Depths of Lake (2 page)

I lunge Trooper in the arena for twenty minutes until he’s good and warmed up.
 
I walk him over to the tack room and tie him up.
 
We work on getting a blanket and a saddle on him for about an hour and by the time we’re through, he’s let me do up both cinches.
 

This is huge progress.

He gets a good brushing when he’s done and I take him to his stall.
 
Trapper gets the same workout, but the condensed version.
 
I don’t want to overexert him, considering his condition.

Next up is Lady.
 
She’s tiny and adorable.
 
Her coloring is similar to Radio’s, but her cream is a bit darker than his.
 
She’s a POA, a Pony of America.
 
She’s a bit overweight.
 
Her owners let her out to pasture every day, and fed her hay, and gave her oats twice a day.
 
The owners have three young daughters who are dying to ride her, but she’s strong-willed and needs a firm hand.

Once I’m done training her, I’ll start giving the girls riding lessons.

It isn’t something I do often.
 
I’m not a people person, and I’m horrible about telling people what to do.
 
Horses are simple.
 
I know how to listen to them, and I know how to make them do what I want them to do.
 
People are different.
 
They’re harder.

But it’s really hard to say no to such adorable little girls who just want to learn to ride a horse.

So I’m trying extra hard with Lady.

I let Chico and Bear follow us everywhere as I work with her.
 
They know to keep away from her feet, they’ve both been stepped on before, but they race around us, then they watch from the fence.
 
They’re my constant companions.
 
And they’re great for teaching a horse to not be freaked out by distraction.

Finally, when it’s six o’clock, just before Mom returns home and we’ll make some dinner with whatever she just bought, I take a few stolen minutes and lead Radio out of his stall.
 
He nibbles the back of my shirt as we head for the tack room.
 
I don’t bother tying him up to the hitching post; he’ll stand still for me.

The leather of my saddle is worn and soft.
 
My fingers rub over the tooling in the back, carved there by my dad’s unpracticed hands.
 
There’s an infinity symbol, with our names inside each loop.
 
It isn’t exactly pretty or perfect, by my eyes got teary all the same when he gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.

After cinching Radio up, I slip his bridle on, the bit sliding into his mouth.
 
I loop the reins over the horn and hoist myself up into the saddle.
 
My boots slide into the stirrups, and I direct Radio to the arena.

I’m grateful the ground is starting to dry up.
 
Our covered practice area is good sized, but the moisture in the air combined with the horse smells and dust is enough to choke you.
 
It also feels oddly like heaven.

I let Radio walk around the outskirts of the arena to warm up.
 
The next loop he trots.
 
The next loop he lopes, and the final one I let him all out sprint.

He moves beneath me, powerful and strong.
 
Our rhythms sync and we know how to move together.
 
A horse is a beast of muscle and speed, and you can’t help but feel powerful too when you’re on the back of one.

I run Radio through some exercises, take him over the jumps, we do poles, practice backing up.

I did riding groups when I was younger, competed in events.
 
We did okay, won once, and got pretty good.
 
I don’t have anything that I’m practicing for anymore; Radio and I don’t do anything more exotic and exciting than going on mountain trail rides.
 
But it’s in my blood to practice, to keep the both of us in top shape.

So we ride nearly every day.

I’ve sprinted Radio hard around the arena, the final burst of energy before I cool him down, so when we slow, we’re both windswept and breathing hard.
 
I pull his reins, signaling for him to take it down to a walk.

It’s when we loop around to face the house again that I see him.

There is a man standing on the far edge of the arena.
 
His forearms are against the panel, he stands relaxed and observant.
 
He’s a big guy.
 
Even from this distance I can see the width of his arms, the broadness of his shoulders.
 
He’s tall, too.
 
I’d make a guess at six foot three or four.

He wears worn out jeans and a faded gray jacket.
 
He’s wearing aviator sunglasses.

But it’s obvious he’s watching me.
 
And I haven’t a clue as to who he is.

Radio walks casually and without fear.
 
He’s used to new people stopping by James Ranch.
 
Clients come and go.

“Can I help you?” I call when we get closer.
 
I was
right,
he’s a big, tall guy.
 

He stands up straight, and there’s something in his expression that I can’t peg as sadness or dread or regret.
 
And I don’t know why it’s there.

“There was a sign out front that said James Ranch, so I’m assuming I’m at the right place,” he says.
 
His voice is deep and slow, like he’s thought about each word before it comes out.

“This is the place,” I say, my eyes never leaving him.
 
Radio stops in front of him, and I slide off his back.
 
I pat his hindquarters and he keeps walking around the outskirts of the arena.

“You Riley?” he asks.
 
He slips his sunglasses off.
 
His eyes are hazel—
more green
on the inside, more brown on the outside—his brows pulled together slightly.
 
He seems uncomfortable, worried.

“I am,” I answer.
 
I pull my gloves off and tuck them in my back pocket.
 
I rest my forearms on the panel.
 
“What can I help you with?”

The stranger raises a hand, running it through his short brown hair.
 
