The Edge of Courage (Red Team) (5 page)

“Where I come from, Rocco, people treat each other with respect and kindness. I meant no insult by offering you a sandwich.”

Dammit all, he
was
hungry. He’d kill for that sandwich, but he didn’t dare eat—not a full meal, anyway. He kept himself in a constant state of deprivation. The hunger pangs gnawing at his insides were the only real thing in his world. As long as he felt them, he knew he was conscious and not hallucinating. It was his only landmark in what had become the crazy jumble of his mind.

And it wasn’t just food he craved. He yearned for wild, unfettered sex. For a life lived with intent. For anything and everything that was Kit’s sister. None of which could he experience until he had his son safely home with him. He took a step back. Glaring at her, he set his glass down and retrieved his hat, then made his way toward the tractor and the fields that needed mowing.

Chapter 5

Mandy drew a ragged breath as she watched Rocco walk away. She closed her eyes, picturing him as he’d just been, seeing his dark, brown hair, dark brows—one that arched a little higher than the other, lips bracketed by creases, hollows in his cheeks, his eyes consuming her.

She’d thought he was going to kiss her when he’d leaned forward. Her body still thrummed with anticipation. She forced more air into her lungs, then headed to the house, where she phoned Kit.

“Hi, Em,” he answered. He’d called her by the first initial of her first name since their schooldays. There was something comforting in that old moniker. “How’s it going?”

“You could have warned me.”

The phone was silent awhile. “I didn’t want to scare you. He needs to be there, you know. He needs what you’re doing.”

“He’s so angry.”

“Well, you would be too if you went through what he went through.”

“What happened to him?”

“War, baby, in all its ugly, scarring wretchedness. Just work your magic on him, ok?”

“I don’t think he’s eating. He looks so lean.”

Kit sighed. “This is what I was afraid of. He’s as stubborn as an ass, Mandy, but he has to eat. How’s he sleeping?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he is. He works late into the night.”

“Probably still having nightmares. All you can do is work on one thing at a time. Get him to eat first, then we’ll tackle the rest.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“How’s the construction? Anything new?”

Mandy told him about the cigarette butts and Rocco’s concern over the paths in the back acreage.

“That’s it. I’m coming out there,” Kit said with some finality.

“There’s no need for that. What would you do that Rocco won’t? If there is something happening, he’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t like it, Emmy. I want you to be safe.”

“I am safe. Everything’s fine, or at least, it will be soon.”

* * *

That evening, Rocco took another tour of the property, looking for anything that jumped out at him, wondering if his instincts were misfiring or if something odd was really happening. Nothing seemed changed. No new cigarette butts had appeared.

As he came out of the hills behind the ranch buildings, he saw Mandy step into Kitano’s pen. He watched from a distance, not wanting to distract her or alarm the horse. He had the advantage of being downwind from the corral, giving him the luxury of observing them unnoticed.

She started to walk slowly in a clockwise direction, moving with the confidence of a seasoned trainer, her posture neither one of aggression nor timidity. The Paint was facing her. He stomped the ground in warning. She kept moving forward as if she were merely enjoying an evening stroll. Kitano tossed his head, then moved a few steps away from her. She continued forward. Kitano moved as she moved, walking in a circle, staying ahead of her. His pace quickened.

Rocco’s nerves tightened. What the hell was she doing in there alone with a mad horse?

Mandy stepped into the center of the corral. As Kitano moved in front of her, she raised her hand and made a few low, clicking sounds with her tongue, encouraging him to keep moving. She turned as he moved around the perimeter of the corral, clicking her tongue at him when he slowed. And when he grew a little winded, she dropped her hand and stood still. He eased down to a walk and then a full stop. She started walking toward him, this time in a counter-clockwise direction. Again, he moved away from her. When he sped up, she moved to the middle and repeated the exercise until he was fully winded. Then, and only then, did he let her approach him.

She took a rag out of her back pocket and touched it gently to his neck, behind his ears. Rocco could hear the low rumble of her voice as she spoke to Kitano but not the words themselves. Kitano tolerated her strokes until she reached his withers with the rough cloth. He tossed his head and whinnied, then rushed away. He stopped at the opposite side of the corral, watching her with a white-eyed glare, his sides heaving.

Mandy left the corral and waved at Rocco. “Thank you for waiting.”

