Ring of Fire (3 page)

In the first weeks after the explosion, and during all those painful surgeries, he'd assumed the flashbacks would go away once he got stronger. But that wasn't happening.

Some soldiers denied having PTSD and avoided seeking help, fearing it would jeopardize their careers or make them seem weak. Eric got that, totally. The only ones who knew about his problem were the members of his rehab team. He'd chosen not to participate in the Operational Stress Injury Social Support Program, a peer support service run by the Armed Forces and Veterans Affairs. But he wasn't in denial either. If a soldier had a health issue—physical or mental—that wasn't under control, that soldier could jeopardize the lives of his or her fellow soldiers. No way in hell was Eric doing that. So he had to fix the fucking PTSD. He was seeing a psychologist here in Caribou Crossing, along with a physiotherapist.

A couple of days ago, his physio, Monique, had set up a meeting in her office. In addition to her and the psychologist, Karim, she had Skyped in the physiatrist at the rehabilitation center in Toronto who had overseen Eric's rehab program since he'd returned to Canada. The man was also Monique's former boss, and the one who had recommended her when Eric had said he didn't want to spend the rest of his rehab time hanging out in a big city.

At the meeting, to Eric's surprise, the three health care professionals had recommended riding lessons. They told him it was a kind of cross-training that could have numerous benefits, both physically and psychologically.

When Eric said that he couldn't see how riding a horse around in a circle would be anything but a waste of time, Karim had pointed out that all Eric's running, weight-pumping, swimming, and rock wall climbing had yet to combat his PTSD.

Eric had shaken his father's voice out of his head and asked skeptically, “And how is learning to ride going to help me?”

Karim had given him a serene smile and said, “Overanalysis is not the most productive way to reap the benefits. Trust us, Eric. We are your team, like the soldiers you have served with. We have your best interests at heart. Trust in the process.”

Karim was too touchy-feely for Eric's taste, but the team concept resonated and the army had “trust in the process” experiences such as boot camp. And so Eric had agreed to try riding.

He'd assumed the lessons would be private because, as a soldier and a superachiever, he tended to outpace regular folks. However, his team had recommended that he be paired with another person: a young man who had cerebral palsy and had been taking lessons for a couple of months.

Hell, he'd try anything that might rid him of the flashbacks that could hit out of the blue, like when a car backfired or when he smelled smoke.

Eric pulled into the parking lot at Ryland Riding, at a distance from the two other vehicles, a blue Toyota Sienna minivan and a well-worn white Ford truck. From the driver's seat, he surveyed the layout of the place. When he found himself assessing potential threats, he whacked himself upside the head and muttered, “Christ, man, let it go. It's not Afghanistan. It's Caribou Crossing.”

The sight that greeted his eyes was pretty benign, if he could convince himself to accept it at face value. He saw a large wooden barn; a young woman in jeans and a cowboy hat tying the reins of a small gray horse and a big dark brown one to a hitching rail; two wooden-railed riding rings, one larger and one smaller. The woman in the hat glanced up, waved, and then walked toward the barn door. A brown braid hung down her back, over a gray sweatshirt.

He climbed out of the Jeep, moving easily and confidently with his real left leg and prosthetic right one. That damned fire had been a setback since he'd had to work with a substitute prosthesis until a new high-tech one had been fabricated for him, but now he was fully fit again.

He'd had his share of setbacks from the beginning. It seemed each time he'd started to heal, some other bit of crap inside one of his legs would cause an infection to flare up, and he'd have to go under the knife again. Two steps forward, one step back—that was how it had gone—but he'd forged ahead with determination.

If only that same determination could get him past the PTSD, but despite everything he'd tried, he'd seen little improvement in the flashbacks for the past year.

He had to fix the problem, and he would. His mettle was up to the task.

As he crossed the parking lot, he heard a woman's voice. When he rounded the back of the minivan, he saw the speaker. She was tall, maybe six foot, just a couple of inches shorter than he was. Square shoulders; a soldier's build; strong and fit. Short black hair. Jeans; a long-sleeved tan shirt; sturdy shoes. She was talking to a boy perhaps nine or ten years old, who sat in a wheelchair. Clad in jeans and a tee, he had a riding helmet on his lap. The pair were in profile to Eric. They were so focused on each other that they didn't notice him.

Not wanting to interrupt, he was about to continue on and walk past them when he caught the woman's words. “I know you're excited about having this man share the lesson, but you need to focus on your own riding and give the guy some space. And remember, don't ask him about his leg. It's rude.”

