At the Edge of a Dark Forest Page 8

  Her gaze seemed to drop to his biceps as he worked the crutch to steady himself. “Guess not.”

  Cole grunted.

  “They don’t always need bulging muscles.” Her smile held a magic to it. “They just need to be willing to slay the dragon.”

  He raised a brow. “There’s a dragon in Montana?”

  Carly chuckled. “Not really a dragon. In every good romance the man needs to be willing to risk something to get the heroine what she needs.”

  He watched his one foot, then his high-tech foot, alternate in view as he trudged the path. “I guess I’d never make a good hero in a romance novel.”

  She stopped and turned to him. Something in her eyes pierced him, but she remained silent as if she were fighting what to say. She chose to say nothing and turned back to the path.

  “Take that hill.” He pointed to the root-covered sloped wall.

  “You call that a hill?” Carly surveyed the dirt, grass and rocks that led up to his perch. “That’s a climb. You didn’t tell me there’d be a climb.”

  “You didn’t ask. Besides, it’s not that steep.”

  “We can’t do that. You’re not ready.”

  “I climbed that hill before I had the prosthetics. I can do it now.”

  “You were used to climbing without. Using them is a whole different type of work.”

  “Then I’ll take them off.” Cole gestured to the knotted dirt. “We’re going up that hill.”

  Carly scanned his features. Cole made sure what she saw in them meant business. Evidently, it did.

  “Fine. But be careful and do what I say.”

  “Aren’t you the bossy one?”

  She thrust her hands to her hips. “Make sure you lift with the intact limbs and stabilize only, with the prosthetics. That arm was not made to hold an entire body on a climb.”

  He saluted with the myo-electric limb. It buzzed as he straightened the fingers. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cole grabbed hold of an embedded root with his left hand, crutch dangling from his forearm, and stepped into another with his right foot. He swung up as he always did, and steadied himself with the other limbs. They banged into the dirt—not being used to the extra length. He skidded down a few inches.

  Carly gasped.

  “I’m okay, Beauty.” He didn’t want her having a heart attack.

  A shuffling sounded behind him. “Just be careful, Cole.”

  He grasped another root and pulled, this time with a better stabilization from the prosthetics. Carly was right. This would take some getting used to. Her breaths hitched at each movement he made.

  He called down. “You comin’ or not?”

  The shuffling sounded again, her voice right beneath him. “I’m coming.”

  Cole reached the top, and grasped the metal crutch, thrust it into the ground and pulled himself to standing. He headed toward the edge as he heard Carly’s labored breaths behind him, and scanned the forest below, following the bird that flew from one tree branch to another, leaving the former to bounce in its wake. A squirrel scurried up a tree and stopped to rub its front paws together. The green of the forest below was so lush he could almost feel it on his skin. And the air. Nothing sweeter than the scent of pine that whistled in the breeze.

  “It’s beautiful.” The awe in Carly’s voice washed over him and into him.

  He turned to her, his gaze falling into the depth of the brown in her eyes. Like a pit he could never extricate himself from. “What dragon do you need slayed, Beauty?”

  Her mouth opened. “What … what do you mean?”

  Did the idea scare her?

  “What do you need that might require a hero’s risk?”

  She turned. “Nothing.”

  He reached out, tugging her arm, and turned her back. Why did that question bother her? “I see. You can know all my vulnerabilities, but I’m not allowed to know yours. That’s not fair, Beauty. Are you saying you are without need from another human being?”

  Her gaze dropped.

  He wouldn’t let her go without the answer. “What dragon do you need slayed?”

  Carly peeked up into his eyes as if uncertain how to continue. “My dragon has already been run through.”

  Cole let go. Why did it feel like someone had punched him in the gut? “I see.” He scanned the forest valley that usually brought him so much joy. “I didn’t realize you … I didn’t know you had a hero in your life.”

  She shook her head. “You misunderstand. I only meant that the one thing most important to me, the thing I needed resolved, has been taken care of.”

