A Love Like Ours Page 5

  “Stop stalling. Did Jake Porter hire you?” Her mom had a cute new haircut working. Long, wispy blond bangs melded into a style cut short over her ears and in the back. She peered at Lyndie above her pink-rimmed reading glasses. At fifty-six, her skin had lost its tightness, but nothing would ever change her beautiful bone structure or the brightness in her brown eyes. “I’m trying to be subtle, but I can’t wait any longer.”

  Lyndie smiled. “He hired me.”

  “Yes!” Mom levered herself upward and jabbed a fist toward the ceiling.

  Mollie had picked up on the excitement in the air and began to turn her head from side to side.

  “Lyndie got a job, Mols! She’s going to exercise horses for Jake and Whispering Creek Horses.” Karen beamed at Lyndie. “Tell me what happened.”

  Lyndie detailed the morning’s events. “When I finished the set, he simply told me that if I’d like the job for the season at Lone Star, then I could have it.”

  “And you thanked him and said you’d definitely take it.”

  “And he said he’d see me Monday morning.”

  Mom half-leaned over Mollie to press a kiss to Lyndie’s forehead. “Such good news. Congratulations, honey.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I knew he’d hire you.”

  “I didn’t. When he offered me the job, it looked like it physically pained him to do it. Which maybe it did.”

  Karen laughed. Her mom might not have found it so hilarious if she’d been there to witness Jake’s glower.

  “He might not know it yet,” Karen said, “but you’ll be good for him.”

  “Funny. That’s the same thing Bo said.”

  “I’m glad he gave you the job. God is good.”

  “He is.” God is good had become their family mantra. During their happiest moments they used it, like now, in celebration. God is good! But they used it in their worst times, too, when the faith required to believe those three words felt like hanging off the ledge of a tall building by their fingertips. God is good, they’d reassured each other on the many occasions when Mollie had hovered near death.

  Lyndie gestured to the discarded book. “Had you finished your chapter?”

  “We have a couple pages left.”

  Mom found her place and resumed reading. Lyndie snuggled up next to Mollie. All three of the women on the bed were small-framed. Not one taller than five four. Mollie wore cotton jammies and socks. Karen wore her usual at-home outfit: silky-looking sweatpants and a colorful Nike sweatshirt. She’d painted her toenails lavender.

  The words of the Forsythia Castle saga wound and dipped through the air. The sound of her mother’s voice cast the same spell of comfort over Lyndie that it always had.

  Karen James was the sort of person you met and five minutes later trusted with your life’s story. She’d been an elementary school teacher at one time, but for the past twenty years she’d been a part-time Christian counselor. Some people had jobs that fit them poorly. Not so Lyndie’s mom. Her blend of calmness, self-deprecating humor, vulnerability, listening skills, and enthusiasm worked like a balm on everyone—friends and clients alike.

  In fact . . . her mother would no doubt have a positive influence on Jake Porter. Really positive. As would Mollie. The notion sent down roots. If humanly possible, Lyndie needed to figure out a way to get Tall, Dark, and Brooding here.

  Beyond the room’s cheerful yellow walls, two bird feeders hung suspended from a branch. Mollie couldn’t see the bookcase that contained her medicines and equipment. Nor could she see the cozy lamps, the drapes, or even the birds beyond her window. But Lyndie and her mom believed that Mollie enjoyed the warmth of the sunlight pouring in and the chirping sound of the birds. And so, in Mollie’s difficult existence, there had always been sunlight and birds and a mother, father, and sister who loved her.

  Chapter Four

  Jake’s attention swept the interior of the tent. A group of Marines were playing dominos in one corner, others were looking through magazines, napping, writing.

  “Panzetti,” Jake said. The dark-eyed, dark—haired corporal from New Jersey was his junior in rank and experience, but not by much. They’d been on two previous tours together.

  Rob Panzetti made his way to where Jake stood, near the flaps that served as the tent’s doorway. “Where we headed?” He grinned. “Night club?”

  “That’s on the schedule for tomorrow.”

