Her father, Marshall, had been in the Marine Corps for twenty years, and she grew up as a military child. He died at age 50 of a heart attack. Two years ago, coming out of her grief, Kassie had taken over running the café, and had continued her father’s practice of hiring military vets. Kassie’s mother, Jade Murphy, sixty, had a heart condition and remained at home. She was a well-loved woman in Wind River.
Shay sat in a red plastic booth with Reese opposite her. Luckily, the café was very quiet. Kassie never played blaring music, so the patrons could have a quiet, decent conversation with one another, thank goodness. Shay didn’t want to be emotionally touched by the Marine captain sitting across from her, his large, spare hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, but she was. It turned her stomach to see him look like so many other homeless vets cast off by the military because of PTSD. He’d never admitted he had PTSD, and she wasn’t about to pry. One thing she’d found out from the beginning was a vet with PTSD hated twenty questions: Why are you behaving this way? What’s wrong with you? And Shay could provide the litany because it had happened to her. It took one to know one. And because of her own PTSD, she could easily see it in Lockhart.
Reese Lockhart was a tall, well-built man, but he was gaunt looking—familiar symptoms. Shay sipped her coffee, having given her food order to Julie, the waitress. Lockhart had declined to order, saying he wasn’t hungry, so Shay figured one of two things had occurred; either the man was too proud to take a handout, or Charlie had fed him already. Pixie provided baked goods for the store’s customers nearly every day, so she wouldn’t have been surprised to see Charlie urge Lockhart to eat at the table in the rear, where the goodies were kept.
Dear, sweet Charlie had a soft spot in his heart for military vets. He made a point of hiring them when he could. The skin across Lockhart’s high cheekbones told the story. That and his red-rimmed eyes. And his pallor. It all summed up to malnutrition or, as Shay well knew, actual starvation. And if she was any judge, even though he wore heavy winter clothing, he’d probably lost fifty or more pounds on his large frame over time. Meals did not come often or easily to this homeless vet.
She compressed her lips. Shay was well aware of Lockhart’s tension. Anyone with even a little emotional sensitivity could feel the effects of PTSD on a man or woman, like a bomb ready to detonate suddenly, at any moment. Reese’s hands were tense around the white ceramic mug, a sign of his anxiety. And she knew he wanted the job desperately because she saw the need banked in his green eyes, which were cloudy with stress.
“I need to fill you in on the Bar C,” she began quietly. Luckily, Shay had been able to grab a booth near the restroom area. It was roomy and out of the normal, busy walkway. This was her favorite place because it was private and quiet when the café was busy. Right now, it was blessedly quiet.
“My father, Ray Crawford, suffered a debilitating stroke a year ago. I had just been released from the Marine Corps and come home to help him run the Bar C, when it happened.” She saw him frown, real regret reflected for a moment in his eyes. Lockhart might be dealing with PTSD, but he still had the capacity to feel for others. That was a good sign in her book. So many homeless vets were numbed out to the world around them, kicked around, ignored, abused, and unseen by the rest of society. The only choice they had at that point was to move deep within themselves, going into survival mode.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That had to be tough on you. Unexpected?”
Shay felt warmth flooding her chest as she swallowed her surprise. She hadn’t expected Reese to be this aware. But she saw it in the softening of the hard line of his mouth and heard it in the deep, warm tone of his voice. There was real concern in his gaze—for her. Not for himself. So often, vets were self-centered precisely because they were in survival reflex. No one was vulnerable when they scrabbled daily just to keep living. It came with the territory. But for whatever reason, for however long Lockhart had been cut loose from the Corps, he hadn’t lost the capacity to have compassion for other people’s troubled lives. At least, not yet. Eventually, because society didn’t care about these wounded warriors, he might become that way. But he hadn’t reached that point and it made her feel hope for him.
“Yes . . . it was, in a way.” She hitched one shoulder. “My father and I never got along, and it’s not something I want to discuss much. But yes, a stroke that partially paralyzed him and sent him into a nursing home, did shake me up.” She opened her hands around her mug. “It meant I was running the ranch on my own and I wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared to do it.” That was barely scratching the surface, but Shay wasn’t here to tell her story. She wanted his story, to assess him in order to see if he was a good fit for the other three wounded vets she’d taken in over the past year to help them heal, and to help her run the ranch.