The Christmas Key
Dedication
To Christine Evans. Because you turn the world on with your smile.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
An Excerpt from To Tame a Wild Cowboy Chapter 1
About the Author
By Lori Wilde
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
November 26
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland
Marine Gunnery Sergeant Mark Shepherd jerked awake. Disoriented, he lunged for the rifle that wasn’t there.
He’d forgotten where his body was in time and space. In his head, he was still in Kandahar.
“Sir?” asked the bespectacled receptionist with kind eyes and a marshmallow voice. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, blinked. Straightened.
The psychiatrist’s office, like most things military, was clean, efficient, and functional; metal folding chairs in the lobby instead of plush leather couches, unadorned white walls instead of framed artwork, cheap blinds instead of designer drapery, stained concrete floors polished to a high sheen instead of marble.
The austerity suited him.
He liked things neat, simple, and uncomplicated. Black and white. Liked having rules to obey. Protocol to follow. Liked the reliability of routine, the consistency of chain of command.
The military had given him direction when he’d had none. Had supplied a wild, undisciplined boy from Kentucky a firm place to land. He’d joined the Marines right out of high school, and for the past twelve years it had been the only life he’d ever known.
But now, the career he thought would last a lifetime had come to an abrupt end. He didn’t know how he was going to adjust to the outside world. Or make peace with his sins. Either way, he couldn’t stay in the military. He was no longer the best of the best.
And when it came to the Marines, it was either up or out.
He tapped his aching knee with the end of his cane, felt a sharp twinge in his lower back. The knee was a constant reminder of his mistakes. The pain a familiar old friend.
Definitely out. No further advancement. Not for a busted-up gunny who’d already risen through the ranks faster than most. He’d been lucky that the Marines had let him limp along for the past year while he healed. For that, he was grateful.
The door to the psychiatrist’s office opened and a red-haired young man emerged. Dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket, the kid scurried through the lobby. Head down.
A sense of inexplicable urgency seized Shepherd. Wrenched his gut.
The kid looked as if he’d gone through the wringer; blotchy skin, red-rimmed eyes, a runny nose.
“Private,” Shepherd called.
The kid stopped, whirled. Stared at him with a haunted gaze. Snap-saluted.
“Forget that.” Shepherd snorted. “My gunny days are over.”
The kid looked uncertain, darted a glance at the exit.
“Don’t run.” Shepherd hadn’t meant to sound so commanding. Habit.
The kid’s nose twitched like a frightened rabbit.
Driven by impulse, Shepherd shuffled to his feet. “Listen—”
Panic flared in the kid’s eyes. His chest heaved. Quick as a breath, he jumped forward, planted his palms against Shepherd’s chest.
Shoved.
Hard.
Jolted, Shepherd’s full weight landed on his bad leg. He fell back into the chair. Grunted at the searing burn.
“Stay away!” the kid yelled, terror in his eyes. “You stay away from me!”
Shepherd raised both hands. “Whoa, you’re here. Now. Maryland.”
The kid shook his head, appeared as dazed as Shepherd had felt a couple of minutes ago.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe,” Shepherd soothed. “You’re home.”
“Am I?” The kid swiveled his head, eyes wide.
“Yes. Are you with me?”
The kid swallowed, bobbed his chin.
“Say it.”
“I’m with you,” the kid mumbled. “In Maryland.”
“Good job, Private.” Shepherd wanted to touch him, reassure him, but he didn’t dare. “Whatever is going on, you’ll get through this. I promise.”
“Yeah?” The kid gave a skeptical laugh, his lip curling in a half sneer. “Any sage advice, Gunny?”
Shepherd drilled him with a don’t-give-up stare. “Survive.”
“I’m working on it.” The kid ran for the exit.
“Wait.”
He stopped, looked back. “Yeah?”
Shepherd reached for his duffel bag, took out a pearl-handled pocketknife and a flat block of cedar wood. Extended them toward the kid.
“What’s this?”
“Take up woodcarving.” Shepherd nodded. “It helps.”
To his surprise, the kid took the carving supplies. “You mean like whittling?”
“Make something with your hands. Get lost in the art.”
The kid fingered the wood. “I ain’t artistic.”
“It doesn’t matter. Make crappy art. You’ll get better as you go along.”
“You’re giving me this?” The kid clutched the pocketknife and cedar to his chest.
“I am.”
“Why?”
Shepherd met the kid’s eyes. “Semper fi.”
“Thanks.” The kid smiled for the first time. Skittish, but real. Slipped the knife and wood into his back pocket.
“You’re welcome.” A lump of emotion clawed at Shepherd’s throat. Someone else unhinged by war.
“Good luck, Gunny.”
“You too.”
Hand touching his back pocket, the private disappeared out the door.
“He’s had a tough row to hoe,” the receptionist murmured. “That was sweet of you.”