His eyes are locked on mine, and he delays answering for several very long moments.

Those eyes, they’re deep, and guarded, complicated.

“My name is Lake McCain, and your fiancé, Cal Richards, was my best friend.”

He says Cal’s name, and my heart sinks into my stomach.
 
I can feel all the warmth drain from my face.
 
My weight shifts back onto the heel of my feet, like this revelation might knock me right over.

“We served three tours together, including this last one,” Lake continues.
 
His voice sounds thick, like there’s something knotted in his throat.
 

There’s certainly something in mine.

The date didn’t disappear from my mind, just because Cal died.
 
He was supposed to get home from his last tour yesterday.
 
We were going to spend this summer planning the wedding and then get married September fifth.

Lake is looking at me like he’s expecting me to say something.
 
But what is there to say?

“I, uh,” he says when I can’t find any words.
 
It’s plain to see how hard this is for him, whatever it is he’s trying to say or do.
 
“I just got home yesterday.
 
It was my last tour, so I came home.”

He bites the inside of his lower lip, his eyes on the ground.
 
He slips his hands into his back pockets.
 
With the motion, it pulls his jacket back across his wide chest.
 
And exposes his dog tags.

“I remember your name,” I say.
 
My throat is tight and it’s hard to talk.
 
“Cal, uh, he talked about you sometimes.
 
Said you were the best soldier he’d ever served with.
 
Said you were kind of an ass sometimes, but that you were a good guy.”

The barest
hints of a smile pulls
on one side of his mouth, but his eyes are just sad and tired.
 
They dart up to mine once, before dropping to the ground again.

“Yeah, uh, Cal talked about you a lot,” he says, and leaves it at that.

He’s quiet again for a while.
 
He gives his head a little shake and clears his throat.

“What are you doing here, Lake?” I ask.
 
I stand straight and cross my arms over my chest.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and then folds his arms over his wide chest, too.
 
“You know Cal was killed by an IED six months ago,” he says.
 
I feel his eyes rise up to mine, but I can only stare at his dog tags.

Cal’s parents were called first.
 
They called me a few hours later.

I didn’t resurface for about a month.

My fiancé, the man I was going to marry and spend the rest of my life with, was dead.

“There were four of us that got out of the Humvee,” Lake continues.
 
“We were supposed to scout out this area.
 
We were looking for al-Qaeda leaders that might be hiding.
 
It was supposed to be a low risk
operation,
they weren’t really expecting them to be there.”

He has to clear his throat again.

I’ve heard this story before.

“Cal saw the IED first.
 
I was in front of him, so was our buddy.
 
But neither of us saw it.
 
I thought Cal was just messing around when he shoved us out of the way.
 
Me
and that other guy, we both hit the ground hard.
 
But Cal, he was standing there in front of us.
 
And then the damn thing went off.”

Boom.

I’ve seen it in my nightmares often.
 
I’ve never been to Iraq, and all I’ve seen are the images on the news.
 
But the imagination can be a treacherous thing.

“I owe Cal my life,” he says.
 
His voice is really rough now.
 
“I’d be dead if he hadn’t done what he did.
 
So would that other guy.
 
So, I, uh, I guess I just came here to say thank you.
 
And to say I’m sorry for what happened.
 
It’ll never be enough, but I have to say it.
 
He was like a brother to me.”

I have to swallow twice, just to try and breathe again.
 
I knew this before.
 
I knew about the IED, I knew about the scouting mission.
 
I knew there were others in the company and that Cal saved them.

I never expected to have to face one of them, though.

It’s hard to look at Lake.

Cause if Cal hadn’t been the hero, he’d still be alive and Lake would be the one who got shipped back to the States in an urn because there were too many little pieces to put in a proper box.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.
 
“And I’m sorry for coming here and ripping open old wounds, but I just had to say it.”

I give a little nod.
 
“Thank you,” I get out.

My eyes rise up to his and he holds them for a long moment.
 
There’s a lot of pain there.
 
Pain you can only understand when you lose someone you love.
 
It’s there in his eyes; Lake did love Cal like a brother.

He gives a little nod of his head and starts to turn.
 
I finally notice the beat-down truck behind him.

“I hope things get easier,” he says without looking at me.
 
“I wish you a good life.”

He puts his hand on the handle and pulls the driver’s side door open.

“Lake,” I say, my voice cracking just a bit.
 
He looks back at me, his eyebrows raised slightly.
 
“Thank you for your service.”

He just looks at me for a moment and finally, gives me one more nod.

Just as he slips into his seat, Mom pulls up in her truck.
 
She loaded up.
 
I can see the back is totally stocked with supplies.

As she pulls up to the side of Lake’s truck, she rolls her window down and flashes him a warm smile.

“Hi there,” she says.
 
Lake hesitantly climbs back out of the truck and walks over to her.
 
I give a big sigh and open the gate and walk out.
 
“I didn’t realize we had anyone stopping by today.
 
Hope I didn’t let any appointments slip my mind.”