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  Then one day he’d gotten a call from his former CO to come over to Fort Bragg. It was the last place in the world for a one-armed former SEAL to be, but saying no to Lieutenant Commander Luke Altman wasn’t something a man did.

  Altman had met him at the gate, which was a real favor. It saved him having to kill every damn grunt who stared at the hooks sticking out of his shirt sleeve and gave him that you-ain’t-a-soldier-no-more look.

  “Got someone I want you to meet.”

  “I don’t need another goddamn therapist or perky wounded warrior volunteer to tell me how to live with myself.”

  Altman had merely looked over at him in that long, quiet way he had and Stan shut up. Altman took him to the SWCS dining hall. It was strange to be back on the JFK Special Warfare Center and School grounds and not be ragged from their typically brutal training scenarios. He hadn’t let himself go after getting released, but he hadn’t done a decent work-out either—not with one fucking hand. The month on his back had cost him a lot of muscle and the PT hadn’t really put it back on—weird to trade the military’s Physical Training acronym (or Puking Torture depending on who was leading the drill) in for medical’s Physical Therapy, which told him just how civilian he’d become.

  They grabbed trays and went down the line. Stan had learned enough about working his hooks to not need any help. Actually, having been left-handed before the injury, he was almost better with the hooks than with his clumsy right hand. It had become almost natural that when he extended his arm, or flexed his opposite shoulder, the two hooks separated and when he withdrew or relaxed they clamped together tight. Stan used them to load up on he didn’t care what and went to sit with another pair of civilians—the ex-military kind by the look of them.

  “Stan Corman. This is Mark Henderson and Emily Beale. Former Night Stalkers who founded the 5D.”

  Okay, that got Stan’s attention. The Night Stalkers Special Operations Aviation Regiment specialized in helicopter transport for soldiers like him—like he’d been. He’d flown with SOAR plenty of times, but never with the 5D. They were practically legendary and were always with the very top teams, Delta and DEVGRU. He hadn’t known one was a woman, but nothing surprised him about the 5D. If these were the founders… But shit! They were still intact. What was their goddamn excuse?

  “They,” Altman was still yammering, “have a place that they’re going to tell you about. His dad runs the ranch and Mac trained me back in the day. Stan, you’re going to shut up and listen.”

  Shutting up and listening had never been his top skill, but not arguing with his CO—former or otherwise—had been too ingrained, especially when it was SEAL Commander Luke Altman.

  And that meeting had led to him squatting naked in front of a woodstove at the far corner of Henderson’s Ranch in snowy April.

  The dawn had happened at some point while he watched and fed the fire. The purging by flame no longer beckoned to him, but its warmth didn’t comfort him either.

  He was never going to fit back in. His dog was gone. Two of his team also had been close enough that they’d gone home in a box. The other two had gone down in a hail of crossfire that filled two more boxes. Left for dead; he’d been the “lucky one.”

  The lucky one.

  No team. No unit. No longer a soldier. He’d lost fiancé, family, and town.

  There was no one who wanted him. No place he belonged. The dead end was staring him in the face and there was no reverse gear out of it. His future was bricked in as surely as the sides of the glowing iron box filled with ashes and fire. Who would give a shit if the flames did consume him? Easy answer. The future held noth—

  A knock sounded on the cabin door. The sudden sound where there shouldn’t be any sent him diving for cover behind the woodpile. All it earned him was a couple of splinters before he recovered and remembered where he was.

  Furious with himself for sliding back into the black hole of panic and depression, he strode to the door and reached for it with his stump, then yanked it open with his right hand and a snarl.

  Ama Henderson stood there with her horse tethered to the porch rail behind her. Mac’s wife was a tall, magnificent woman. Her skin was still dark and smooth, but her hair had turned that dark steel-gray that was so unique to her Cherokee heritage.

  “May I come in?”

  It was a several-hour ride from the main house to the cabin that they’d given him; a damned cold one. The sun…he’d lost time again. It was a couple of hours above the snowy horizon in the crystal blue that was a Montana winter sky.

  He held the door wider and the chill wind wrapped around him and reminded him that he was naked.

  “Shit! Excuse me.” He left Ama to close the door as he dragged on some clothes as well as he could. They were icy cold because he’d dropped them on the floor last night rather than on the chair by the stove. Without his arm on, it proved impossible to pull on underwear and pants.

  Hating it, he stood there naked and dragged on a t-shirt first. He couldn’t stand people seeing him put on his arm—not even the docs who’d fit it and trained him—but he had no choice. He found the thin cotton sock and pulled it up over his stump, careful to smooth out any wrinkles despite his haste. Then he unsnarled the harness, slipped his stump through one loop and into the socket of the prosthesis. With a practiced lean, he managed to get his good arm through the harness’ other loop on his first try, thank god, and shrug it on. Now able to control the spring action of the paired hooks, he was able to drag on underwear, socks, and pants. A heavy jacket against the still cool cabin—he hadn’t closed the woodstove’s door and damped the fire to get good heat from it—and then he jammed his feet into his boots, though he’d be damned if he’d demonstrate for anyone how clumsy he still was at lacing them.