“That’s me.” Shepherd’s laugh was as skeptical as the kid’s. “A regular Tootsie Roll.”
“Well, Tootsie, it’s your turn.” She nodded toward the psychiatrist’s office.
Feeling both amused and grim, Shepherd used the cane to leverage himself to his feet again. Winced at the fresh river of pain rolling over him. The shove hadn’t helped. Tightened his jaw and straightened his spine as best he could. Tried not to groan.
Turned the doorknob, and stepped over the threshold into the doctor’s office.
The small digital clock on the wall read 11:01.
Fifty-nine minutes to go.
The psychiatrist stood at the coffeepot. Shepherd had seen him twice a week since he’d gotten out of the rehab hospital in April. Dr. Fox was filling a ceramic cup that read, “World’s Greatest Granddad.”
He nodded in greeting. “Want a cup?”
Edgy enough without throwing caffeine into the mix, Shepherd raised a palm. Bobbled with the weight shift. “I’m good.”
“You’re off balance.”
&n
bsp; “Wow, you’re observant.”
The psychiatrist flinched and his mouth flattened. He carried the cup to the desk and sat down. Didn’t comment on Shepherd’s snarkiness. He studied him from behind wire-rimmed glasses that made him look a bit like a plump John Lennon in a buzz cut.
“How are the nightmares?” Dr. Fox asked, his tone bland, but his eyes keen.
Shepherd shrugged off the question. Water from a duck’s back. The nightmares were a regular occurrence. In fact, he’d had one every single night since he’d come out of the coma. Nothing new.
“Insomnia?”
Bored, Shepherd gritted his teeth, moved his head half an inch. Yeah, he was lucky if he got four hours of solid sleep a night.
“The sleeping pills aren’t helping?”
“When I take them.”
Dr. Fox’s face pinched, exasperated. “So take the pills. That’s why I prescribed them. You need the rest.”
How could he explain that he didn’t deserve a good night’s sleep? That he’d earned those nightmares fair and square?
He needed to suffer. Pain was a good thing. It reminded him that he was alive. Unlike the Marine who’d died because of him. Without the pain, he feared he’d slide into oblivion.
As if on cue, both his knee and his head throbbed.
“Please.” The doctor waved at the couch. “Sit down before you fall down. You don’t have anything to prove to me. I know that standing for too long hurts like hell.”
Was he that transparent?
Shepherd swallowed back the sarcastic retort on the end of his tongue. Sank down on the couch. Dropped his duffel bag. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so jittery. Of course, he hated talk therapy, but today the layer of anger was fresher, meatier.
He had to leave the Marines. But somewhere, deep inside, was he grieving the loss of the only family structure he’d ever known?
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Shepherd denied.
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“Pain is relative.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“The Marine scale or the civilian scale?”
“You’re about to become a civilian, let’s go with that.”
“Ten,” Shepherd said.
“Shit, son. That’s bad.”
“But it’s only a five on the Marine scale.”
“Did you talk to your doctor?”
“What’s the point? I’m not swallowing fists full of painkillers. Not with my family history.”
“What are you doing to manage the pain?”
“Sucking it up. Whittling.”
Dr. Fox cleared his throat. Shepherd transferred his gaze to the windowsill. Three potted plants sat withered and neglected. The leaves turning brown, stalks drooping. Unsettled, he glanced down at his boots. Noticed a frayed shoelace. Picked at it.
“Have you tried yoga?”
Shepherd snorted and tapped his knee with the cane. As if he could handle downward dog with a bum leg. “My ass looks fat in leotards.”
Dr. Fox hooted. “Ah, good to see that the classic Mark Shepherd humor is still in there somewhere.”
Once upon a time, he had been a funny guy. Known for his ironic sense of humor and willingness to pull a prank when people least expected it.
But last Christmas changed everything. He was no longer a joker. Not after the ambush at the Kandahar orphanage. Nothing was funny after that.
Fixated, the memory tumbled in on him. He blew out his breath, shook it off.
“Shepherd?”
“Huh?” He glanced around the room, orienting himself in the here and now. A grounding technique he’d learned in group therapy. A trick to stop obsessive thoughts. Noticing and naming things kept him in the present moment. Drafty vent. Olive green desk. Mr. Coffee machine. Paper cups. Wilted poinsettias on the windowsill.
It bugged him that the flowers were bone-dry.
Thirsty.
Neglected.
Calling out for help.
Perturbed, Shepherd couldn’t sit still. Leaving his cane propped up against the chair, he limped across the room to the sink. Took a paper cup from the dispenser and filled it with water. Moved toward the sickly plants.
“What are you doing?”
He could feel the heat of Dr. Fox’s gaze on his back. The wiry muscle fibers beneath his shoulder blades twitched, the way they did when he was being watched. He focused his attention on those plants. Cupped the wilting blooms between his fingers. Felt a sense of loss curl up inside him like the drying leaves.
“Your plants are dying.”