  “In that case, how ’bout we go to a golf course? I’m good with a golf club, man. You should see me hit a drive.”

  Everybody in the squad knew that half the things that came out of Panzetti’s mouth were bull. What was true about Rob: He was always in a great mood, and he loved his wife and two kids. “Fine. We’ll go golfing.”

  “I bet you’re terrible. Everybody knows cowboys can’t golf.”

  “Cowboys do everything well.”

  Panzetti laughed, fist-bumping Jake’s arm.

  Jake’s attention caught on Justin Scott. The twenty-one-year-old African American out of Atlanta had stretched out on his sleeping bag, his head and shoulders propped up by gear. He was reading a thick, dusty book about psychology. “Scott.”

  Scott responded as quickly as Panzetti had, stashing his book and approaching. Jake had come to count on Scott’s quiet and dependable personality.

  “Get Barnes.” Jake moved his chin in the direction of the eighteen-year-old.

  The men in Jake’s squad called Dan Barnes “Boots” because he was on his first tour. Boots had stuffed earbuds in his ears. His head bobbed to music only he could hear, and his fingertips tapped against his thigh. Scott nudged Barnes’ shoulder, and the kid quickly pulled out the earbuds and hurried over. “Sergeant Porter.” Barnes’ childhood in Corsicana had left him with a Texas accent just as unmistakable as Jake’s.

  “Stash your iPod,” Jake had to remind him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The kid was green. At times nosy, at times eager, at times worried. Jake had been keeping a close watch on him and would continue to.

  “You three will be riding with me.” He raised his voice, so the rest of the guys could hear. “Time for patrol.”

  The Marines immediately went into motion. By the time they’d readied themselves to leave camp, they each carried nearly a hundred pounds of gear and ammunition.

  “We’re going golfing, boys,” Panzetti announced to Jake’s squad of eight as they strode from the tent. “Afterward, I’m going to try to talk the sergeant into lunch at a real nice place. China and crystal and all that. Except maybe for you, Boots. I’m not sure you’ll clean up good enough.”

  Jake didn’t need to tell his Marines that they wouldn’t be playing nine holes or eating off china today. They all knew they were headed into the brown Iraqi landscape.

  “I’m looking forward to having one of those little cart girls come around and offer me an ice-cold beer.” Panzetti’s eyes glittered with humor.

  They passed the chow hall, a couple of shower trailers, and rows of blue portable toilets. Their desert boots kicked fine brown dust into afternoon heat that felt near to a hundred degrees. Thanks to a childhood in Texas, Jake recognized a hundred when he saw it.

  Jake led the others toward a line of HMMWVs, commonly known as Humvees. They were the Marines’ workhorses. They served on every part of the battlefield as command centers, troop transporters, weapons towers, even ambulances.

  “I call shotgun,” Panzetti said.

  “Shotgun’s mine,” Jake replied, as Panzetti well knew. As vehicle commander, Jake rode in the front passenger seat. Scott had been trained as a machine gunner, so he’d take the turret that rose from the center of the roof. Panzetti always drove. Boots climbed into the back.

  Jake positioned his M249 squad automatic weapon between his legs and shut his door, which was like shutting himself into a metal box. Except less roomy. Scott, in the turret, sat in an elevated position. His calves and boots jutted down between Jake and Panzetti.

  The
window on Jake’s right framed an image of camp as Panzetti steered them down the gravel road. This afternoon, their convoy included four Humvees, all of which fell in behind them.

  They approached a berm strung with concertina wire marking the camp’s boundary. Inside a wooden guard tower, two Marines halted their progress and called CLC for permission to let the convoy exit. That done, they waved them forward.

  An unmistakable sense of anticipation shifted through Jake, same as always when he left the base. The feeling reminded him, every time, that he was where he belonged, where God had called him to be. He was setting out to do what he’d been born to do.

  His father and grandfather had raised him on Marine Corps stories. They’d brought him up to be a Marine, the way that some parents brought kids up to be Longhorns or Aggies. In Texas, even babies wore the orange of UT or the maroon of A&M. Not Jake. He’d had Marine Corps posters in his room. For Halloween, he’d covered his face in camo. He’d read books about Marines. Watched movies about them. When he’d closed his eyes at night, he’d dreamt about them.