“I didn’t want to distract him.”

She nodded. “He spooks easily. He doesn’t like men very much.”

“Doesn’t seem to like anyone very much.” Rocco shoved his hands in his pockets as he looked down at her. The sun was low in the horizon, inching toward the jagged ridges of the Snowy Range, washing the land, the ranch, and Mandy in the warm orange hues of the long spring sunset.

“True. But he’s letting me get near him, letting me touch him. That’s big progress.” She stepped up on a board of the corral and dumped a bucket of feed into his trough. She reached for the big bucket of water from the wagon she’d used to haul the feed and water out to the corral, but Rocco lifted it for her, pouring it into Kitano’s deep water bucket.

“Speaking of progress, you did great with the fields. Think you can get the baler to work?”

“Sure. I’ll do it when the hay dries. Where do you want me to stack the bales?”

“I’d like them protected from the weather, but there’s nowhere to put them right now. The barn isn’t safe, and the pole barn isn’t ready yet. How about stacking them up next to the toolshed?”

Rocco nodded. “Will do. I’ll start on the old fencing tomorrow. What do you want to do with the wire?”

Mandy made a face. “Hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we can find a recycler to take it.”

“There’s an artist in Cheyenne who uses scrap metal for her sculptures. She’ll take it.”

Mandy cocked her head, giving him a curious look. “How do you know her?”

The sculptor had come to the shelter looking for day laborers. He’d helped her out for a couple of days. No way was he going to tell Mandy that. He shrugged. “I just ran into her.”

“If she wants it, then that would be great.” Again, she gave him a questioning look. “Have you eaten today?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Rocco leveled a hard look at her. “Giving Kit daily updates?”

She gave him a half smile. “If I don’t call him, he calls me. He’s like a mother hen. Worse, really.” She met his gaze, her eyes searching his. “You must mean a lot to him.”

Rocco sighed and shifted his gaze to the mountains behind her. “Tell him I had a good day. That’s all that really matters, isn’t?” He looked at her. “Day by day?” He nodded toward the garden wagon. “Need a hand with that?”

“No. Good night, Rocco.”

“Night, Mandy.” He started toward the toolshed, but looked over at her. “Hey—next time you talk to him, ask him when Blade’s coming home.”

She frowned. “I will. Is Ty okay?”

He shook his head. “Took a bullet in his leg.”

* * *

Rocco got to work first thing in the morning instead of starting out with a run. It was best to vary his routine, especially if someone was watching the ranch. The sun was already burning off the morning’s chilly air. Truthfully, he was looking forward to another day’s hard work. After tinkering with the baler for a few hours last night, he’d actually gotten a few good hours of sleep before the nightmares came.

He fetched Kitano’s feed from the bag Mandy stored in the toolshed, then refilled his water bucket. The Paint was hard to look at, thin as he was. Rocco didn’t linger at the corral—Kitano wouldn’t come near his food while he was there.

He was gathering the tools he’d need to work on the fence when Mandy came into the shed. “Oh! You’re up early,” she greeted him.

“So are you.” He strapped on an old tool belt. Mandy’s gaze dropped to the worn leather around his hips. Whoever had owned the belt previously was quite a bit heavier. Rocco had to tighten it several inches from the worn hole on the strap. “Hope you don’t mind my using the belt—”

“It was my grandfather’s.”

Rocco went still, part of the strap in his hand as he looked at Mandy from under the brim of his hat. “I can use something else.”

“No. It’s fine. If you need it, use it.” She went to fill Kitano’s feed bucket.

“I already fed him.”

She flashed a surprised look at him. “You did?”

He shoved a pair of pliers, a hammer, and pair of wire cutters into the tool belt. “Just doin’ my job, boss.” He grabbed a pair of heavy gloves, then touched a finger to his hat brim. Sunlight spilled over him as he stepped from the shade of the toolshed, heating his back and arms as he pushed the wheelbarrow over to the pasture.

Moving from post to post, he rolled the old rusted wire up, leaving the pieces as long as possible. The artist preferred it that way. When it became almost too heavy to carry, he cut the wire and bound the end, leaving the coil at the fence post. The work was simple and repetitive, yet he had to stay focused on it to keep from letting the barbs nick his skin.

