At the Edge of a Dark Forest Read online

Carly pulled him to stand and led him to the imager device. She mumbled something about the IED missing his tongue, but he couldn’t hear the particulars.

  “Stand up straight and tall.” She fitted the residual of his left thigh into the machine and closed the metal bars at every angle around it until they pressed tightly into his femur. The rods against his skeleton gave him an immediate sense of security and stability. Good thing, because the drink had been making him less so.

  She smiled, eying his expression. “How does it feel?”

  “Good.”

  “You need to give me more than that. Does it pinch too hard?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. Each rod seems to push the fatty tissue and flesh away so as not to pinch.”

  Her expression told Cole she was pleased with herself. “That’s exactly what we’re looking for.” She tapped at a rod. “Does it feel connected?”

  He drew his brows together and considered the sensations of his skin, the firmness of the attachment and even a new relationship to gravity. “Yes. Very connected. Almost like to the bone itself.”

  Her self-satisfied grin grew. “Good. We want it to feel like a part of you rather than something moving around the outside of your flesh.”

  Cole nodded, but didn’t say anything. Something ran through him like the faint flicker of hope, but he pushed it away. He knew what hope had always wrought. He wasn’t going there ever again. He drew from his drink, his muscles weakening as he did.

  She loosened him from the device, allowing him to remove his leg. “Now I’ll need to plaster the limb, then put you back in while it hardens into a mold.”

  “Plasther?” His tongue was getting heavy now.

  Carly’s face tensed. “Yes. To make the socket.” Her gaze traveled to the left side of his skull. “What other injuries did you suffer from the IED?”

  “The oneths you see—only.” He struggled to work his tongue more precisely over the words.

  “You need to tell me everything. It may be important to your rehab.”

  “There’s nothing else.”

  She pointed to his scar. “How about your head? Her eyes moved as if she were going over events in her mind. “Have you suffered any memory loss? Short-term? Name retrieval?”

  Didn’t she have enough? Did she need to demean him further? “No.” He drew from the thermos longer this time. His eyelids fell as he swallowed.

  He opened them to find Carly’s focus zeroed in on his face, but her gaze traveled with the thermos, as he placed it on the therapy table.

  “What’s in that drink?”

  “Soda.”

  “What else?” She became more annoying with each tick of the wall clock.

  “Nothing.” He looked past her. “Mrs. Rivera!” he called over her shoulder.

  Carly’s jaw almost crackled with tension.

  “Mrs. Rivera!”

  The housekeeper hustled into the room. “Jes, Mr. Cole.”

  He held out the thermos. “Please take this to the kitchen. It’s apparently distracting our Beauty here. She’s jealous because I won’t let her drink her own.”

  Mrs. Rivera turned to Carly then back to Cole, seeming to find answers to the question in her eyes. The housekeeper knew what was in that bottle having been there when he’d mixed it. She grasped the canister and scurried out.

  Why did it feel as though his body-armor had been ripped from him in the middle of a fire-fight?

  Carly slapped his residual leg. “Stand up straight, Marine. No slacking.” She dipped the wrap in some water, then unwound it around his limb. Her fingers worked the plaster into the landscape of his tissues. She focused all attention on her work—smoothing, pushing, deepening. Her fingers were strong. She left no detail unattended.

  “So what types of activities would you most like to regain with your new prosthetics.” She seemed to speak only to his leg now.

  “Who says I want to regain any of my old life.” He felt like sludge. It became harder and harder to stay focused.

  “Did you hike, ski, um…” Carly swallowed, “… horseback ride?” She must have talked to Mrs. Rivera.

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of them.” Did she need to tax his mind as well as his limbs?

  “Since I’ll be working as your physical therapist it’s helpful to know what activities you enjoyed. It gives us goals to work toward—things that might encourage you to try harder.”

  Cole wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or not, but he drew a blank when it came to enjoyment—real enjoyment. Yes, things had made him happy in the past, but they always seemed fleeting. He’d often been looking for that next great thing that would make his life worthwhile.