“Why do you care?”
Irritated, Shepherd turned his head and rammed his gaze smack into the psychiatrist. Growled. “Because I’ve seen enough damn death.”
Fox toyed with his ink pen, straightened his tie. Jotted something down. “Want to talk about that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I?”
“This is our last session. Feel free to say anything that’s on your mind,” Dr. Fox prodded. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t feel like talking.”
“Sitting in silence works too.”
Shepherd knew the ploy. Create an uncomfortable quiet, and people couldn’t stand it. They gabbed. He wasn’t falling for the ruse. “I could sit.”
Dr. Fox steepled his fingers, leaned back in his chair.
Feeling obstinate, Shepherd settled onto the couch. Tightened his hand around his cane. He tried not to think about Clayton Luther. The man he’d left behind.
The wall clock ticked off the seconds. Two minutes. Five. Ten. There was still a good half hour left in his session.
Finally, Dr. Fox let out an audible breath. “What’s your biggest fear about leaving the military?”
“I thought we were just going to sit.”
Dr. Fox gave a nonchalant shrug. “I thought you’d start talking by now.”
“Silence is golden.”
“Are we going to sit here for another thirty minutes?”
“Fine by me.” But it wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get out?” The psychiatrist took off his glasses. Plucked a polishing cloth from his front shirt pocket. Rubbed the lenses.
Weary, Shepherd didn’t even bother shrugging. “I thought about going to see Luther’s grave.”
“And his family?” Dr. Fox put his glasses back on, peered at him, treading on uneven emotional ground.
At a loss, Shepherd glanced away, unable to hold the man’s penetrating stare. He didn’t know if he had the guts for that. He wanted to apologize to the family, but how did he even start that conversation?
“Maybe,” Shepherd mumbled.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter whether Luther’s family forgives you or not,” Dr. Fox said.
“No?” Shepherd heard the gravelly sarcasm in his voice, wasn’t the least bit apologetic for it. Dr. Fox was acting as if he knew everything there was to know about him. In reality, the man was clueless.
“Until you can forgive you, you’ll never find the redemption you’re looking for. Start there and you won’t need the Luthers’ absolution.”
Wretched, Shepherd bit his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. “How can I forgive myself when their son is dead because of me?”
“Is that really true?”
“If I’d gone to the orphanage with Luther as he’d wanted to pass out toys, I would have recognized Talid. I could have neutralized the threat.”
“You were following the rules.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Shepherd ground his teeth.
“From what I’ve gathered, the whole thing was on Luther.” Dr. Fox’s voice lowered, and his eyes softened. “He was impulsive—”
“FUBAR.” The vein at Shepherd’s right temple ticked. “That’s all there was to it. But I w
as in charge, and I allowed Luther to fall into enemy hands.”
“You’ve got to stop punishing yourself for something that was beyond your control.”
“But that’s the thing. Luther’s death wasn’t beyond my control,” Shepherd insisted.
Dr. Fox shifted. The casters on his chair squeaked. “What do you mean?”
“I left him.” Shepherd bit his lip again, tasted the metallic warmth. “No man left behind. That’s what the Marines drill into you. No. Man. Left. Behind.”
“But you did go back for him,” Dr. Fox reminded him. “That’s why you’ll walk with a limp for the rest of your life.”
“Too late. I went back too late.”
“What you did was heroic. Driving the rest of your men out of harm’s way. While you were bleeding profusely after taking bullets to your head and knee . . . Superhuman. Cut yourself some slack.”
Shepherd closed his eyes and managed to fight off the flashback nibbling at the edge of his brain. Chalk one up for months of cognitive behavioral therapy. The flashbacks were much fewer and further between.
“Or,” Shepherd said, “here’s a thought. I could have saved him by going with him.”
“If you’d gone with him, you would have been breaking protocol.”
“I can’t stop thinking about how I could have stopped it.” Shepherd rubbed a hand over his jaw, felt the prickle of beard growth scrape his palm. “If I hadn’t been so hidebound. I should have trusted my gut.”
“If you’d gone, you could have been the one dead in the desert.”
“That would have been better than this.”
“Are you feeling suicidal?” Dr. Fox’s tone turned arid.
“No. Not really.” Shepherd chuffed. “I don’t get to have that luxury. I have to live . . . for Luther’s sake.”
Dr. Fox said nothing. The sound of his pen scratching across paper was the only noise in the room.
“Don’t write down that I’m suicidal.” Shepherd glowered. “I’m not.”
“You’ve been through a lot. It’s understandable if such thoughts cross your mind,” Dr. Fox murmured. “You almost died.”
“Part of me did die.” Shepherd dug his nails into his palm.
“Maybe it did,” Dr. Fox said. “But now you have room to become someone new.”
It was an impossible thought. A fresh start. And yet, it was enticing. The idea that what went down in Kandahar did not have to define the rest of his life.