In fact, he’d helped all around the place in between shifts at the orchard. He’d peeled off old wallpaper, hauled out broken furniture, carried in replacement mattresses.
And all the while, his ties had deepened—to this house and this town and the four friends who’d somehow burrowed past his reserve. His team back in D.C. operated on camaraderie and trust in each other’s skills. But these friendships back home? They went deeper.
So why was he so set on returning to D.C.? So needled at the thought that Flagg might not want him back?
Because after having been so sure at one time that he’d squandered and spoiled any opportunity to serve his country, his work with Bridgewell, high-risk and secretive as it was, had given him an undeserved second chance. He owed all his loyalty and dedication to the company, to Flagg.
He opened a dresser drawer, pausing as his gaze lifted to the mirror above. The B&B wasn’t the only thing that had transformed during his six months here. Weeks of work outside had bronzed his skin and his dusty brown hair was longer and wavier than ever. Just because he could, he always went two or three days without shaving when he was off the company clock. But more significantly, gone were the shadows under his eyes, the gauntness in his cheeks he always brought home from missions.
Flagg came up beside him. “You haven’t been to see Clayborne in some time.”
His therapist. The one Flagg had insisted he begin meeting with after he’d first recruited him. He met Flagg’s eyes in the mirror. “If you’re worried my actions in Venezuela were some kind of PTSD-induced brain malfunction, don’t. That’s been under control for a long time. I simply saw an opening and made a split-second decision. I’m sorry if it was the wrong one, but we completed the assignment.”
He reached behind his head to free his hair from its limp ponytail before pulling a clean shirt from his dresser drawer. Jenessa would lecture him for being late, and he would take it like he always did—with quiet amusement and no small degree of gratitude.
Because in a town filled with people who still only saw him as the hometown kid who couldn’t make good, who’d shamed his family and his country, Jen and the others were his saving grace.
“Art?” His voice went low as he dropped the shirt, turned. Flagg had perched on the edge of his bed. “Why haven’t you ever asked me why I deserted?”
Everyone else had. The MPs who’d finally hauled him back to the States for his court-martial in 2008. The JAG who’d been assigned to his case. The reporters who’d dragged his name through the headlines after the military tribunal had sentenced him to three years in prison, longer than any American deserter since Vietnam.
And Dad. Career Army man himself, he’d done more prodding than anyone. Had demanded an explanation the moment Lucas stepped onto the tarmac upon his return. No hug. No handshake.
But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Lucas’s mother had died when he was only a toddler. It would’ve been nice if his remaining parent had at least tried to fill in the gaps. But instead Dad had let other relatives care for Lucas and Kit for several years before bringing them to their grandparents in Iowa and returning to his base. They saw less and less of him throughout their teenage years.
“I did ask,” Flagg countered. “That first day I came to see you in prison.”
“No, you asked me if I had a good reason. You never asked what the reason was.”
“Well, you said you did. That was enough for me. Besides, I knew you were only two years out of high school when you went AWOL. I knew about the IED. I knew . . . about the boy.”
Tashfeen.
Just the name hovering at the edges of his mind was enough to make him twist away.
Don’t think about Dad. Don’t think about Tashfeen. He slipped one hand under the sleeve of the opposite arm, scraped his fingers over the mottled skin.
“They still bother you?”
Lucas closed his eyes, scratched the other arm.
“How about the nightmares?”
Lucas shrugged, forced his eyes open. He crossed the room to the window and opened it, wished the fresh air and the rural landscape and this place he’d come to love could work some kind of magic. Make him forget. Just for a while. The wind rustled, bending the limber branches of a row of young, scrawny trees below.
Years ago, when the nightmares had first begun, he’d tried praying them away. But his faith had proven as fragile as his honor.
Flagg rose and came to stand beside him once more. He placed his palm on Lucas’s shoulder. “I do have an assignment for you, son. I’ll tell you right off the bat, you’re probably not going to like it. But I want you to take it on and take it seriously.”
Son. It was the second time Flagg had called him that. Lucas would do just about anything for Flagg. The man had to know that.
“Someone else is on his way to Iowa. Name’s Noah Johannson. Twenty-seven. Medically discharged last fall and he’s not happy about it. Got in some legal trouble over the winter.”
Lucas turned away from the window. “Another one of your not-so-lost causes?” It was the phrase he’d used on Lucas when he’d come to the prison to see him. Back when Lucas had been wasting away in his shame, so painfully sure the only thing waiting for him on the horizon was a future of disgrace.
“He needs a change of scenery. Some time to consider his options.” Flagg held his focus captive. “Needs a mentor.”
Wait . . . no. “Sir, I’m the last person—”
“I want you to spend the next four or five weeks with him. Already reserved him a room across the hall. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“What? What am I supposed to—”
“Take him under your wing. Swap Army stories. Give him a realistic view of what signing on with Bridgewell means.” Flagg leaned against the dresser behind him. “Maybe test his mettle a little. I’ll check in with you periodically, see how it’s going.”
“But, sir—”
“This is the assignment, Lucas. Complete it with the same focus you’ve completed every other mission and come November, we’ll talk about your return to D.C.”
In other words, his future with Bridgewell Elite depended on this. On playing big brother to a stranger.
“Now,” Flagg said, clapping his palms together and crossing the room, “where’s a man get something to eat in a town like this?”
“I vote if Lucas doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, one of us drives over to the orchard and drags him here.”
Jenessa flopped onto the lawn chair closest to the stone fireplace at the edge of the patio. With the lights and candles and Congratulations banner, she’d pulled off a nice little celebration if she did say so herself. Even the weather was cooperating, dusk just beginning to paint the sky in autumn colors—streaks of red and amber and yellow. As long as those pillowy gray clouds in the distance managed to stay away.
Mara and Marshall had arrived half an hour ago, expecting to pick up Jenessa and head downtown for dinner out. Instead, she’d coaxed them through the house and out to the patio, where the surprise engagement party awaited—only their small friend group since Lucas had talked her out of her original plan of a larger, grander shindig in the town square. Paige hadn’t even stuck around, so it was just the four of them so far.