Stateside

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

Rowdy Waters stood outside The Devil’s Den, hesitant to go inside the noisy bar where the pulsing beat of Give Me Two Steps vibrated the glass in the door. Since being discharged and returning from Afghanistan, he hadn’t ventured out into the world much. He’d seen too much and lost too much.

His therapist at the VA Hospital told him he needed to socialize more and had given him a timeline for doing so.

“Just go out to a Denny’s for a meal,” pretty Dr. Bragg had told him, “or stop in at the local dive and have a beer at the bar.”

She shuffled papers on her desk with her perfectly manicured hands, then handed a paper across the desk to him. “That’s a set of goals for you and I want you to put it on your refrigerator door and mark the date you accomplish each of them to bring back with you in thirty days for our next session.”

“I’m moving to Montana, Doc,” Rowdy told her. “Getting back down here to Denver for appointments might be a problem for me.”

Her green eyes went wide. “Why Montana?” she asked, and when did you make this decision?”

“It’s quiet and there won’t be a damned camel in sight.” He grinned. “I rented a cabin high up on a mountain in the pines,” he said with a sigh, “so I doubt there will be a Denny’s to stop in at and I have no idea about dives at this Miller’s Crossing.”

“Where is that from Missoula? If it’s close, I can set you up with an associate of mine at the VA there.”

He took out his phone and checked the map feature. “Looks to be about an hour away.”

“Good,” she said, “I’ll call Dr. Cooper and see if he has room for you. If he does, I’ll send him your file and text you with an appointment date.” She cleared her throat. “But I expect you to use that schedule I gave you and take it in with you to your appointment with Dr. Cooper.”

Rowdy stood and saluted with a broad grin on his face. “Yes, ma’am, doctor ma’am.”

***

Now here he stood outside The Devil’s Den with his stomach churning after dinner at Millers Crossing’s only excuse for an eating establishment, Penny’s Gas and Grill. His stomach rumbled and Rowdy had a good idea where the gas came from.

The glass door pushed open and Rowdy had to jump out of the way of two laughing couples as they exited. Give Me Two Steps was just winding down as Rowdy stepped inside the smoky bar. He reconned the room and noticed a redhead in tight jeans at the bar. Taking a deep breath in the foyer, he put one booted foot in front of the other and made his way to the bar, taking the empty stool beside the redhead.

“What can I get ya, young fella?” the gray-headed and bearded bartender asked.

“Bud,” Rowdy said, studying the redhead. She had a pretty face with delicate features and a sprinkling of freckles across her sunburned and peeling nose. On her tanned and freckled shoulder, she sported a tattoo he recognized.

“You were with MET?” he asked as the bartender set a frosty mug of beer in front of him. Medical Emergency Transit was a civilian company hired by the military to move the wounded from the battlefields to hospital units. They also supplied medical personnel like EMTs and nurses to tend to the wounded in transit.

“For a while,” she said and lifted her left arm onto the bar. It was missing the hand.

“Sorry,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable with the situation. “Can I get you another beer?” he asked, noticing the empty mug on the bar in front of her. “Bartender,” Rowdy called to the old man, “will you get the lady another of whatever she’s having?”

The bartender brought the beer and took the empty mug. “Thank you,” she said with a smile, offering her right hand, “I’m Callie.”

Rowdy smiled back. It had been a long time since a pretty woman aside from medical staff at the VA had smiled at him. He took her hand. “I’m Rowdy,” he said. “Mom was a huge Rawhide fan.”

“Seems fittin’ for a man in Montana,” the old bartender said with a grin. “But you must be new to Miller’s Crossin’. Ain’t never seen ya in here before.”

“I just moved up here from Denver,” Rowdy explained.

“Cowboyin’ or workin’ on one of the pipelines?” the bartender prodded.

“Just kickin’ back and takin’ it easy for the time being,” Rowdy said as he sipped his cold beer. “Might do some hunting and get back into taxidermy.”

The old man nodded. “Good money in that with all the hunters and fishermen up here.”

“My grandpa taught me,” Rowdy said. “I do it for the enjoyment of it in his memory.”

“You were in-country then?” Callie finally said, smiling up at him before the bartender could say anymore.

“Gunnery Sergeant with the 107th infantry,” he said, puffing his chest out proudly.