  His mind traveled unbidden to visions of Beckett, but these were not of bloodshed and body parts, as most often saturated his dreams. The pimply-faced Marine rarely wore anything but a smile on his lips. Cole had often wondered at his mental capacity. No sane person could be that happy. Cole had almost envied him the inanity. But Beckett was far from simple. In fact, he sometimes seemed to … know things. Things about Cole he’d never shared with anyone—his emptiness, his longing for more.

  “I believe Mrs. Rivera told me you still hike.” Carly’s words dragged him from the quicksand of his mind.

  He nodded.

  “That’s how you found my father.” The pressure of her fingers into the muscles of his leg almost soothed him. She unwound another layer of the plaster-coated bandage around the limb. “What were you doing out in the middle of a blizzard?”

  He tensed.

  Her eyes seem to probe into his thoughts. What was she looking for? Her expression softened. What had she found?

  No, no, no. Not the pity. “I was looking for idiots who chose to drive recklessly during a snowstorm.”

  She straightened.

  “One is bound to find one on a night like that.”

  She rolled another layer and worked it deeper into his soft tissue—a little too deep this time. He stifled the wince.

  Had he gone too far? A woman can be very protective of her father. He sucked in a breath and whispered, “Horseback riding.”

  She stopped her work, but did not meet his gaze. Her hand went to the gold necklace dangling from her throat—a cross. Was she holding her breath?

  He was, because in that moment, it became clear. He knew what he most wanted to regain. “I’d like to ride a horse again.”

  Chapter Three

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Carly palmed the keys the locksmith had given her for her suite … or apartment … or however one would describe her living arrangement inside this mansion.

  The works. That’s what she’d call the myriad of locks he’d installed. Doorknob, deadbolt, and one of those bar thingies she’d only seen in hotel rooms. Tom Cruise, hanging by a wire in form-fitting ebony, couldn’t gain entry.

  She turned to leave and almost ran into a walking shelf unit.

  “Sorry, Carly.” Manny spoke through the slats of the small piece of furniture he carried. “Mr. Cole wanted you to have this for your room.” He smirked. “I told him about the boxes of books I brought in this morning.”

  Carly could never part with her books. She’d moved out of the apartment she’d lived in, but couldn’t bear to put her favorites in storage. She never knew which “old friend” would come in handy to take her mind off her troubles. “Sorry, Manny, I didn’t mean for you to carry all those.”

  “Oh, no trouble.”

  She eyed him with a crooked smile. “Only enough to mention it to your boss.”

  Manny placed the furniture on the floor with a grunt. “That’s only ’cause he asked what you might need.”

  Carly looked around the room at the various appliances, wide-screen T.V., DVD-player, and comfy living-room furniture. “Well, it looks like I have everything now.”

  “Great.” He waved. “See ya later. Gotta make a run for Mr. Cole.
”

  “A run?”

  “Oh, uh, the store.”

  Hmmm. Manny didn’t seem the grocery-shopping type.

  After locking her suite, she trudged the long hall, descended the curving staircase and continued toward the lower patio door behind the breakfast room. What a trek. She stepped out and followed the worn path she knew, by the view from her apartment, would take her to the stable. Now, she needed to muster a little courage to enter.

  As Carly opened the doorway to the wooden structure, the smells of hay, manure and leather enveloped her. The grit kicked up from the dirt floor already began to coat her skin and fill her lungs. A diminutive man with graying hair and crinkles around his Asian features turned from brushing a shiny black horse. Carly halted.

  That was one large animal at his side. She’d forgotten how big those beasts could be.

  “May I help you?” His voice didn’t hold any of the Asian accent she’d expected. He stepped toward her, and the animal moved with him.

  Carly fingered the gold cross at her neck. “Um …” She backed up, then watched the beast to make sure he stayed put. “My name is Carly Rose.”