At the end of the day, he’d barely made a dent in the amount of wire that needed to be removed. Even so, it felt like another good day. He was tired and sore, but he’d stayed present, stayed on task. He took the day’s last wheelbarrow load to the back of the toolshed where he was gathering the coils and unloaded it, then put his tools away and wearily made his way to the bunkhouse.

He planned to take a shower, then open a can of tuna or something for dinner. He had no appetite, but he knew he needed to eat—and not only to appease Kit. He had to keep his strength up. If he ate small amounts, it wouldn’t nauseate him. And it wouldn’t remove him very far from the hunger he needed near at hand.

Mandy carried a tray with Rocco’s dinner down to his cabin that evening with the same resolute determination she used in handling Kitano. She knew getting Rocco to eat would be a fight, but she was nothing if not stubborn. He never joined her for meals and very little had been consumed from the bunkhouse kitchen in the few days he’d been there. She crossed the porch and knocked on his door, the tray balanced on one hip. The door opened.

Rocco stood there in his white T-shirt and jeans. He’d taken his shirt and boots off. She’d probably caught him right before a shower. Embarrassment froze her tongue but didn’t keep her eyes from wandering across his chest to the lean, well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was bigger than he looked fully clothed.

“Boss,” he greeted her, no welcome in his voice.

“I brought your dinner.” She pushed past him and set it on the table. When he reached out to lift the lid covering the plate, she saw the livid cut on his knuckles. “Good heavens! What did you do?” she gasped, lifting his hand for a closer look.

He pulled quickly away. “I cut it. No big deal.”

“Did you cut it on the barbed wire?” The hostile look he gave her was her only answer. “Rocco! You might need stitches. And a Tetanus shot.”

“I’m just out of the Army. All my shots are current.” His cut was trivial. He’d been careless, letting a barb nick him. The damned thing had snagged in his glove and cut a trench across a couple of knuckles. He wasn’t worried about it—he’d had worse.

She took hold of his arm and marched him toward the bathroom, which she’d stocked with a first-aid kit. She flipped on the faucet, then washed and rinsed her hands. She lathered up again, then drew his hand under the water and gently spread the foam over his skin.

Rocco watched her hands move against his. They were so much smaller than his, long-fingered, tipped with slim crescent moons for nails. He was touching her. Finally. He tried to savor the moment, tried to ignore the growing waves of nausea his fear of being touched caused.

Mandy turned off the water. She grabbed a towel and pressed lightly around his hand. When she pulled the towel away, fresh blood welled into the cut. Rocco watched the blood rise, red pooling in the gouged skin. His hand seemed far away, as if he looked at it through a tunnel.

He could smell the smoke. Motorcycles and a truck were burning. As were the ancient homes of the village. Women were screaming. God, the wailing. Someone pulled at him, shouting something. The stench underlying the smoke curled into his nostrils, a sweet poison.

He yanked free of the hands gripping him. He shouted in Pashto for them to leave him alone. He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t get any clear air. He gulped for a breath again. He kept his eyes closed, refused to look around. Didn’t want to see what he knew he would see. He covered his ears, blocking the screams, the roaring flames. His own sobs. Nausea hit him like a fist, blasting the air from his lungs. He doubled over. He couldn’t breathe.

“Rocco?” A voice called to him. “Rocco? Are you okay?”

It didn’t fit, that voice, that question. No one knew his real name. He looked up, letting his eyes focus briefly. An angel stood before him. A fucking angel. Shit. Was he dead? Bile rose violently. He made it to the toilet and retched dry heaves. He’d eaten some, but not much since he got here. There was nothing but spit to come up.

“Rocco? What’s happening?”

He looked at the angel. She knew him. Had he fallen back to English? Had he blown his cover? Christ, where was he?

“Get out,” he ordered, but the angel ignored him. She picked up a washcloth, ran it under the tap, then wrung out the extra moisture. She touched the cold fabric to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.

Mandy. Not an angel. He heaved again, then swiped the back of his wrist against his mouth. “Get the fuck out. Get out now!” He grabbed her arm and shoved her through the bathroom door, then kicked it closed. He stumbled to the tub and turned the shower on, then climbed in, still clothed. The water’s steady hiss filled his ears, cleared the smoke from his nose—along with the sweet stench of rotting flesh. He stared at the cracked white tiles. White. White was all that he saw. White was all there was. Whitewhitewhitewhite.