Chapter 2
One year later
Finch woke in a sweat like he often did after the nightmare. Pushing himself upright, he got out of bed, not wanting to risk slipping back into the hell. It was always the same—the deer came out of nowhere and then the Humvee was rolling. After that his life had changed beyond recognition.
Pulling on his clothes, he went to the bathroom and plunged his face into ice-cold water.
“Get it together, Finch,” he muttered when he was done, and headed to the kitchen. Looking out the windows, he saw the sun was well up. Just another thing he’d let slip since he’d left the army. There was no longer a need to rise early, because the days were long enough without making them more so.
Self-loathing wasn’t something he’d dealt with before in his life, but Finch was more than making up for that now.
Opening the wood burner, he threw in a few more logs, then headed for the coffeemaker. He got down a mug and dumped in a large spoonful of sugar. When it was full of black liquid goodness, he headed for the back door.
Opening it, he gazed out at the land that was part of his parents’ farm.
Trees of some evergreen variety, with leaves, others naked, hunkered down for winter. There were beds of earth ready for planting when the weather was warmer and various structures that no doubt had their uses, Finch just wasn’t sure what.
Turning, he studied the interior of the cottage, which was the secondary dwelling on the land, and tried to feel what he always did when he was here. Warm, comfortable, and familiar. But there was only numbness, icy and cold, filling all the spaces inside him.
A therapist had told Finch it was his brain’s way of protecting itself from the overwhelming emotion of loss and trauma, which sounded about right.
Finch and Lynx, his famous rock star brother, had painted the walls a soft butter color a while ago. His mother hadn’t been impressed. She liked bright colors.
Cradling his mug, he thought about going back to bed, where he’d spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling since he’d come home.
The sound of voices stopped him. All women by the tones, which suggested his father was busy doing something or happy to leave him alone to deal with the hell that his life had plunged into.
The women in his family, however, were not. They’d fuss over him, trying to help him move on with his life.
Finch wasn’t sure he would ever do that. You didn’t plan your career as a child, knowing it would be the one for you until you hit your sixties and possibly older, depending on advancement, then simply move on when it was taken from you.
Now he had nothing. No direction, no goals, no plan B. He was a civilian and had no clue how to deal with what life had thrown him.
He’d failed at the one thing he’d built his life around and couldn’t blame anyone for that but himself.
The bark of laughter drawing closer told Finch he should have followed his gut and left the country after the army discharged him.
“He needs our help because he’s home for ages and rarely leaves the property.”
That was Blue Jay speaking, the older of his two sisters. Recently a mother of twins, she’d moved back to Lyntacky to be with her man.
“It’s winter, and he’s allowed to hibernate. Finch needs to do things in his own time, Blue. We can’t force him.”
“He’s not that Finch anymore, Birdie. He’s more like Sawyer used to be.”
Finch interpreted that to mean grumpy and openly hostile, which his brother-in-law had been before he’d fallen in love with Birdie.
She was the youngest and gentlest of the four McAllister siblings, which begged the question of why she’d married the grumpiest man in Lyntacky.
The humming came from his mom, Meadow McAllister. Hippy, eco warrior, and a woman with firm beliefs and morals who was a champion to everyone.
I can’t do this today.
Grabbing his old trainers that were by the back door, he didn’t take the time to pull on a sweater, just moved right and stepped out of sight of the living area.
After pulling on the shoes, he ran along the side of the house toward the driveway, ducking under the next window.
“Finch, we’re coming in!” Blue Jay called to him.
He ran to the drive and down it. His muscles protested, and he coughed, muffling it with his hand, as the cold air hit the back of his throat. Finch knew this was the first exercise he’d done in months, so it was possible his head would hurt and his vision blur in minutes if he wasn’t careful.
Reaching the end of the drive, he glanced at the stand his parents sold all kinds of produce and homemade herbal remedies from.
Repurposed ribbons had been used to wrap a few items, making them appeal to Christmas gift buyers.
Nothing displayed there would help the oldest McAllister sibling. Nothing could.
Finch had prided himself on his fitness, but he’d lost most of it after the accident. He would do something about that soon.
“Small steps,” his therapist had said.