  Cole stared, wishing she’d continue, but she seemed most elusive. This made him more curious. “And what was that?”

  Carly shot him a fierce look, then turned away.

  “Tell me. Please.”

  She pointed to a tree below. “Is that where my father crashed?”

  He nodded, but continued to stare as if to tell her he hadn’t let his question go.

  Carly turned back, her face uncertain. “You probably realize my father didn’t crash his car in these woods on accident. He meant to die that night.” Her gaze traveled back to the tree at the bottom of the slope, which still bore the marks of Henry’s car. “He was so distraught. Not only was his company in shambles, but his sons were the authors of that destruction.”

  Where was she going with this story? Yes, Cole had suspected her father’s intention. Is this the dragon she was referring to? Then who—?

  “I’d been worried about him for months. I watched him like a hawk, offering to go everywhere with him, fearing he’d do something rash.” Her voice cracked as she struggled to continue. “I couldn’t be there with him that night because of the storm.” Carly hesitated. What made this story so hard for her to tell?

  “Since the crash,” she looked at Cole, “since he met you … he’s been a different person.” Her eyes dug into his soul. “I know you hated the idea of using prosthetics again, but you did—for him. You gave him hope. Hope he hadn’t had for almost a year.”

  Cole stared at her an eternal moment before he could form any thoughts, let alone words. “Are you saying that I—”

  She sniffed hard and pivoted. “Let’s get back. Mrs. Rivera will worry if we’re not home for dinner.”

  CARLY MUST BE NUTS. She left Cole standing there with his mouth wide open, his eyes burning with incredulity. She scrambled down the rooted incline. Cole followed, but she hadn’t looked back until it dawned on her he might need some help coming down. She hurried to the bottom and turned.

  Cole slid judiciously down the slope on his rear end.

  “Careful. Your prosthesis is going to catch that—”

  It did. He lurched forward and landed on Carly, throwing her to the ground.

  “–root.” She looked into his eyes, which were inches above hers. His warm breath fell across her cheek.

  He pulled up from her chest leaning heavily on his intact hand, his gaze rolling over her face as a smile slid across one side of his. “You okay, Beauty?”

  “Mm-hm. You can get off me now.”

  He hovered. “I don’t know.”

  “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “No.” His expression was pensive. “I’m just thinking about our predicament here.”

  “What predicament?” Should she push him off?

  “It kind of reminds me of those scenes in chick flicks.”

  “You watch chick flicks?”

  “Only when no football games are on.” He tilted his head. “Anyway, I’ve noticed—I mean other than the dragon-slaying thing—romances often have times like these where the hero and heroine find themselves in close proximity and the audience wonders if they’re going to kiss.” His gaze dropped to her lips.

  Carly’s heart sped. Had she revealed herself too much too soon? Cole had so much baggage she knew she couldn’t carry it for him. But on the other hand, she was falling for the caring man imprisoned inside the hard shell.

&
nbsp; His blue eyes searched her again. His jaw hardened. “I’m sorry.” He pushed up, but Carly held him still.

  “They never kiss at first … in a movie.” She met his gaze. “It’s too soon. They need more time.”

  He lifted himself with his crutch. “Ah, yes. I guess I need to study the genre more.” He hobbled down the path toward the house. A chipmunk scurried across between them.

  Carly watched the animal climb a tree then followed in Cole’s wake all the way to the manor.

  Chapter Eleven

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Cole slammed the patio door behind him and tossed the crutch onto a living room chair, knowing Carly would soon follow.

  What a fool. He’d put himself out there, just that little bit—a first since he’d come back disfigured. Of course, she’d reject him. He passed the mirror over the fireplace and caught his reflection. The angry scar squawked at him like a black crow devouring a carcass on a war-torn city street. These were the scars Carly had wanted to soften, to hide in his hair line. And yet, Cole knew, they were a warning to the innocent of the broken man inside.

  His gaze drifted to the wet bar across the living room—empty.