What the hell? Was this kid his classmate? Monique had referred to, “a young man with cerebral palsy,” and Eric had imagined someone in his early twenties. Had Monique misled him deliberately, figuring—perhaps rightly—that he wouldn't agree to take lessons with a child?

A kid in a wheelchair. Even though Eric had never ridden before, how hard could it be? He'd be riding circles around the boy before the first hour was out.

This was crazy. And yet hadn't he resolved to try anything?

Being polite and pretending he hadn't overheard the woman, he resumed his course toward the barn.

She glanced up and turned to face him. “Hello. You're Jayden's new classmate.”

He stopped walking. “I guess I am. Hello.”

Her short hair was cut in an attractive style that accentuated a face with walnut-colored skin, strong cheekbones, a straight nose, and a firm jaw. Long, black lashes fringed lovely dark brown eyes. He'd bet she had Native Canadian blood. She wore no makeup that he could see, and she was beautiful without it—if a guy liked a striking woman rather than a pretty one, which he just happened to. He narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar about those calm, confident eyes....

It hit him. “Oh, crap. You're the firefighter.”

As she nodded, the boy said, “She's the chief! And you said a bad word.”

The chief. Pretty impressive. He glanced at the kid. “Sorry about the cussing.” Then he squared his shoulders and faced the woman again. How humiliating. Here she was, a fire chief, and she'd seen him at his weakest: a one-legged soldier who couldn't save himself from a burning building. Gruffly, he said, “I owe you my life, ma'am.”

“Mom? Mom?” the boy demanded.

She didn't turn to her son, but instead said to Eric, “It's my job.” She paused, and then added evenly, “I'd guess that's something you know a lot about, soldier.” Her eyes were as dark and rich as strong black coffee as they gazed steadily into his own, and maybe beyond. He didn't read pity. Nor judgment. And he felt something so unfamiliar he had trouble recognizing it. Could it be . . . peace?

The boy's voice broke in again. “Mom? You saved his life?”

She gave the kid a quick smile. “It was no big deal.”

No big deal, except that Eric might well have died but for her toting him out of the flames. Guessing she didn't want to emphasize the dangerous nature of her work in front of her son, he said, “Well, I'm very grateful all the same, ma'am. If there's ever anything I can do for you, let me know.”

“You could stop calling me ‘ma'am' for a start. You make me feel older than the hills. My name's Lark.”

He had to grin. She was a long way off old. “Sorry. Military habit.”

“You're a civilian now.”

His shoulders tensed. “No, ma'am. I mean Lark.” He refused to accept any identity other than that as a soldier, even if he was currently on Leave Without Pay. During the initial stages of his rehabilitation, he had served at Land Force Central Area in Toronto. He'd been in pain, limping, had needed another surgery, was trying out a prosthetic leg that hadn't worked well for him. Other soldiers had eyed him with pity or avoided him as if amputation was contagious—or a reminder that something bad could happen to any of them. He'd toughed it out, grown steadily stronger, then gradually come to the realization that the thing holding him back was PTSD.

The last thing he wanted on his record was a medical assessment saying he wasn't combat ready. Instead, he'd requested, and been granted, LWOP. The Armed Forces still covered his medical expenses and God knows he'd saved up enough money over the years, even on a soldier's low rate of pay, to cover his minimal living expenses and devote all his time and energy to rehab. “I'm still a soldier, and I'll be returning to duty soon.”

“Oh.” Her brows rose. “I didn't realize.”

“I'm Jayden,” the boy announced firmly, obviously fed up with being ignored.

Eric turned to him. “I'm Eric. Nice to meet you, Jayden.” Not knowing the boy's capabilities, he didn't hold out his hand.

The kid did, though, and Eric shook it carefully. The boy's grip was weak, but he made up for that with enthusiasm.

“I've been riding for two months!” Jayden said. His speech was just slightly slurred, but still easily comprehensible. “I was kind of nervous the first time, but it's so much fun! Sally's the best teacher and I canhelpyoutooand—”

“Jayden.” Lark's voice cut in firmly. “Slow down.”

Eric bit back a smile.

The kid, who was pretty cute with his little-boy tumble of dark brown hair and his wide, sparkly brown eyes, said, “Sorry.” He grinned engagingly. “When I get excited, sometimes I forget to e-nun-ci-ate.”

