It took swallowing some pride, but Wes accepted the money with a nod.
"I appreciate it," he said.
"I pay weekly, remember."
"Yes," Wes said as he pocketed the money. Then he took off his gloves and combed his ringers through his hair. "See you in an hour," he said, and headed for the bathroom to wash up.
Once again, he'd unintentionally given Harold another view into the man he was. He would willingly go hungry rather than ask for money he had yet to earn. Harold wondered what had driven a man like Wes Holden to the road. He'd done a little wandering himself in his early days, but he'd had the good sense to stop and put down some roots. Then he heard the bell jingle over the front door and hurried back to the store.
It was nearing quitting time when the sky started to darken. Harold frowned as a faint grumble of thunder sounded on the other side of the ridge.
"Looks like we're gonna get a little rain," he said.
Wes glanced out the window, then kept sweeping. He'd been wet before. At least it was summer. Winter rain was what sucked. After the haircut he'd gotten during his noon hour, it wouldn't take long for his hair to dry.
Harold thought about the five miles up that mountain that lay ahead of Wes Holden before he got home, then watched Wes hang up the push broom and dust off his hands.
"I'm done with the sweeping," Wes said. "Anything else you want done?"
"No. You did good today," Harold said. "Real good. Why don't you head on home? Maybe get a jump start on the rain before it gets here."
"I've been wet before," Wes said. "I don't melt."
Harold grinned. "Hell, man...if you get any tougher, I'll have to get myself some new teeth just to talk to you."
Wes grinned, then shrugged.
"Sorry, but I'm not in the habit of making excuses for myself."
Harold chuckled. "Yeah, you've proved that, so go home already."
"Thanks," Wes said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, tomorrow," Harold echoed.
Wes stepped out onto the sidewalk, then took a deep breath. He was hot and tired, and the muscles in his back and arms ached, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good. He looked up at the sky again. Harold was right. It was going to rain.
He rubbed the back of his neck, unconsciously massaging sore muscles and cognizant of the missing hair. He was stepping off the sidewalk and into the street when he heard the sound of screeching brakes, then a woman's scream. Seconds later there was a loud crunch of metal against metal, then a quick rush of escaping steam.
He was running toward the accident before the logging truck had stopped skidding. The driver of the car was pinned into the seat by a log that had plowed through his window, while another three logs from the load that had been en route to the lumber mill had slammed into the back of the truck cab, then slid over the hood, trapping the truck driver inside the cab. A large pool of fuel was running out from under the car, increasing the risk of fire and explosion.
Wes vaulted over a log to get to the car, then leaned through the broken window on the passenger side to check the driver's condition. All he could tell for sure was that he was still alive.
"Mister, help is on the way," Wes said quickly, and when the driver moaned and tried to push at the log against his chest, Wes stopped him with a touch. "Don't move. Don't move, okay?"
Wes couldn't tell if the driver understood, but at least he stopped moving. As he started away from the car, a half-dozen other bystanders were arriving on the scene. "Ambulance is on the way!" someone shouted, then Wes heard another man shouting, "Get a fire extinguisher! The truck engine is on fire!"
Wes crawled over the car to get to the truck. The top of the cab had been flattened from the impact of the logs, but the driver didn't seem to be injured, only pinned.
Wes looked down into the cab through a broken window and found himself staring straight into the driver's face. He looked young—barely in his twenties.
"Help me!" the young man yelled. "Help! Don't let me burn!"
For a split second the man's face appeared to be covered in blood. Wes shook his head and then rubbed his eyes. He felt reality slipping and slammed a fist against the cab, using pain to retain his hold on reality. "We'll get you out," Wes said. "Help is coming." He reached into the cab and pulled back on the crumpled steering wheel, trying to give the man room to crawl out, but it wouldn't give.
The young man was begging now, but Wes couldn't look at him. Instead, he began pulling at the crumpled door, willing it to open.
As Wes struggled, he could see tiny fingers of fire through a crack in the dash. That bystander was right. The engine was on fire, and with the puddle of fuel from the car spreading by the second, they were caught in the middle of what would probably be their funeral pyre. The driver had begun to cry. Wes wanted to cry with him.
Just when he feared help was going to come too late, an old red fire truck came speeding around the corner. Wes thought about the high-tech equipment in big cities and stifled a groan. If this little fire department even had a Jaws of Life, it would be a miracle, and that was exactly what it would take to get this man out.
Suddenly Wes heard someone calling his name. He looked up as Harold James arrived on the scene. Giving Wes only a split second to prepare for the catch, Harold tossed a fire extinguisher into Wes's hands. Wes grabbed it and then dropped to his knees on top of the truck cab, popped the trigger on the extinguisher and aimed it into the engine just as the firemen spilled out of the truck.
Within seconds, someone had produced a chain saw and was sawing the protruding end of the log away from the man pinned in the car, while another sprayed water on the fire inside the truck. When the imminent danger was gone, the firemen immediately began adding fire retardant onto the spilled fuel.
With paramedics and firemen now on the scene, Wes began walking away from the accident. There was a small cut on the side of his face and a burn on his forearm, but he felt nothing. Logically, he knew he was in the middle of the street in Blue Creek, West Virginia, but emotionally, he was struggling.
In his mind, the smoke and chaos surrounding the wrecked vehicles were coming from the downed belly of a Black Hawk, and the shouts and cries of the firemen and paramedics had morphed into screams for mercy from dying soldiers trapped in the blaze.