  What bothered Cole most was that Carly wasn’t the type to get hung up on looks. She must despise the man he was—the bitter vet with flashbacks and nightmares. The man who couldn’t even get his parents to love him. The man who led the young to their deaths. The man who at this very minute, craved a drink with the same ferocity his lungs craved air.

  The patio door clicked opened behind him, ushering in the scent of Carly’s coconut lotion. He strode in the other direction.

  “Mr. Cole.” Mrs. Rivera stepped out of the kitchen. “A package came for you while you were out.”

  He grasped the manila envelope from Mrs. Rivera as he heard Carly’s footsteps patter up the stairway, then headed toward his bedroom and opened the door. Only then did he notice the name of the sender: Forsythe. His heart hammered like the recoil of an RPG. Beckett’s last name.

  His lungs required more air, but the pumping of his diaphragm couldn’t keep up. Cole’s hands felt the shape of whatever the envelope contained. Like a book. It brought him back to that last day when he saw Beckett stuff something in a package and shove it under his gear as if it were contraband.

  “You got a girl back home, Forsythe?” Most of the guys had packages prepared to send to loved ones if anything happened to them.

  A blush ran up Beckett’s face. “No, sir.”

  Cole nodded to the gear hiding the package. “Then I bet your mom will cherish whatever’s in that envelope.” Though the hope was, it would never need to be sent.

  “Yes, sir. She’d consider it very important.”

  “I’m heading to chow. Wanna come along?” Cole didn’t know why, but he sensed he needed to spend some time with this young man.

  Beckett stood, glanced back at his gear. “Yes, sir.”

  They headed to the hall, picked entrées from the choices in the line and sat across from each other at a table. Cole had grown to respect the Lance Corporal, even if he seemed a little different sometimes. He’d matured immensely since he’d first arrived in Iraq, and though Cole had worked him hard all those months ago, he knew he could not take credit for the man Beckett had become. He suspected it was something else that filled him and grew him. Maybe something his parents taught. Maybe something in that black, leather book he carried. Or maybe something gained in those moments on his knees. Cole almost envied him.

  Beckett closed his eyes as Cole had seen him do many times before a meal. The guys said he had to bless it before he ate. But this blessing seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. Finally, Beckett’s lids lifted and he grabbed a fork.

  Cole was halfway through his burger already. “Hope you put in a good word with the Big Guy for me.”

  Beckett stared into his plate as he sawed his chicken. “Always, sir.”

  Cole flinched. He was only kidding. Did Beckett really pray for him regularly? “Guess that means I’ll survive another day in combat.” He picked up a chip.

  “No, sir.”

  Cole dropped the chip.

  “I … I mean, that’s not all I pray for. I don’t only pray we stay safe.” He hesitated, then swallowed hard, as he kept his eyes low. “Some of us will die. We’ve seen that.” He shrugged. “This is war after all.” Beckett stirred at the rice with his fork. “It just makes sense to pray for more than mere survival.”

  Cole choked on his soda. “More than mere survival? Without survival nothing else matters.”

  Beckett’s green eyes reached deep when they captured Cole’s gaze. “Sir,” Beckett’s voice held authority and humility at the same time, “don’t you believe there’s something more?”

  “What? You mean like heaven?”

  “Yes.”

  Cole wasn’t sure he liked the turn of this conversation. “I guess I wonder sometimes.”

  “There is, sir.” He stopped, looked around and opened his mouth, but Cole stood and collected his tray.

  “I know where the chaplain is, Lance Corporal.” Cole didn’t need to be preached to by some pimple-faced enlisted man.

  Beckett’s gaze dropped to his plate. “Sorry, sir. I thought you wanted to know.”

  Cole turned back. Beckett was a good Marine. He didn’t deserve to be dismissed. Cole dropped his tray on the table and sat back down. He’d let him air his beliefs tonight—if he must. “What is it you want to tell me?”

  Beckett sucked from his soda straw. “It’s just that … you never seem happy, sir.”