  When he turned back, Ama was sitting at the small table looking down into a bundle she’d been carrying. Kind enough to offer him privacy while he struggled.

  “Sorry, Ama. Can I offer you some coffee?”

  He kicked the woodstove door shut, almost losing one of his unlaced boots into the fire in the process.

  “No. I have come to offer you something.”

  As he’d learned was typical with her, she didn’t say much but when she did, there was no point in either interrupting or attempting to hurry her to the point. So, he sat in the other chair and waited.

  She looked at him with her intensely dark eyes. “You have decided that you don’t want to stay at the main compound. I can respect that. There are times that a man must face his future alone. But there is also a time for that to end. My husband would leave you until spring to stew in your own thoughts. By then the pot will boil over. I do not choose to leave you so long.”

  He readied his protests that he wasn’t fit to be neighbor to man or beast. His screams alone as he rose from each night’s dreams were proof enough of that. What if they never ended? What would he do then?

  Apparently done with what she had to say, she stood and headed for the door leaving her bundle on the table.

  “Ama. I—” he called after her, but the bundle on the table moved. In the moment of his distraction, she was gone out the door. He knew that even if he rushed after her, she would somehow be gone, departing as quietly across the snow as she’d arrived.

  The bundle moved again.

  Then a nose stuck out the top.

  It sniffed the air once, twice, then the rest of the head emerged and the puppy turned to look at him. Its dark face wore the goofy grin that could only be a Malinois—the same breed as almost every war dog. The same breed as Lucy.

  Stan stared at it in horror, not even able to tear his eyes away to look at the door where Ama Henderson had left him.

  A dog.

  He couldn’t even care for himself; how was he supposed to care for a dog?

  The puppy yipped at him and he flinched.

  It wasn’t fair. He would end up killing it just as his one mistake had killed every other good thing around him.

&n
bsp; About the Author

  M.L. Buchman started the first of, what is now over 50 novels and as many short stories, while flying from South Korea to ride his bicycle across the Australian Outback. Part of a solo around the world trip that ultimately launched his writing career.

  All three of his military romantic suspense series—The Night Stalkers, Firehawks, and Delta Force—have had a title named “Top 10 Romance of the Year” by the American Library Association’s Booklist. NPR and Barnes & Noble have named other titles “Top 5 Romance of the Year.” In 2016 he was a finalist for Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA award. He also writes: contemporary romance, thrillers, and fantasy.

  Past lives include: years as a project manager, rebuilding and single-handing a fifty-foot sailboat, both flying and jumping out of airplanes, and he has designed and built two houses. He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife and is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing and receive a free starter e-library by subscribing to his newsletter at: www.mlbuchman.com

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  Also by M. L. Buchman

  The Night Stalkers

  Main Flight

  The Night Is Mine

  I Own the Dawn

  Wait Until Dark

  Take Over at Midnight

  Light Up the Night

  Bring On the Dusk

  By Break of Day

  White House Holiday

  Daniel’s Christmas

  Frank’s Independence Day

  Peter’s Christmas

  Zachary’s Christmas

  Roy’s Independence Day

  Damien’s Christmas

  and the Navy

  Christmas at Steel Beach

  Christmas at Peleliu Cove

  5E

  Target of the Heart

  Target Lock on Love

  Target of Mine

  Firehawks

  Main Flight

  Pure Heat

  Full Blaze

  Hot Point

  Flash of Fire

  Wild Fire

  Smokejumpers

  Wildfire at Dawn

  Wildfire at Larch Creek

  Wildfire on the Skagit

  Delta Force

  Main Flight

  Target Engaged

  Heart Strike

  Wild Justice

  Henderson’s Ranch

  Nathan’s Big Sky

  Love Abroad B&B

  Heart of the Cotswolds: England

  Where Dreams

  Where Dreams are Born

  Where Dreams Reside

  Where Dreams Are of Christmas

  Where Dreams Unfold

  Where Dreams Are Written

  Eagle Cove

  Return to Eagle Cove

  Recipe for Eagle Cove

  Longing for Eagle Cove

  Keepsake for Eagle Cove

  Deities Anonymous

  Cookbook from Hell: Reheated

  Saviors 101

  Dead Chef

  Swap Out!

  One Chef!

  Two Chef!

  SF/F Titles

  The Nara Reaction

  Monk’s Maze

  The Me and Elsie Chronicles

  Strategies for Success

  Managing Your Inner Artist / Writer

  Estate Planning for Authors

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  Copyright 2017 Matthew Lieber Buchman

  Published by Buchman Bookworks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.

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  Cover images: Silhouette of a soldier and a dog © Prazisss

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