Navy SEAL Surrender. Angi MorganЧитать онлайн книгу.
The dust from the road stuck to his arms and face as he stood there like an idiot while she drove away.
“Wow.”
The Double Bar had been around for over a hundred years, supplying its fair share of cutting horses and rodeo stock. Oak trees had towered over the winding gravel driveway, since just after the Civil War. They’d formed a canopy and should have been a sight for his weary eyes. It was normally one of the coolest places on the ranch. The trees stretching above his head looked gnarly. Had anyone trimmed them since he’d left? He had to slow to avoid the potholes. The pasture looked more like West Texas desert than grazing potential for a herd.
“What the hell’s happened?”
Granddad’s old Dodge truck was loaded with feed and supplies. No doubt his work would start this afternoon, no waiting around. The ranch never let you take a vacation. John parked the rental, dropped the tailgate of the truck and slapped a bag.
Wham. Slammed to the ground, he spit dirt from his mouth. A punch to his kidney caused him to tighten his gut and pull his arms tight against his sides. The attacker shuffled off and away. John scrambled to his knees and popped up to both feet.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up now!”
“Brian? What the...” He wiped the dirt from his face just in time to block a punch. His hands automatically formed fists. He resisted throwing his right at the last minute, but his shoulder momentum took him a step closer to his brother. “Cut it out or find yourself on the ground.”
“Yeah, who’s going to put me there? Oh, right, the son who’s been gone twelve years. Think you can take me with all your fancy military training?”
John couldn’t start his return home by teaching Brian a lesson. He relaxed his body enough to appear nonthreatening, but didn’t lose eye contact. Brian would always give his punches away by dropping his gaze to the ground before he swung. Better to avoid being hit than make things worse by hitting back.
“Come on, man, I just got here,” he said. Home for fifteen minutes and already he’d been slapped and eaten a face full of dirt. His lower back didn’t feel all that great, either.
“That’s the point. Dad’s stroke was over a week ago.”
“No excuses. I was on a mission and got here as soon as I could. How is he?”
“Busy saving strangers and can’t be bothered at home.” Brian grabbed a fifty-pound bag of feed, throwing it to his shoulder like a bulky pillow, then stomped toward the shed. “Go see for yourself. Alicia usually leaves him in front of the television.”
Guess it wasn’t the right time to remind his brother he’d called a couple of dozen times in the past two days. John rubbed his side, then his jaw, and dusted some of the dirt from his body. What a welcome.
“Dad?” He pushed the screen door open with the hesitation of entering the unknown. He didn’t know what to expect. Light on his feet, soundlessly moving through the kitchen and sitting room, he was afraid of what he’d find in front of the loud television.
A severe stroke ten days ago when he’d been working horses. That’s all John knew. He’d left messages on his dad’s cell, but no one had called back. His dad kept him up-to-date. Sad, but he didn’t know his brother’s number.
Bad communication skills were nothing new before he’d left for the navy. More bad habits had formed when he’d been in training and not allowed to call. Then long missions with no communication. Different time zones. Easy after that to avoid calling home by just being too busy—or pretending to be. His father had accepted the excuses. His brother had told him never to look back and meant it.
He was a different man. They both were. They had time to fix what was wrong. Later.
Right now it was about his dad—who was asleep in a wheelchair in a room that no longer resembled his mother’s favorite in the house. Full of a hospital bed, pulleys, a portable toilet and other medical stuff, everything familiar had been removed. There was a flat-screen TV hanging on the wall.
He heard the water running in the kitchen behind him and jerked around, surprised Brian had entered without making a sound.
“Dad, wake up.” Brian shoved a shoulder into John as he passed. His angry twin turned a gentle hand to touch their dad’s shoulder and not startle him awake. “John’s home.”
He understood the pain. His brother had a right to be upset, from the serious look of things. He’d been here taking care of the ranch and their dad. Alone.
The last time they’d been face-to-face, they were skinny kids eating their dad out of a ton of groceries. Identical twins who could have passed for each other—and had fooled more than a teacher or two. Not to mention the girls. There were differences now. The most obvious was their hair. His was the navy regulation, high and tight over his ears. Brian’s was longish, touching his collar.
John knew the tense jaw-clenching muscle all too well. Strange seeing what it looked like to others. Their bodies were toned from different types of exercises—his PT and Brian’s ranch work. Weird that they still looked so much alike.
“I got here as soon as I could. I had no idea,” John apologized. He would not complain about the lack of information provided by his brother. It would just upset his dad.
“That’s an understatement,” Brian mumbled.
His dad shook his head. Upset. Brian patted his shoulder. “I know, Dad. I told you I’d explain things when he got here.”
He kept his mouth shut, stunned at the fright he saw in his father’s eyes. The stroke had left him paralyzed. He couldn’t talk. Brian lifted a straw to the left side of his dad’s mouth and patiently waited, that angry gleam still in his eyes when he connected with John.
“Dad had a stroke and was lucky to survive. Recovery’s going to take a while, but he’s doing great.” He put the mug on the table. “Looks like Alicia wore you out as usual, old man. Time for a nap, right?”
Brian moved swiftly. John moved in to help but was waved off. In two shakes, J. W. Sloane was back in bed. Brian maneuvered him quickly and with the same calm ease he handled troubled animals.
“I got this. Go get cleaned up and I’ll get him settled. I’m sure you have things to explain.”
Things hadn’t changed; his brother issued orders for him to follow. And just like every day of his life, he followed orders well. Stowing his gear back in a room that hadn’t changed except for the layers of dust, he wondered if the day would ever come where he’d be deciding his own fate.
Chapter Two
“Hey, beautiful.”
“Mommy! Mommy! Look, I’m a princess.”
Alicia Ann Adams watched her four-year-old daughter run across the playroom, dodging toys and playmates. Her yellow sunflower dress had a purple stain on the front—most likely grape jam from a snack. She lifted her over the gate guard in her day-care room to squeeze her close. “What did you do today?”
“We painted and dressed up. I was a princess and gots to wear the crown all the time.”
“Well, that was appropriate for my very own Princess Lauren. Did you put your toys away?”
“The other girls are still playing with everything, Alicia. Don’t worry about it this time.”
She put Lauren down, dreading the next part of the conversation. “Go pick up a bit, sweetie. I need to talk with Miss Mary.”
“Is something wrong?” asked the woman responsible for her daughter’s daily care.
Mary Fitz had owned and run the day care forever. Alicia had stayed here before starting kindergarten, and had worked here in high school. There was nowhere else she wanted her daughter to