  The man’s smile held humor. “Oh yes, you’ve come to help Mr. Cole with the new prosthetics.” He thumped the side of the horse. “You hear that, Lightning?”

  The horse whinnied.

  Carly kept the animal in her sights. Lightning. Of course it had a deadly name.

  The man looked between Carly and Lightning as though she and the horse had a history—and he needed to learn it. His brows scrunched. “I’m Joe Sakamoto.” He reached out a hand. The horse shook his head and Carly jumped.

  Joe chuckled. “She won’t bite.”

  She?

  Carly wasn’t taking chances. She watched Lightning closely while shaking the man’s hand. “While prepping for rehab, we like to have goals our clients can work toward—something meaningful that will encourage them to work through the rough spots.” She glanced at the animal. Its muscles bulged. Hers tensed.

  Joe grimaced.

  “Cole said he’d like to ride a horse again.”

  Shock. Joe could have caught flies, his mouth dangled open so long. “He did?”

  “Yes.”

  “He can do that now. He doesn’t need prosthetics. I’ve told him that before.”

  Carly almost forgot the horse. Almost. “Then why doesn’t he ride?”

  Joe threw the brush into a bin. “Have you seen the scar on his face and head?” His chuckle was sullen. “Of course you have. He displays it like a gothic movie billboard.” Joe glanced to her as he took the reins of the horse and led her into a stall. “That wasn’t from the IED that took his limbs.”

  Did she hear him right?

  Joe stepped from the stall and closed the door. “That was from his attempt to ride the first week he’d gotten home.”

  “What?” She was hating this horse idea more and more. “But you said he could ride now.”

  “Sure, but he needs to relearn how to ride with his new body. The balance and control will be entirely different. He’ll need to start slow and have an equine occupational therapist work with him and train the horse.” He clapped the dust from his hands. “We’ll also have to build him a platform so he can mount the horse properly—not finagle his way on by way of a rickety fence, then gallop off at top speed.”

  Carly gasped. “He didn’t.”

  Joe nodded. “Drinking a pint of whiskey beforehand didn’t help.”

  Her heart pounded as though she’d been racing with him. Her mind drew up the silver thermos Cole had in the manor gym. She’d wondered what was in it. Now she had more evidence her suspicions were correct.

  “He fell on a large rock and damaged his skull.”

  She pivoted. “No. This is not a good idea.”

  “Actually, it’s the best idea.”

  Carly turned back.

  “Mr. Cole loved to ride more than anything since he was a little boy. It was the only thing that brought him joy.” The man’s features softened. “He spent much of his day here with me when his parents went out of town.” He leaned against the wood-plank wall. “Mr. Cole should ride again. You’ll be doing a good thing. He just needs to be re-taught how.”

  “Why didn’t he ask someone to help him?”

  Joe almost doubled over with laughter. “You’ve met the man, haven’t you?”

  Of course she had. Carly shifted her stance, her tennis shoes kicking up sand.

  Mirthful pity etched the wrinkles around Joe’s eyes. “He’s not one for slow. And even worse, he doesn’t like to have others in control. That’s why he made sure to graduate college before joining the Marines. He needed to become an officer and did whatever he could to gain a position of authority.”

  “He was an expert rider as a young man.” Joe gestured toward a shelf with his chin. “Won all those trophies over there.” He mumbled, “Though his parents never took notice.” His voice rose again. “For him, humbling himself in order to relearn something he’d already known so well will take everything he has. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”

  “Me?” Her heart whammed against her sternum. “I thought you’d help with the riding.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Oh, no was right!

  “I was talking about getting him up here to start again. He hasn’t even come to see Lightning since he fell. My son can help with the riding. He’s an occupational therapist and works using horses. I think he calls it hippotherapy.”

  “Cole says he wants to ride again.”

  Joe shook his head. “I don’t know how you got him to want anything. I’ve tried for years. But I suspect saying it and allowing himself the joy of it will be two totally different things.”

