The Edge Of Courage

Mandy made a face. “Hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we can find a recycler to take it.”

“There’s an artist in Cheyenne who uses scrap metal for her sculptures. She’ll take it.”

Mandy cocked her head, giving him a curious look. “How do you know her?”

The sculptor had come to the shelter looking for day laborers. He’d helped her out for a couple of days. No way was he going to tell Mandy that. He shrugged. “I just ran into her.”

“If she wants it, then that would be great.” Again, she gave him a questioning look. “Have you eaten today?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Rocco leveled a hard look at her. “Giving Kit daily updates?”

She gave him a half smile. “If I don’t call him, he calls me. He’s like a mother hen. Worse, really.” She met his gaze, her eyes searching his. “You must mean a lot to him.”

Rocco sighed and shifted his gaze to the mountains behind her. “Tell him I had a good day. That’s all that really matters, isn’t?” He looked at her. “Day by day?” He nodded toward the garden wagon. “Need a hand with that?”

“No. Good night, Rocco.”

“Night, Mandy.” He started toward the toolshed, but looked over at her. “Hey-next time you talk to him, ask him when Blade’s coming home.”

She frowned. “I will. Is Ty okay?”

He shook his head. “Took a bullet in his leg.”

* * *

Rocco got to work first thing in the morning instead of starting out with a run. It was best to vary his routine, especially if someone was watching the ranch. The sun was already burning off the morning’s chilly air. Truthfully, he was looking forward to another day’s hard work. After tinkering with the baler for a few hours last night, he’d actually gotten a few good hours of sleep before the nightmares came.

He fetched Kitano’s feed from the bag Mandy stored in the toolshed, then refilled his water bucket. The Paint was hard to look at, thin as he was. Rocco didn’t linger at the corral-Kitano wouldn’t come near his food while he was there.

He was gathering the tools he’d need to work on the fence when Mandy came into the shed. “Oh! You’re up early,” she greeted him.

“So are you.” He strapped on an old tool belt. Mandy’s gaze dropped to the worn leather around his hips. Whoever had owned the belt previously was quite a bit heavier. Rocco had to tighten it several inches from the worn hole on the strap. “Hope you don’t mind my using the belt-”

“It was my grandfather’s.”

Rocco went still, part of the strap in his hand as he looked at Mandy from under the brim of his hat. “I can use something else.”

“No. It’s fine. If you need it, use it.” She went to fill Kitano’s feed bucket.

“I already fed him.”

She flashed a surprised look at him. “You did?”

He shoved a pair of pliers, a hammer, and pair of wire cutters into the tool belt. “Just doin’ my job, boss.” He grabbed a pair of heavy gloves, then touched a finger to his hat brim. Sunlight spilled over him as he stepped from the shade of the toolshed, heating his back and arms as he pushed the wheelbarrow over to the pasture.

Moving from post to post, he rolled the old rusted wire up, leaving the pieces as long as possible. The artist preferred it that way. When it became almost too heavy to carry, he cut the wire and bound the end, leaving the coil at the fence post. The work was simple and repetitive, yet he had to stay focused on it to keep from letting the barbs nick his skin.

At the end of the day, he’d barely made a dent in the amount of wire that needed to be removed. Even so, it felt like another good day. He was tired and sore, but he’d stayed present, stayed on task. He took the day’s last wheelbarrow load to the back of the toolshed where he was gathering the coils and unloaded it, then put his tools away and wearily made his way to the bunkhouse.

He planned to take a shower, then open a can of tuna or something for dinner. He had no appetite, but he knew he needed to eat-and not only to appease Kit. He had to keep his strength up. If he ate small amounts, it wouldn’t nauseate him. And it wouldn’t remove him very far from the hunger he needed near at hand.

Mandy carried a tray with Rocco’s dinner down to his cabin that evening with the same resolute determination she used in handling Kitano. She knew getting Rocco to eat would be a fight, but she was nothing if not stubborn. He never joined her for meals and very little had been consumed from the bunkhouse kitchen in the few days he’d been there. She crossed the porch and knocked on his door, the tray balanced on one hip. The door opened.

Rocco stood there in his white T-shirt and jeans. He’d taken his shirt and boots off. She’d probably caught him right before a shower. Embarrassment froze her tongue but didn’t keep her eyes from wandering across his chest to the lean, well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was bigger than he looked fully clothed.

“Boss,” he greeted her, no welcome in his voice.

“I brought your dinner.” She pushed past him and set it on the table. When he reached out to lift the lid covering the plate, she saw the livid cut on his knuckles. “Good heavens! What did you do?” she gasped, lifting his hand for a closer look.

He pulled quickly away. “I cut it. No big deal.”

“Did you cut it on the barbed wire?” The hostile look he gave her was her only answer. “Rocco! You might need stitches. And a Tetanus shot.”

“I’m just out of the Army. All my shots are current.” His cut was trivial. He’d been careless, letting a barb nick him. The damned thing had snagged in his glove and cut a trench across a couple of knuckles. He wasn’t worried about it-he’d had worse.

She took hold of his arm and marched him toward the bathroom, which she’d stocked with a first-aid kit. She flipped on the faucet, then washed and rinsed her hands. She lathered up again, then drew his hand under the water and gently spread the foam over his skin.

Rocco watched her hands move against his. They were so much smaller than his, long-fingered, tipped with slim crescent moons for nails. He was touching her. Finally. He tried to savor the moment, tried to ignore the growing waves of nausea his fear of being touched caused.

Mandy turned off the water. She grabbed a towel and pressed lightly around his hand. When she pulled the towel away, fresh blood welled into the cut. Rocco watched the blood rise, red pooling in the gouged skin. His hand seemed far away, as if he looked at it through a tunnel.

He could smell the smoke. Motorcycles and a truck were burning. As were the ancient homes of the village. Women were screaming. God, the wailing. Someone pulled at him, shouting something. The stench underlying the smoke curled into his nostrils, a sweet poison.

He yanked free of the hands gripping him. He shouted in Pashto for them to leave him alone. He tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t get any clear air. He gulped for a breath again. He kept his eyes closed, refused to look around. Didn’t want to see what he knew he would see. He covered his ears, blocking the screams, the roaring flames. His own sobs. Nausea hit him like a fist, blasting the air from his lungs. He doubled over. He couldn’t breathe.

“Rocco?” A voice called to him. “Rocco? Are you okay?”

It didn’t fit, that voice, that question. No one knew his real name. He looked up, letting his eyes focus briefly. An angel stood before him. A fucking angel. Shit. Was he dead? Bile rose violently. He made it to the toilet and retched dry heaves. He’d eaten some, but not much since he got here. There was nothing but spit to come up.

“Rocco? What’s happening?”

He looked at the angel. She knew him. Had he fallen back to English? Had he blown his cover? Christ, where was he?

“Get out,” he ordered, but the angel ignored him. She picked up a washcloth, ran it under the tap, then wrung out the extra moisture. She touched the cold fabric to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.