Hard to resist that grin, and the boy's enthusiasm. The kid was a charmer. “When I get excited, sometimes I forget to breathe,” Eric told him. Of course the kind of excitement he was talking about—like facing perils in a war zone—was completely different from what young Jayden meant.

“Hello there!” a female voice called.

Eric looked up to see two women in cowboy hats walking toward them. One of them, only a couple inches shorter than Lark, was the woman with the braid. She held a riding helmet. The other, a few years older, had reddish blond hair curling around her face. Her smile was friendly with a touch of reserve as she said, “Eric, it's nice to meet you. I'm Sally.”

Sally Ryland, the owner of this place. They'd spoken on the phone, firming up the details for today's lesson.

“Nice to meet you, too.” He held out his hand.

Her handshake was firm and professional.

“And this is Corrie, my assistant.” Sally gestured with her left hand, and light glittered off a band of small diamonds around her ring finger.

Eric held out his hand to the taller woman. “Hi, Corrie.”

“Hi, Eric. Welcome to Ryland Riding.” She, too, gave his hand a strong shake, and then handed him the riding helmet.

The only person he hadn't shaken hands with was Lark, yet she was the one he was drawn to. Attracted to. Just standing close to her sent a not-unpleasant buzz of awareness through his blood.

And that was crazy. In all likelihood, she was married; the absence of a ring on her left hand was probably due to her line of work. Besides, what healthy, attractive woman would be interested in a beat-up guy like him with a stump for one leg and a bunch of ugly scars on the other? Not to mention a case of PTSD that had him falling out of bed in the middle of the night and hitting the ground when he smelled smoke?

Chapter Three

Lark watched from the side of the smaller of the two riding rings as Jayden walked Pookie, a small gray mare, in a circle. Corrie held the horse's lead rein, but loosely, as a precaution rather than to guide the horse. It was Jayden who was directing the mare's movement. He'd come so far in just two months.

During the first lessons, Sally had ridden behind Jayden with her arms around him, keeping him steady and placing her hands on the reins along with his. He had protested about not being able to ride independently, but Sally and Monique had explained that the support was for his own safety—until he improved his strength, coordination, and balance. It was a plot of sorts.

Jayden had, all his life, been doing exercises. They were tedious and he often protested. Sometimes he had spurts of improvement, and sometimes he plateaued. A few months back, they'd hit a plateau and he'd been unmotivated and cranky. But then Monique had noticed him reading a book with a horse on the cover and she'd hit on the notion of therapeutic riding. As the therapy team had hoped, being on horseback had given a huge boost to Jayden's motivation and his development.

He'd taken to heart Sally's advice that a rider must be strong, yet flexible. At home he did extra sets of exercises and had added new ones, like manipulating reins tied to his bedpost.

He had soon progressed to riding alone in the saddle with two side walkers who kept a hand on his thigh or on the padded safety belt he wore, helping him keep his balance. As he grew stronger and more coordinated, the side walkers let go of him; they were only there in case he had a problem. Now, Sally only used side walkers when Jayden trotted Pookie, and the lead rein was rarely necessary either. More and more, Jayden was the one who communicated signals through his body and hands to the placid mare and guided her movements.

He was determined that he'd be able to ride “just like the other kids” eventually, and join one of Sally's regular classes. Sally had said that she believed the goal was achievable.

Although Lark tried to focus on her son in the ring, her gaze kept straying toward the new student. The guy with a sharp-planed face and short-cropped dark brown hair under his riding helmet. The one who looked mouthwateringly hot, even better up close than when she'd seen him out running. The man who'd almost bit her head off when she called him a civilian.

There was indeed something soldierlike about him. While Jayden had to work hard to keep his back moderately straight, Eric, atop a bay gelding named Celebration, went to the extreme. His rigid posture would be more suited to a dress uniform than to the faded jeans and tee he wore. Sally had twice told him to relax a little, to be more flexible and to let his body feel the motion of the horse and to harmonize with it rather than fight against it. Each time, he'd nodded and made a visible effort to obey, but when Lark glanced back at him a few minutes later, his muscles were tight again.

Was the tension a result of concentration as he figured out how to ride with one real leg and one partially prosthetic one, or was it a soldier thing? Or was it just a characteristic of Eric himself? She remembered thinking, back in Monique's office, that maybe the therapist hoped to get Eric to lighten up. It might take a small miracle.