  As he’d grown into his teenage years, his skill at football had made him quarterback of his high school team and his skill with horses had gained him recognition throughout the southern states. Still, his plan to pursue a career in the Marines had never wavered.

  As it turned out, the path he’d chosen for himself in childhood suited him. He liked everything about it: the challenge, the structure, even the danger. The Corps had given him a chance to serve his country, and it had shown him something important: his own capability.

  He’d been in the service for six years and had steadily been promoted. He planned to do this job over the long haul. He could see himself as an old guy, sitting behind a desk at Pendleton.

  The dirt road snaked into land marked with rocks and scrubby vegetation. Jake had grown familiar with this stretch, as they all had. He combed the scene, hunting for anything off or wrong, no matter how small. His main mission today, and every day in Iraq, was to get his squad home safely.

  In the far distance, he could make out two Bedouin men wearing checked head scarves and long white robes. The waves of heat rising from the earth distorted their image—

  Jake heard himself scream as he jutted to a sitting position in bed. The scream hadn’t been vocal. It had torn into the gray space between nightmare and waking. Silent. Maybe worse for its silence.

  His chest panted in and out, his breath choppy and gasping. Sweat trickled down his face and his bare chest.

  Frantically, he tried to use the familiar surroundings of his bedroom to anchor him. The light he always left on in his bathroom fell across plain white walls. A chair. The bowl on his dresser where he kept his change. He carefully avoided looking at the drawer he never opened.

  He was home. In Holley. He hadn’t set foot in Iraq in eight years. This was what was real. This was the present.

  He pressed his palms into the bed on either side of him and hunched over. His fingers curled in, squeezing up handfuls of sheet and blanket.

  He remained in that position for tortuous minutes, minutes that made him curse himself and doubt his sanity. Minutes filled with guilt so crushing his lungs could hardly draw breath.

  Jake gritted his teeth, struggling to bear up under it. This time might be the time he came apart mentally. If that happened, he knew he might never be put back together, which only filled him with more dread—

  A memory flashed through his mind of a blond woman walking toward him at Whispering Creek. He grasped at the image, like a drowning man would a rope. She’d worn a pale green sweater and a scarf. She’d had compassion in her face, and knowledge of him. She was his oldest friend, the one he’d protected when he’d still been capable of protecting. Her petite body held strength in its graceful curves. Her brown eyes were beautiful to him.

  “I heard about what happened to you in Iraq,” she’d said. “I’m sorry.”

  The memory of her fought against the darkness in his mind, and gradually, the sharpest edge of misery began to pull away.

  Jake pushed from the bed and turned on his shower. While he waited for the water to get hot, he planted a palm against the shower door to steady his shuddering body.

  His watch read 4:02 a.m., a small mercy. He knew from experience that he couldn’t fall back to sleep after a nightmare. Had it been 12:02, he’d have had many more hours of sleeplessness ahead of him.

  He stepped into the stall and hot spray beat against the back of his neck and upper shoulders.

  Another memory of Lyndie, this time of her galloping Gold Tide, tried to slip into his thoughts. He blocked it, refusing to think about her any more than necessary.

  He had only two goals where Lyndie was concerned: to interact with her as little as possible and to keep her safe.

  Whispering Creek Horses took every precaution with their exercise riders. In the past, a few had sustained minor injuries but none had been seriously hurt. There was no reason to worry about Lyndie.

  He should be more concerned about himself. He couldn’t afford to let a pretty blonde mess with his head.

  Except, she didn’t mess with your head just now, did she, Jake? Thinking of her helped you.

  He cranked off the shower. After pulling on shorts and sneakers, he entered the room in his loft he’d filled with workout equipment. A rowing machine, treadmill, ropes, barbells, a chin-up bar, and weight-lifting benches waited for him. The back-breaking regimen he put himself through every day helped him believe that he still had some small control over his body. Over his life.

