impossibly wider above her fingers as she stared at her parents. The look of scandalized delight on her face was almost comical. “Uncle C said bad word!”
“Yep!” George piped up from where he was wrapped around Crone’s leg like a determined koala. His head bobbed up and down with an expression of concern and excitement swirled into one witnessing such a transgression. “Very bad word. Ass burnin’ word.”
“George, watch it.” Moira’s voice carried the stern tone of motherhood, but Crone caught the telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth, and the sparkle of suppressed laughter in her eyes.
Gloria leaned in close to Crone’s ear, her whisper loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Don’t worry, Uncle C. Daddy says worse.
Mommy makes him put money in de bad word jar.
” She nodded sagely, clearly pleased to share this piece of insider information.
Crone had forgotten how exceedingly clever these two youngsters were.
The pure innocence of the moment, the unconditional acceptance these children offered him despite his broken pieces, created a warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt in years.
These little ones didn’t see the hardened warrior, the man haunted by nightmares and scarred by torture.
They just saw their Uncle C, the man who would always catch them when they jumped, who brought them exotic shells from Costa Rica, and who sometimes, just sometimes, said words that made their mommy’s eyes roll.
George tugged on Crone’s pant leg. His cherubic face beamed with the joy of sharing a “secret”.
His loud whisper carried across the porch with the subtlety of a foghorn.
“Daddy puts monies in de jar when he says bad words.” He nodded emphatically, then giggled, covering his mouth with both hands before continuing even louder, “But when Mommy says ’hem, Daddy spanks her boffum!
” He punctuated this revelation with another fit of giggles, clearly pleased with himself for sharing such privileged information.
Moira’s face flamed scarlet as Jagger unsuccessfully tried to suppress a grin. Gloria gasped from her perch in Crone’s arms as her eyes widened once again with this new piece of gossip. “Mommy gets spanks?” she squealed in delight.
“George Marshall Jaeger!” Moira’s mortified exclamation only made the twins giggle harder.
For the first time in what felt like years, laughter bubbled up from deep in Crone’s chest—real, genuine laughter that reached his eyes and loosened something tight in his soul.
The innocent bluntness of children, coupled with Moira’s embarrassment and Jagger’s barely contained mirth, broke through layers of carefully maintained control.
“Daddy likes spankin’ Mommy’s boffum,” George added helpfully, pronouncing “bottom” as “boffum” with a toddler's charm. “Dey make funny noises at night too!”
“And that’s quite enough of this conversation,” Jagger finally managed, scooping up his son while trying to maintain some semblance of parental authority despite his obvious amusement. “Who wants cookies?”
“Me! Me! Me!” both twins shrieked in unison, the previous topic instantly forgotten in favor of promised sweets.