Think positive,
she reminded herself. And in fact, she had seen a glimmer of light on Eric's face when they'd first met and he'd been talking to Jayden. Monique had commented that Jayden and Eric might be able to help each other. Lark was beginning to see how that might work, in terms of her son being a positive influence on the soldier. But what did the soldier have to offer her son? Hopefully, she would find out. If there was one thing she'd learned, first from the long journey to realize her childhood dream of being a firefighter, and then from having a child with CP, it was patience.

She studied the two students again. They were both in Western saddles, which had a big horn—a convenient handhold when needed. Jayden was making less and less use of the horn with each lesson. As for Eric, aside from gripping the horn when he'd mounted rather awkwardly, Lark didn't think he'd touched it. She wasn't sure if he honestly didn't need it, or if it was a point of macho pride.

Where Jayden held a rein in each hand to better assist with balance and the development of both sides of his body, Eric rode the typical Western way, with both reins held in one hand. Sally hadn't started him out on a lead rein either, and he certainly seemed to have no problem maintaining his seat and controlling the horse, whatever effort it might be costing him.

Sally was now talking to both riders about how to use multiple cues to tell their horses what they wanted, explaining that it was a complex kind of body language. She asked Jayden to use that language to take Pookie out of the circle and walk him across the ring to the opposite side while Eric kept Celebration from following.

Lark was proud of her son when he followed the instructions flawlessly without any help from Corrie and the lead rein.

Sally took the riders through a few similar maneuvers, and also had them do exercises in the saddle with their horses standing still. For these, Lark and Corrie stood on either side of Jayden as he leaned forward, leaned back, stretched his arms up high, touched one foot in its quick release stirrup, and then touched the other. For the latter, Sally told Jayden to hang on to the horn with one hand while he reached down with his free hand. He performed all the maneuvers without needing assistance.

Eric executed the exercises briskly, seeming impatient. Lark hadn't once seen him stroke his horse's neck or murmur to the animal as Jayden often did. The gelding could well have been a car for all the connection Eric seemed to feel.

The lesson had reached the halfway point. When Jayden had first started, they'd kept the lessons to half an hour, but a couple of weeks ago Sally had moved them to an hour, with a sequence in the middle of dismount, short break, and mount up again.

Eric dismounted first, from the right side of the horse. He was a little clumsy as he balanced his weight first in the right stirrup and then, after lifting his left leg over the saddle, on the mounting block.

It was the same side he'd mounted on, but it seemed Jayden hadn't noticed because now her son, still seated in his saddle, said, “That's the wrong side.”

Lark glanced at Sally, wondering who should explain. Sally gave a tiny head flick toward Eric, so Lark kept quiet.

Eric stepped from the mounting block to the ground. “My right leg's an artificial one. It bends pretty well, but it'd be a bit of a challenge slinging it over the back of a horse. From this side, I can put my fake leg in the stirrup, and it's my good leg that goes over the horse.”

Lark wondered how much of his right leg he'd lost. From what he'd said, she guessed the amputation was above his knee. Amazing that he intended to return to duty. She knew the Canadian Armed Forces had a policy of Universality of Service that required all personnel, no matter their current military occupation, to be able to perform the duties of a soldier—and that required a great deal of physical capability. Yes, Eric could run, but could he fight in combat with only one leg? Points to him for determination, but was his goal realistic?

With Corrie's help, Jayden positioned his own horse by the mounting block. The assistant stood by the mare, holding her to ensure she stayed still. Lark moved to her son's right, and Sally stood to his left. In the beginning, they had just hauled him on and off the horse, but he was learning to do it on his own. Lark helped him get his right leg over, and Sally steadied him as he eased down and balanced on both legs. She then helped him sit on the mounting block while Corrie led Pookie away.

Jayden no longer had to go into his wheelchair; he could now sit, at least for a short period, without back support.

“How about you?” Sally asked Eric. “Want to sit down?”

He pulled off his riding helmet, shook his head, and shifted his weight restlessly from one foot to the other. “I'm good. Actually, if we're going to be a few minutes, maybe I'll go for a run down the road and back.”

“You can run?” Jayden piped up. “On an ar-ti-fi-cial leg?”

“Sure can.”

“Jayden,” Lark said, “remember what I told you before we came?”

His bright, innocent eyes lifted to her face. “You told me lots of things. Like to be sure the chin strap on my helmet is tight.” He gave it a tug. “It is.”

She didn't trust that innocence for one moment. “I told you not to ask Eric—I mean, Mr. Weaver—”

“No,” Eric broke in. “For one thing, it's not Mr. Weaver, it's Major Weaver. But I figure Jayden and I should be on a first-name basis. If that's okay with you?”