Her pretty face lost its smile. “The 107th huh?” She pushed the beer he’d just bought her back to him. “The 107th was supposed to be protecting my convoy when we were attacked,” she said with a snarl and raised her left arm into his face. “If you and your men had been there doing your jobs this would never have happened.” She slid off the stool and stormed out of the bar as Desperado played on the jukebox.

Rowdy stared after the woman with his mouth open. The only time his unit hadn’t made a connection with a MET unit was the day they’d been pinned down by hostiles and he’d lost most of his men. He’d taken a bullet in his upper thigh that day and had almost bled out as well. What right did she have to blame him for the loss of her hand?

“Don’t pay no never mind to her, son,” the old man said as he took Callie’s discarded beer from the bar and put the mug to his lips. “I heard tell she went through some messed up shit at the hands of them camel jockeys over there while they had ‘er.” He emptied the mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his faded blue sleeve.

“She was a prisoner?” Rowdy asked with his eyes wide. He’d heard terrible stories about what white women had to go through at the hands of Arab captors.

“For nigh on a year as I hear tell,” the bartender said, “in the hands of some high up muckity-muck like Bin Laudin, who done terrible things to her and then took off her hand before turnin’ her over to her bosses after they paid a big ransom for her safe return.”

Rowdy shook his head. “Jeez, no wonder she’s bitter.”

“I reckon she’s got plenty to be bitter about.” The old man tapped them both another beer. “I’m Bernie, by the way.”

“Nice to meet ya, Bernie,” Rowdy said with a salute of his full mug. “So, her name is Callie Miller and she was a POW in Afghanistan?”

Bernie nodded. “And when she finally got sprung, she found out her daddy, ol’ man Miller, who owned this whole damned valley and who’s family this town, such as it is, was named for, had died in a truck accident and the ranch was bein’ run by the foreman Luke Jones.” He sucked the foam off the beer. “And ol’ Luke was none too happy about turnin’ the reins of Miller Ranch over to the young missy after he’d sorta gotten it into his head the place was his for the taken while she was gone an’ all.”

Rowdy nodded. “Might make for an uncomfortable homecoming.” Hadn’t the man he’d rented the cabin from been named Luke Jones? Who was his landlord, Luke or Callie? He’d need to take out the lease when he got home and look at it. “What do I owe ya for the beers, Bernie?” Rowdy asked as he stood.

“On the house,” the old man said. “Consider it a welcome to the valley gift and a thank you from an ol’ Vietnam vet for your service.”

“Thanks, man,” Rowdy said. “I think I’d have traded some of that jungle shade and humidity any day for that dry, sandy patch of hell I was in.”

Bernie chuckled. “No, ya wouldn’t. Trench foot from sloggin’ around in wet muddy boots all day was nothin’ to envy, boy.”

“Neither was sand chafe in your crotch or Camel Spiders in your tent at night.”

“Eeww, no,” Bernie said with a mock shiver. “I hate spiders and I hear them fuckers is as big as a ball mitt.”

“Some are,” Rowdy said as he turned for the door. “I’ll see ya next time, Bernie, and thanks for the beer.

“Don’t be takin’ your meals down ta Penny’s, young fella,” Bernie called after him. “That ol’ prison cook she has in her kitchen now is like ta kill ya as not.”

Rowdy’s belly grumbled again. “Now you tell me,” he said under his breath as he stepped outside and passed gas.

***

Callie sat in Penny’s, staring at the red stump on the end of her wrist where her hand used to be. How could she have been so unlucky to run into an officer who served with the 107th right here in Miller’s Crossing? How was she ever going to get over this when she had reminders of it slapping her in the face or buying her beers every day?

Penny brought her burger and fries to the table. “You look down, hun,” the large woman said as she dropped into the chair next to Callie. “What’s frettin’ you today?”

She lifted her stump. “Same ol’, same ol’, I suppose, Penn.”

“Eat up, Callie,” the cafe owner said, “and you’ll feel better.”

“I met a guy who was with the 107th today,” Callie said, rubbing her ruined wrist. “It was him and his men who let this happen. If they’d showed up to give us support the way they were supposed to,” she said with tears of anger burning her eyes, “my transport never would have been attacked and I wouldn’t have been taken by that damned beast who took my hand.”

Penny patted Callie’s freckled shoulder. “Maybe if you’d kept the baby, you’d—”

“I’d have the bastard of one of my rapists,” Callie snapped. “We’ve been over this before, Penny. There’s no way I could have kept that baby.”