Wes put his hands over his eyes, but the images were still there. He groaned, then staggered as a wave of panic sent him to his knees. The siren squall of an approaching police car turned into the whine of a warning siren, signaling incoming missiles.
Suddenly someone grabbed him under the arms and pulled him to his feet.
"Wes. Wes! Look at me, man!"
Wes heard the voice—knew he'd heard it before- and tried to focus. He could see a face—a man's face. The large jaw and long nose looked familiar.
"Wes! It's me, Harold."
Wes shuddered. Harold. He knew a man named Harold, only Harold didn't belong in Iraq. Slowly he reached out and touched Harold's face, expecting it to disappear. When he felt solid flesh, he actually flinched.
"Harold?"
Harold James shivered. He'd seen men like Wes before, after he'd come home from Vietnam.
"Come on, man. Let's go back into the store and wash the smoke off your face, okay?"
Wes shook his head, like a dog shedding water, then covered his face with his hands. A long, silent moment passed, during which Harold James wanted to cry. Instead, he waited for Wes to pull himself together. Finally Wes dropped his hands and looked up.
"I lost it, didn't I?"
Harold grimaced, then pointed to the wreck.
"Naw, man, you helped save those men's lives."
Wes turned and looked, and as he did, felt the ground shift again, but this time only slightly.
"It was the smoke...maybe the fire...or the screams. Who knows," he mumbled.
Harold put a hand on Wes's shoulder.
"What branch were you in?"
Wes sighed. "Army. Special Ops."
"What got you sent Stateside?"
Wes tried to form the words, but to his dismay, he couldn't say them.
Harold thumped Wes on the back, then cleared his throat to steady his voice.
"It don't matter none," Harold said. "You'll get better. It happened to all of us in one way or another."
As they stood, a drop of rain landed on the toe of Wes's shoe.
"See, I told you it was gonna rain," Harold said. "Come with me."
Wes felt disoriented. He could hear Harold's voice, but it sounded as if he were at the other end of a long runnel.
"Where are we going?" he finally asked. "I'm taking you home," Harold said. "I think you've earned the ride."
Ten
Before they were halfway home, the rain began to fall in earnest. Harold glanced nervously at the man in the passenger seat, then kept his gaze on the road. Even in the best of weather, the two-lane dirt road wasn't easy to navigate. Driving it in a thunderstorm took some nerve and a lot of attention.
"You wanna talk about it?" Harold asked.
Wes shivered. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to swallow. How in hell was he supposed to talk? He shook his head.
But Harold wasn't ready to quit. He eyed Wes again, this time taking into account his age and bearing.
"You were an officer, weren't you?"
Wes managed a nod.
"Get yourself a Purple Heart?" It was Harold's way of asking if Wes had been wounded.
Wes leaned his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.
Harold knew he'd said enough.
Wes never knew when they passed the Monroe house and only realized they'd arrived at Dooley's house when the motion of Harold's truck stopped.
"We're home," Harold said.
Wes sat up, then opened his eyes. Home? This little toadstool of a house wasn't his home. He didn't belong here. Truth was, he didn't know where he belonged.
"Thank you for the ride," he said, and got out of the truck.
"Don't come to work tomorrow if it's still raining," Harold called. "No need to walk all that way in the mud and rain."
Wes gave no indication that he'd heard as he kept moving toward the house. The rain was hammering against his face and body. He thought about running but knew he would fall. He heard Harold turning around. Politeness would require at least a wave of thank-you, but he couldn't manage anything more than just getting to the house. When he finally reached the front door, it took three tries to get the key in the lock. When he stepped inside, the sudden absence of rain was a blessing.
He shivered as he closed the door. The little house was just as he'd left it this morning. If only he could say the same about himself. There was a faint scent of coffee and cold grease from the eggs that he'd fried, but the sound of rain on the roof was muffled by the presence of the overgrowth of vines.
He turned on the lights, stripping his wet clothes off as he went and dropping them in a pile in the kitchen. His legs were starting to shake, and he felt his belly roll. He made it to the bathroom in time to throw up and was sweating profusely by the time he was done. A cleansing shower would be welcome, but he wasn't sure he could stand up long enough to get clean. Instead, he gave himself up to the memories he'd been fighting, letting the same old sick feeling of loss flow through him, pulling him deeper and deeper into the darkness of his mind.
He wanted to die, but would settle for the blessed forgetfulness of sleep. He thought of the bed across the hall, but his legs wouldn't move. Slowly, he slid downward with his back to the wall. By the time he reached the floor, the darkness had come, shadowing reality and pulling him under.
Harold felt guilty driving away. He could see that Wes was in a bad way, but they were strangers. Wes needed help Harold wasn't capable of giving. Still, Harold's conscience continued to prick until he came upon the driveway leading to the Monroe property. That was when it hit him. Ally Monroe had recommended Wes. Maybe she could help.
Harold wasn't the type of man who got involved in people's business, but there was something about Wes Holden that touched his heart. He hit the brakes and turned up the driveway before he could change his mind.
Ally was taking a cherry pie out of the oven when she heard the sound of a car coming down the driveway.
She glanced up at the clock and then frowned. It was too early for her father, and because of the weather, Danny and Porter couldn't start work and had gone into Charleston for the night. She set the pie down on a cooling rack and was wiping her hands when someone knocked at the door.