  After he’d worked out, he’d feel better. Maybe.

  He blew out an angry breath.

  He’d work out. And then he’d feel better.

  He couldn’t afford to let a pretty blonde mess with his head.

  In the pre-dawn darkness on Monday, Lyndie let herself into the training barn for her first day of work and found Jake waiting for her. He wore his black hat and jeans with a simple gray waffle-knit shirt, pushed up at the wrists to reveal muscular forearms.

  It jarred her, yet again, that the boy she’d known had become this hard-bodied, closed-hearted man. No trace of boyishness remained. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Are you here to show me the ropes?”

  He dipped his chin, a mannerism she’d noticed he often used in lieu of speaking. He took her first to the bulletin board, where he explained he’d daily post his plans for the five horses she’d be riding each morning. Then he spent time familiarizing her with the tack room and educating her about the barn’s organizational system. Lyndie listened carefully, committing his words to memory.

  They made slow progress down the shed row, stopping often so that Jake could introduce Lyndie to the barn foreman, grooms, and hand-walkers, as well as the horses in training.

  She spotted evidence of orderliness everywhere. The barn and the horses were kept rigorously clean. Pails hung neatly outside each stall’s doorway. Fresh hay and oats scented the air. No music or TV played. Rather, the atmosphere had a calm and industrious quality to it.

  Each time they reached a stall containing one of the horses Lyndie would be exercising, Jake talked at length about the horse in question. He catalogued the animal’s breeding, faults and strengths, racing history. The whole time he spoke, his attentive gaze centered on the horse under discussion.

  Since there was little hope he’d glance her way during these monologues, she occasionally watched him out of the corners of her eyes. Everything about him riveted her interest: his voice, the faint mesquite and spice scent that clung to his shirt, his size and leashed power. Most of all, she was fascinated, utterly fascinated, by the fact that she could still sense a bond between them. As if by the silken thread of a spiderweb, the two of them were somehow connected.

  “This is the last horse of the five you’ll be riding.” Jake crossed to a stall that overlooked the barn’s front yard and the road.

  So far, he’d assigned her
to two fillies and two colts. Each of the four had been lovely. They possessed excellent conformation, and she’d been able to read their fitness in their musculature. As she caught sight of her final horse, though, her gait stuttered.

  He stood tall, at least sixteen hands. His coat gleamed dapple grey, darkening down his legs. His mane and tail fell in unbroken waterfalls of white.

  “This is Silver Leaf.” Jake propped a shoulder against the opening that led to the horse’s enclosure.

  Silver Leaf swung his head in Lyndie’s direction and regarded her placidly.

  Something about the animal, something wordless—an indefinable X factor—caused Lyndie’s arms to pebble with goose bumps. She had met and ridden many, many good racehorses. Some of them had been stakes winners, even. But this horse . . .

  My goodness. She rested her palms on top of the stall’s half-door. This horse had a magical quality about him that called to the dreamer in her and made her heart beat faster. “What’s his story?”

  “He’s five years old now.”

  A stallion, then. Too old to be called a colt. “Did he begin his racing career at two?” Most horses did.

  “He’s a unique situation. He was immature at two.”

  “So you started racing him at three?”

  “I tried to campaign him at three and at four without success. I pulled him both times.”

  Lyndie wrinkled her brow and slanted a look up at Jake.

  “He has all the hallmarks I look for in a horse,” he said. “He was born at Whispering Creek, and his breeding represents the best of what Bo and I have been trying to do. He’s sound. His immune system is solid.”

  “But?”

  “He won’t run.” For a man filled with shadows, Jake’s hazel eyes regarded her with unusual brightness. “During a race, he gallops at the back, and no one can make him go faster than he wants to.”

  Lyndie studied Silver Leaf. Barns all across America housed Thoroughbreds that couldn’t or wouldn’t run. Even if a horse had been purchased for hundreds of thousands of dollars, if he or she lacked the ingredient Lyndie thought of as heart, then that horse would never achieve glory on the track. A horse had to have the will to win.