“Murdering an innocent was no way to get even with the man who did that to you, Callie,” Penny said with a sigh. “I just hope God can see fit to forgive you.”

Callie snorted as she picked up the burger and her purse. “I doubt I’ll ever see fit to forgive God,” she said. “Put this on my tab, Penny. I’ll take it to go.” She turned and stormed out of the cafe into the bright Montana sun.

She tossed the cold burger into the trash can outside the cafe and unlocked her Ford Escape four-wheel drive. She was tired of arguing with Penny about her decision to abort the fetus after returning stateside. How could she have expected her to keep that bastard’s baby? Callie shook her head. It would have been inconceivable. This was Miller’s Crossing, and she was Calista Jane Miller the daughter of Morgan and Rachel Miller.

Callie had been devastated when she returned home to find that her parents had both been killed in an auto accident and in the ground for almost nine months. She’d said her tearful good-byes on her knees in the family burial plot on the ranch where generations of Millers had been laid to rest. She’d needed to talk to her mother so badly and only had a granite headstone to pour her story out to between sobs of grief, anguish, and frustration.

Lucas Jones’s attitude upon her return hadn’t helped matters any either. “So ya finally decided to show your spoiled ass back up here,” he’d snapped from behind Callie as she knelt at her parents' grave. “Your Mama worried after ya like a poor cow what had lost a calf on the trail and your Daddy,” he added with hesitation, “well, your Daddy was your Daddy, and he gave them stingy bastards at that MET place you worked a piece of his mind every day you was missin’. Then he raided the ranch bank accounts to give ‘em the cash to cover your ransom.”

That piece of information had stunned Callie. She’d been under the impression her employers had put up the money for her ransom. “Daddy paid my ransom and not MET?”

Lucas snorted. “You damned well know he did, girl. Drained off near to all the ranch’s workin’ capital to do it,” he sneered, “but Morgan was determined to get his little girl back in one piece.” He glanced at her bandaged stump and grinned. “Maybe we should ask for a partial refund since I’m runnin’ this place now and we only got back a partial hostage.”

Callie had risen to her feet to face the grinning foreman of Miller Ranch. “I’ll be taking over now,” she said extending her right hand, “so give me the keys to the house and Daddy’s office.”

Lucas’s face had lost its grin and changed to one of anger or even hatred. “I been runnin’ this ranch since Morgan and Rachel died, girl, and you got no idea what’s involved in keepin’ it goin’, so why don’t ya just stick to your ambulance drivin’ in the deserts and let them that knows the business of ranchin’ keep at it.”

“Mr. Jones,” Callie had said with an effort to keep the anger from her voice, “I was raised on this ranch under the wing of Morgan Miller. He taught me everything about running this ranch.” Callie had taken a deep breath as she stared down the scowling foreman who’d worked at Miller Ranch for over twenty-five years and whom she’d known most of her life. “I’m very appreciative of what you’ve done, keeping watch over things after my parents’ deaths, but I’m home now and intend to take my place as the owner of Miller Ranch as my father always intended.”

Lucas actually laughed. “Ain’t no broken little bitch gonna be able to handle the runnin’ of this ranch, girl. That’s the job of a man like me.”

Callie extended her hand again. “The keys, Mr. Jones,” she said in a more determined voice, “and please remove your things from the room you took in the house. I’ll be taking up residence there now and don’t intend to share it with you.”

Lucas spat on the ground at her feet as he took the keys from the ring and tossed them to her. “Things woulda been different had Rachel given him another son like he wanted, but your mama lost every child Morgan got her with except young William after you was born.” He shook his head. “I know where you got your stubborn streak, girl. Your Mama was as stubborn as a blue racer and almost as ornery. I’ll have my things out of Morgan’s house within the hour.” He turned to stomp off.

“And leave Daddy’s laptop on the kitchen table along with anything else relating to Miller Ranch business you might have in that room like the checkbook and the ATM cards,” she called after the man she knew had several pieces of business and ledgers missing from her father’s office.

He stopped in his tracks, turned, and gave her a military salute. “Yes, ma’am Miss Miller, ma’am. I’ll clear out my things from your daddy’s house and leave everything related to your daddy’s ranch on your kitchen table.”

Callie’s grief turned to rage at the insolent foreman, and she called after him, “My house, my ranch, and my kitchen table, Lucas.” She thought about firing the bastard on the spot but turned back to the granite stone, went down on her knees again, and wept.