Slowing to a walk minutes later, disgusted, he watched the puffs of white air his harsh breathing created. The dark glasses helped keep out the light, as his eyes had become more sensitive since the accident, but they didn’t help the headaches.
His mother made him do yoga most mornings, and he’d caved in to the relentless pressure, but only if she didn’t talk at him the entire time. So he was improving physically, but the mental stuff would take longer.
Post-concussion syndrome. Three simple words, and his life had changed beyond recognition.
Walking down the roads he’d biked as a kid with his siblings, he reached the main street and then headed into Lyntacky.
Since he’d been home, he’d barely come into town unless one of his family members forced him. Everyone knew him here, and they would ask how he was doing, and Finch knew their concern would be well-meaning, but he didn’t want it or their pity. What he wanted was to be back in the army.
But even Santa wasn’t capable of making that happen.
Lyntacky came alive at Christmas. Yards of twinkling fairy lights were strung across the main street and in shop windows, along with colorful decorations and gifts. The scent of cinnamon and spiced fruit wafted up his nostrils as he passed the waffle place.
The small town of Lyntacky was growing. Houses had gone up fast, and there were more cars and people on the streets these days. Finch used to know most of the locals, but not anymore, which suited him just fine. Anonymity and solitude were two things he craved now.
Keeping his eyes down, he headed along the left-hand side of the main street. Shops and eateries lined both sides, and he had spent time in most of them over the years.
Finch nodded at the statue of Shelly Lyntacky, aunt to the current mayor Tripp and the entire reason for the town’s obsession with square dancing.
Behind her was a huge tree that would have the lights turned on soon by whoever’s name was drawn.
He had a bad feeling his family would put him on the list, but he’d deal with that if it arose.
“Morning, Finch.”
“Bart,” he grunted, hoping the man running up the street wouldn’t stop. He was out of luck, as the elderly local turned to jog at his side.
The octogenarians in this town were harmless and usually meant well, even if they spent most of their time handing out opinions like cookies.
Bart wore a pale blue woolen cap pulled low to his eyebrows and a matching scarf.
The locals had tried—tactfully—to tell him to get rid of his shorts, as they revealed way more than anyone wanted to see with their high-cut sides.
As yet there had been no success. Winter forced him to put long thermal leggings underneath, which let the town collectively exhale with relief during the colder months.
“It’s freezing out here, Finch, and you’re in a thin long-sleeved T-shirt.”
“I don’t feel the cold, Bart,” he lied. In fact, now that he’d stopped moving, Finch could feel the bite of winter. He’d need to head back soon or risk another headache.
“How are you, really, Finch?”
“Good,” Finch lied, the word coming out as a grunt that should discourage anyone from continuing the conversation.
“Haven’t seen much of you, but now you’re out and about, you can join the walking club. Exercise in small doses is good for post-concussion syndrome, Finch. But take it easy and don’t overdo it.”
He would rather wear one of his mother’s kaftans in a military parade than join the walking group.
“Socializing is important too. Being alone with those thoughts is not healthy,” Bart continued, undeterred by Finch’s lack of response.
I should have stayed home and braved my mother and sisters.
“I’m doing what I need to,” he said, not surprised Bart knew what Finch was dealing with. It was the way in this town; everyone was involved in everyone else’s business.
“I’ll let you know when we are walking next. Now, lots of rest, good food, and water for you until then,” Bart added, ignoring Finch’s general air of pissedoffness.
It wouldn’t take much to trip the man and make it look like an accident, but even at his worst, Finch couldn’t do that to someone he’d known since childhood.
“Bart!”
They both looked toward the Rollaway, the local bar in town, and the large bear of a man approaching.
“Dee needs your help for a minute,” Red Heckler, the owner, called.
“Be right there, Red. You take care now, Finch, and make sure you have good shoes for the walking.”
Bart ran into the Rollaway, and Finch knew why. It took a brave person to refuse Red’s wife, Dee, anything and walk away unscathed.
“Hey, man.” Red wandered up in that slow, easy way he had, and they slapped hands.
The exact opposite of his firebrand of a wife, Red took things in his stride and could hurl a patron out of his bar with one hand and help an old lady across the road with the other.
“Colder than my mother-in-law’s heart out here today, and you’re not dressed for the conditions, Finch. Got some mulled wine, if you need it?”
“I’m good, but thanks, Red.”