Ring of Fire (9 page)

She found him and her mom sitting at the kitchen table. Eric's shoulders were tight, his left leg jiggled, and both his hands gripped a glass of water.

Pale-faced, he gazed up at her, and then away. “Sorry about that,” he muttered awkwardly.

She wanted to grip his hands, to hug him, to commiserate. But he was a soldier and she sensed he wouldn't welcome sympathy. “No problem,” she said. Then she came right to the point. “Do you have PTSD?”

A pause, and then, “Yeah.” He sounded and looked defeated, which was so unlike him.

“Did I trigger the flashback when I startled you coming through the door, or was it the smell of smoke?”

His eyes closed briefly, and then he gazed at her. When he spoke again, his voice grated. “Smoke. Flames can do it, too. And noises like backfires or blasting.”

“I'm sorry I didn't shower before I came home.”

“You didn't know. And people shouldn't have to make accommodations around me.” His voice was husky. He cleared his throat and she wondered if he could still taste smoke in the back of it, the way she did after a fire. “It's stupid,” he said, “that I haven't got over it yet.”

“Healing takes time,” Mary said quietly.

Eric turned to her. “I lost a leg. I almost lost the other one, but I survived infections and multiple surgeries and I healed. I learned to use a prosthetic leg. Aside from some aches and phantom limb pain, I'm as fit as I ever was. Physically.” He swallowed. “I just can't seem to fix the damned PTSD.”

And that, Lark realized, was why his rehab team had sent him to therapeutic riding. In the hope that the activity, the horses, the great outdoors, and her son's company would help Eric find his way back from the pain and despair of post-traumatic stress.

Mary touched Eric's big hand with one of her small ones. “Healing takes time,” she repeated, and then she stood. “I'm going to bed now.”

Eric rose, too, and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Mary. Your voice brought me back.”

A foot shorter than him, she gazed up into his face. “Thank
you,
Eric, for your service in trying to bring peace to this world.” She turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Eric turned to Lark. “I should go.”

“I'll walk with you.” She knew he'd walked over rather than driven.

His eyes narrowed. “I can get home by myself.”

“I know. But I could use a walk. After a callout, I have a lot of adrenaline flowing and walking helps me settle down.” So did a mug of one of Mary's special teas and a long bubble bath. But she wanted to spend this time with Eric, to reassure herself that he was okay and, to be honest, just to be close to him.

“What if I want to be alone?” His tone was challenging, but there was something unusual in his eyes. A hint of vulnerability?

“What if I want to be with you?” she countered.

“I won't be good company.”

“Oh, for God's sake, would you stop warning me off and let's go walk?” She headed for the door into the hallway. “You don't have to talk if you don't want to.”

After a moment, he followed her to the front door, where they both put on jackets.

Outside, at the sidewalk, he turned right. After walking half a block, passing neatly kept small residences, Eric asked, “How bad was the fire tonight?”

“No lives lost, but substantial property damage to an apartment building.”

“Christ, where?”

“Felmer Street.” She turned to him, wide-eyed as a thought dawned on her. “Tell me that's not where you live.”

“No, thank God. If I'd been burned out of two places . . .” He didn't finish the thought. “I'm on Miners Road.”

He was walking fast, continually glancing around, filled with nervous energy. Her own natural stride was long and she had no trouble keeping pace. A couple of teens zipped toward them on bikes, and Eric stepped slightly in front of Lark, shielding her and studying the kids warily until they had passed.

After another half block, she ventured, “Smoke's a trigger for you? That must have made it particularly awful when the Hoppington place caught fire.”

He didn't answer and she decided to honor her promise that he didn't have to talk.

But then, a block later, he said, “I was asleep, having a flashback nightmare. Maybe triggered by smelling the smoke. It took falling out of bed to wake me up. I was disoriented and I'd already inhaled a lot of smoke. Otherwise, I'd have been able to get out on my own.” Unsurprisingly, he sounded a touch defensive.

“I know.”

“Don't humor me. How could you know?”

“I've seen you out running. You're about as fit and strong as a guy can be. And you have military training and experience.”

“Oh. Uh, okay.”

“It's a lovely night.” The air was crisp but not too cold, holding none of the sour scent of smoke from the fire on the other side of town. Stars twinkled in an indigo sky. Lark wished she could find a way to help Eric relax. Flashbacks were draining, and people who suffered from them could have quite different reactions afterward, often depending on their particular trauma. Some were driven to hide away in a small, safe, dark place, and others wanted to walk or run in a wide-open space. She guessed Eric would be more drawn to movement and freedom. “Feel like walking down to Westward Ho!? It's that riding place on the outskirts of town.” Westward Ho! boarded horses for town dwellers, and also rented them to locals and tourists.

“Tell me you don't want to go riding at this time of night.”

“No. I was thinking of the dirt road behind it, the one that leads out into ranch land.” Likely he knew that road, considering how much time he spent running. “I thought we might hike out a ways.” She glanced toward him. “Or is it better if you go to bed and get some rest?”

“I do better with action than rest. And the fresh air's clearing my head. Sure, let's hike.”

They adjusted their route and walked in silence for another few blocks. She and Eric were both big people and the sidewalk was narrow enough that occasionally their arms brushed. She wanted to feel his hand in hers, wanted to move closer and bump shoulders, but this wasn't a romantic stroll so she resisted temptation.

The lights were off in the barn at Westward Ho! Lark and Eric walked past, turning from a paved street onto a two-lane dirt road that was used primarily by riders, joggers, and walkers.

“Your mom was great,” he said, huskiness still rough-edging his voice. “She kept talking, giving me something to reach out for, to pull myself back.”

“I'm glad. It must be hell going through a flashback when you're by yourself.”