“If that's what you want.” Gazing into his face—hard angles and planes, piercing smoke gray eyes, surprisingly sensual lips—she lost her train of thought for a moment. What
did
this man want? Was he all soldier, through and through, or was there more to him than that?

She gave a mental headshake and resumed speaking to her son. “Anyhow, I asked you not to say anything to Eric about his leg. It's rude. You know how you hate it when people ask you all those prying questions.”

Her son turned his puppy-dog eyes look on Eric. “I'm sorry, Eric.”

The man smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile, and for a moment Lark had a glimpse of the
more
that was inside Eric. “It's okay,” he told her son. “Tell you what, since we're riding buddies, I'll give you a special dispensation—”

“What's that?”

“It means a free pass,” Lark clarified.

“Right,” Eric said. “You can ask me one question and I won't think it's rude.”

The boy considered, then came out with his question. “Can I see it?”

Lark winced, but Eric only said, “You can. But I have to warn you, it's not pretty. It's mechanical. It doesn't look anything like a real leg.”

“Cool!”

Again, Eric smiled. “I can only show you the bottom part. The prosthesis starts at midthigh. For you to see the whole thing, I'd have to drop my pants, and I can't do that in the company of ladies.”

“They won't care,” Jayden said.

Lark glanced at Sally and Corrie, both of whose eyes met hers with a glint of humor. She guessed that they, like she, wouldn't mind one bit seeing more of Major Weaver's superfit body. Not that any of them was likely to admit to it out loud.

Wondering if Eric had noted their interest, she turned her gaze on him but he had bent down to tug the hem of his jeans leg upward. Above his boot—one with a good heel for riding—was a shaft that looked far too thin to support a grown man's weight. The denim bunched at his knee and he couldn't roll it any higher.

“Huh,” Jayden said. He didn't seem at all put off by the prosthesis, but nor was he impressed. “That's all? Just that stick thing?”

“It's called a pylon. And there's an artificial foot inside my boot, and I have an artificial knee, too. With a microprocessor—well, a computer—in it.”

“A computer in your knee? Wow!” The boy's eyes widened in awe. “Like Cyborg in
Teen Titans!
”

“Hey, give me a break. Most of me's real.” Fortunately, his joking tone indicated that he wasn't offended. “But the computer stuff is very cool. There are things called an accelerometer and a gyroscope, the same kind of technology used in some gaming systems. And I have this remote control device that I can program for different kinds of activities like running or driving.”

That really was pretty cool. Maybe Eric wasn't being unrealistic in thinking that he could return to the army.

“I want to see it,” her son demanded. “I want to see your computer knee.”

“Jayden,” Lark said. “That's enough.”

“But he said I got one question and I asked to see his leg, and I onlygottosee—”

“Jayden.” She cut him off. “Try acting more like a grown-up.”

Like any kid his age, he could get carried away, whine, be pretty much a brat. His CP didn't give him any special dispensation—to use Eric's apt term.

The boy pressed his lips together in a pout, but said, “I'm sorry.”

“That's okay,” Eric said. “And fair's fair. One day, when the ladies aren't around, I'll show you the whole leg. A soldier doesn't go back on his word.”

The pout transformed immediately into a smile. “Yay! Thank you.” He watched the man roll his jeans leg back down. “I'll give you one, too. A special disp . . . disp . . .”

“Call it a free pass,” Eric said.

“I want to learn the word. I have a little trouble with the muscles of my mouth and tongue, but I'm not stupid. I like to learn new words.”

Eric straightened again and studied Jayden. “I never thought you were stupid,” he said solemnly.

Lark's heart warmed to him. She liked the respect he showed her son.

“Okay then,” Eric said, “it's dispensation. Dis-pen-sa-tion.”

“Dis-pen-sa-tion. So, you can have a special dis-pen-sa-tion, too. You can ask me anything and I won't think you're rude.”

Curious, Lark watched Eric as he thought about that, his face giving nothing away. Then he said, “Why do you like riding?”

He hadn't asked about Jayden's CP. Another point to Eric.

“I love horses,” her son said enthusiastically. “I like getting stronger. And mostly, I like being out of my chair. It's like I'm normal.”

Lark winced. No matter how many times she, her mom, and members of the therapy team and school staff told Jayden he was special, that everyone was unique and special, what really mattered to the boy were the ways he differed from able-bodied kids his own age.