  Allowing joy? What kind of sadist was she moving in with? What had her father gotten her into? The challenges of this job seemed to grow and entangle like a virulent weed.

  The whinnies of two other horses caught Carly’s attention. “Why does he keep the horses if he doesn’t ride?”

  Joe thrust a thumb toward the animals. “Those two were his parents’ horses. His fondest memories of them—if one could call them fond—were when they’d agreed to ride with him. When they died he couldn’t lose the only connection to them he’d ever known.”

  Carly couldn’t imagine. She’d relished the memories she had with her own parents. Had Cole Harrison had any of that? Carly’s hand reached again for the cross necklace her mother had given her on her fourteenth birthday.

  She wanted to know more. “How’d they die?”

  “Nine-eleven. They were in the first plane to hit the towers.” He paused. “Cole hadn’t even known they’d been in the country when Jurvis, the family’s lawyer, showed up at his dorm-room door to inform him they were dead and he’d inherited the estate.”

  The dirt in the air seemed to grow heavy inside her lungs.

  “He labored through his last semester of school and joined the Marines immediately after.” Joe pushed his hands in his worn jeans pockets. “I think he felt the only way to fill the gaping hole inside him was to even the score.”

  “The score?”

  “Between him and the terrorists.” He gestured to the necklace in Carly’s fingers. “Of course we both know there’s only one way to fill that kind of hole.”

  Chapter Four

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Did Cole have a beating heart behind each eyeball? Or a ticking time bomb?

  He rubbed at his forehead, his temples, then palmed his eyes, but nothing lessened the throb.

  He scanned the empty patio, pulled in a lungful of fresh mountain air, then extricated the flask from his back jeans pocket and emptied it into his orange juice.

  “Morning sustenance, Mr. Cole?”

  Cole hated the way Joe Sakamoto used the title Mr. ever since Cole inherited the estate. Their relationship had once been that of mentor and protégé—almost father and son. Mr. Sa
kamoto had not only taught Cole expert horsemanship, he’d counseled him on the things a man needs to know as he matures. Even taught him how to shave. Then Joe had become distant when Cole hit his late teens, not at the stables as much. Feeling rejected, Cole had abandoned the things Joe taught him for the partying life and hobnobbing with the rich and famous he thought his parents would admire.

  Now Joe deferred to him as Mr. Cole. He’d relish the authority over anyone else, but with Joe it was like he’d built a wall in their relationship that never could be breached.

  Cole shoved the flask into his back jeans pocket. “If you had to deal with that Rose woman, you’d want something to melt the edge too.”

  Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean Carly?”

  Carly. Why did her name keep slipping from him? The only names he could hold were the ones he’d attached to visual images. Her last name—Rose—and the yellow ball-gown-wearing Disney princess—Beauty. The neurologist had told him he’d need to use pictures to remember things. He wasn’t kidding

  “Yes.” Cole closed his eyes against the pain. “Her.”

  Joe’s scraping of the wrought-iron chair against the slate sent glass shards through Cole’s brain.

  He sat across from Cole, the ever-present lilt to his lips. “She seemed very pleasant to me.”

  “When did you meet her?” Why did Cole’s pulse kick up at the thought of them talking? He took a long draw of the doctored juice.

  Joe’s eyes seemed to hold a question … or was that a challenge? “Last time she was here she said you wanted to ride a horse again.”

  Did the woman have to take his whispered words so seriously? “I said that to shut her up.” He twisted the OJ glass back and forth on the table. “She kept pestering me about goals.” He shrugged. “Then I insulted her father—”

  Joe’s mock gasp made Cole flinch. “You?” His eyes held the humor Cole had remembered as a boy.

  Cole slid him a snide smile. “Yes, me. So I told her about the riding.”

  “Do you?” The man stared. Joe’s eyes always had a way of reaching into Cole’s soul. One reason he’d avoided the stables for so long.