“Hell,” he repeated. “Yeah. But it's better to do it alone. It's not fair to inflict it on someone else. I'm really sorry about that. Neither of you should've had to see that.”

“Don't worry about us. We're just sorry you have to go through it.” She paused a moment, then continued. “If you ever want to talk about it, I'd be happy to listen. When something bad happens at the fire hall, we do a lot of debriefing. People shouldn't go through shit alone. And it seems to me you don't have a lot of folks here in Caribou Crossing that you can talk to.”

A few long, quiet strides later, he said, “I'm seeing a psychologist. Karim makes me go over and over it, in detail. He says that talking about it can help a trauma survivor realize that the event is in the past, and come to terms with it.”

“Has it helped?”

“Not noticeably.” Another several strides. “He says I should talk to other people. He suggested a group in town. People who've survived various kinds of traumas and suffer from post-traumatic stress. Every time I think about it, I shudder.”

“Why? We had group counseling at the fire hall for several weeks after one of our volunteers was seriously injured in an industrial fire. It helped me and the other firefighters.”

“That's good, but it's different.”

“How so?”

“You all know each other, you're a team, you went through something together.” More long strides. “And I'm not that kind of guy. Admitting weakness in front of strangers, getting all touchy feely. That's not my way.” He gave a frustrated huff. “That's the thing. Karim's a good guy, but nothing he suggests feels right for me.”

“What else has he suggested?”

“Well, not meds, which is good. I don't do drugs. Not past the initial basic painkillers after each surgery. I hate feeling like I'm not in control. But he also said I should talk to my family, and that's sure not happening.”

“Why not?” She tried to imagine a grown-up Jayden not being able to talk to her, and found the notion unbearably painful.

“If I told my mom about my PTSD, and what went down in Afghanistan, it would stress her out. She can handle the idea of Dad and me being soldiers, but she doesn't want to hear the details.”

After another stretch of silence, she asked, “And your father? I'd have thought he'd be able to relate.”

His answer was a snort. “Relate? No.”

Obviously a touchy subject. She left it alone—for now—and moved on. “What about your sister? How old is she?”

“Quinn's twenty-nine. Four years younger than me. I was always the one who looked after her, not the other way around.”

“She's grown up now. Presumably neither one of you has to look after the other?” She made it a question, because she knew nothing about his sister.

“Well, Quinn still needs bailing out every now and then. She's, uh, unfocused. Can't seem to figure out what she wants to do with her life.”

“The opposite of you.” She glanced at the very focused man by her side.

“Always has been. Rebellious, high-spirited, a troublemaker.” He shrugged. “Softhearted, funny, kind of sweet, too. I mean, I love her, Quinn's great in a lot of ways, but she never made things easy on herself. I used to think she did stuff just to piss off Dad.”

“When children act out, it's often to get attention.”

“That's counterproductive. Doesn't a child want approval? To please his or her parents, not to disappoint them?”

Was that what he wanted from his father? She'd have assumed Eric had his dad's approval, following in his footsteps as a soldier. Yet he'd sure cut her off when she'd suggested that his dad would relate to Eric's experience in Afghanistan and to his PTSD. “You'd think, but sometimes that doesn't work, so they try the piss-them-off route. Or, really, they're just being kids.” She thought of Jayden and smiled. “It's not in their nature to always be good.”

“But people grow up. Or are supposed to. Quinn should have figured things out by now.”

“True. But behavior patterns that kids learn often persist into adulthood, even the not-so-smart ones.” She added wryly, “Or so Mom says, when she catches me in the kitchen in the middle of the night when I'm dealing with a problem by ripping into a tub of cookies 'n cream ice cream.”

With amusement in his voice, he said, “So Lark Cantrell isn't as perfect as she looks?”

“Perfect? God, no. Who'd want to be?”

“I thought most people did. I mean, of course not
perfect,
but as good as they can be in the areas of life they choose to focus on.”

“The areas they choose to focus on?”

“Like firefighting, with you. And being a mom. And a daughter.”

She chuckled. “A perfect daughter? I doubt any parent ever thinks of their child as perfect. They know us too well.” Testing, she went on, “And, hopefully, they accept us and love us despite our imperfections. At least if we're decent people.”

“Hmm.”

The dirt road passed close enough to a ranch house that music carried to them on the still night air. The windows of the house were dark, but the dim light of a lantern glowed golden on the porch. “Someone else is still up,” she said quietly. “Sitting on the porch listening to music.” Though she was too far away to hear the words, she recognized the simple, poignant tune. Without consulting Eric, she stopped and rested her forearms on the top rail of the wooden fence that ran alongside the road. “An appropriate song, too, for this conversation.”

He joined her. “How so?”

“That's Garth Brooks's ‘Mom.' I've heard that he and his mother were quite close, before she passed away.” Lark was very aware of Eric's shirt-clad forearm only inches from hers. Was it her imagination, or could she actually feel the heat his body gave off? A heat that made her want to close the gap between them.

“You grew up with classical music, but now you're a fan of country?”

“I wasn't before I came here. But it's big in Caribou Crossing, and I'm adaptable. Seems to me, wherever you live, you figure out how to fit in.”

“True. Even when it's on very foreign soil, like the goddamned sandbox.”

Afghanistan, he meant. His body language was more relaxed now; the tension seemed to have eased. She didn't want to push, but she'd always been a forthright person. So, tentatively, she said, “You said it was an IED?”

A shudder moved through him. She thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he finally spoke. “Yeah. We responded to a tip from a source who'd always been reliable, about a cache of hidden weapons. We were conducting a search. Turned out it was a trap.” He swallowed. “I was with Peller, an army sergeant, and Sharif, from the Afghan local police. I sent Peller through the door first. He tripped an IED. The world exploded.” Despite the horror of the words he was speaking, Eric's tone was flat, without affect.