  Cole laughed out loud. “You mean here,” he gestured around, “in the middle of a war zone with a bunch of men who hate me because I want to increase their chances of staying alive?”

  “Yeah, sir. I mean, other guys laugh and joke about stuff. Even the officers.” Beckett seemed to be talking to his rice. He glanced up. “But you always look like you’re ready to eat fire.”

  Cole glared.

  Beckett flinched, and dropped his gaze. “Like now.”

  Cole drew in a breath and tried to relax his jaw muscles. “What are you getting at, Forsythe?”

  “Why are you here, sir?”

  Cole surveyed the look on his Lance Corporal’s face. “You’ve become awfully bold this evening, son.”

  Beckett’s expression took on a melancholy that froze Cole. Like he knew something terrible that he couldn’t share. And Cole didn’t want to know what it was.

  “Sometimes a person needs to speak when they have the time. War makes you realize how short that time can be.”

  “And you feel you need to speak to me?”

  Beckett’s shoulders, which had broadened since they’d first met, rose and fell on a slow wave. “Why are you here, sir?”

  “To kill the enemy. Same as you.” Something about the kid tonight glued Cole to the seat. Why did he feel he needed to hear what Beckett had to say?

  “Sergeant over there says you’re stinkin’ rich.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I just don’t get why a rich guy would join the Marines.”

  Cole speared him with his eyes. He didn’t need to lay out his misfortune to this man-boy. “What? Rich guys can’t be patriotic? They attacked our country. ”

  Beckett lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. It just seems like you’re looking for something, but never finding it.”

  “Like what?” Cole hadn’t been probed like this since Joe Sakamoto.

  “Order. Purpose. Maybe acceptance.”

  Cole raised a brow. “Acceptance? You think I joined the Marines for acceptance?”

  “Yeah. You know—‘got each other’s back,’ ‘leave no man behind’—that sort of thing. Like family.”

  Cole considered his parents for the briefest of seconds. “I don’t need family.”

  “Everyone needs family.”

  “Well, I have none.”

  Beckett’s grin
grew in its inanity. “You’ve got me.”

  So much for Beckett as family. In less than twenty-four hours, that relationship had been blown to bits—literally.

  Cole’s intact hand now ran the length of the package obviously mailed by Beckett’s family. What could they have sent him? The lettering on the outside did not resemble Beckett’s chicken scratch. Cole would know that mess anywhere. This couldn’t be the same package Beckett had sealed that last night. But now, Cole wondered about that one too. It seemed Beckett had been without his black, leather book at his cot afterward. Very strange for him. Had God punished him for his neglect?

  If there was a God.

  Cole should open the package and discover its contents, but his myo-electric arm buzzed as he gripped it hard, reminding him of what made that action difficult. What made the idea impossible. His intact fingers ran over the name, Forsythe, and over the ridge of the seal. His jaw flexed and he tossed the package deep into his closet.

  His mind traveled to Beckett’s expression when he’d caught Cole later that night downing a bottle of whiskey he’d bought from an Iraqi boy. It wasn’t censure. It wasn’t even disappointment. Somehow, it was almost a confirmation of what was to come.

  Like he knew.

  Cole shuddered. He would never open that package. He didn’t need a reminder of his failings. His own body displayed those failings every day. His mind whirred in a painful montage of past and present. What would he do with the envelope at the bottom of his closet? He wasn’t sure. The only thing for certain was that he couldn’t face its contents sober.

  WHY HAD CARLY PUT on eyeliner and blush? Why was she wearing this pale yellow sundress that clung to her form? And why was she brushing her hair as if it might shine at the hundredth stroke?

  She kept telling herself it was only proper to dress for dinner given Cole had worn his best each night since they’d begun eating together two months ago. But she knew it was more. She felt something real and tangible in the man who slew her dragon. The knight who wore his armor against those who’d love him, leaving himself vulnerable to the things that might mean his end. If only she could reverse that. But she knew she did not have the power and even if she did, it would only leave him indebted to her and not the God he so desperately needed. The God who would be there for him when she could not.