Rescuing the Rancher: A Soldier &

Cowboy Christian Romance (Black

Rock Ranch Book 4) Jen Peters
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/rescuing-the-rancher-a-soldier-cowboy-christian-roma
nce-black-rock-ranch-book-4-jen-peters/
RESCUING THE RANCHER
A SOLDIER AND COWBOY ROMANCE

BLACK ROCK RANCH

JEN PETERS
BLUE LILY BOOKS
Copyright © 2023 by Jen Peters

Blue Lily Books, Blue Lily Publishers

All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover design by GermanCreative at fiverr.com

 C O NT E NT S

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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Thank You
Acknowledgements

The Jen Peters Collection:

About the Author
RESCUING THE RANCHER

Jen Peters
 1

S eth’s heart ached and despair rose up once again as he brushed Carrots awkwardly. The bright
sorrel gelding didn’t care—just closed his eyes in the sun as Seth tried to re-learn a decent wrist
flick.
The loss of his right hand still gnawed at him, three months after the accident. He’d thought that
becoming a lefty would have gotten easier by now, but he still felt just as clumsy as when he’d first
returned from the hospital. He could still feel the weight of it, and the phantom pain stabbed
occasionally, never letting him forget.
He kept at it, though, concentrating while he brushed the horse, managing to swish the dust away
until it hovered in the air around him. One of these days it would feel natural, he hoped.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
He’d been out here for a month now, in this cabin tucked away on a corner of his family’s ranch,
and July was half over. Another month, and the Colorado mountain summer would be winding to a
close. What would he do when winter hit? He didn’t worry for himself, but there was nothing but a
shabby corral and a decrepit old barn with a leaky roof for his horse.
Maybe he’d have to spend the cold weather horseless—moving back into the big house wasn’t an
option. He swallowed hard, trying to dispel the bitterness that threatened to consume him. “Pull
yourself together, Sarge,” he muttered to himself. “Buck up and do what has to be done.”
Nothing was the same as he’d imagined. He thought he’d get out of the Army, come home, and
spend the rest of his life keeping Black Rock Ranch growing and profitable. Instead, his brothers had
moved on, gotten married even, and he was useless to them. Couldn’t rope, couldn’t mend fences,
couldn’t even saddle a horse.
That car accident had taken more than just his hand and part of his arm. It had taken his future.
There was just no way a one-handed guy could be a full-time cowboy.
He didn't even have old Sassy to lean on anymore. The mare had been his childhood mount and a
wonderful friend, especially through adolescence, but she’d been thirteen when Seth had joined up.
At twenty-one, she deserved her retirement in the big pasture.
Carrots was okay, though. Well-mannered and willing, without being a boring plug. He had to use
a bosal over the gelding’s nose because getting a bit in his mouth and the headstall over his ears took
two hands. And Carrots willingly stood by a stump so Seth could get on bareback.
His rides through the woods were about the only thing keeping him sane.
“You out here, Sergeant Black?” A commanding voice he hadn’t heard in months called out.
“Captain Carter?” Seth paused in his grooming, then came around to the front of the cabin, brush
still in his hand. “Wow, I never thought I’d see you here.”
 “Gotta check on my guys when I can,” the captain said, holding his left hand out to shake. “I’m
home on leave for a bit, just came to see how you’re doing.”
Seth tucked the brush under his short arm, but it was still an awkward handshake, although he
appreciated that the captain was prepared. “Doing okay, sir. Just brushing my horse down.”
“Can I see him?”
Seth shrugged. “Sure.” He led the way back. “This is Carrots.”
The gelding lifted his head and pricked his ears.
“Because of his color?” Captain Carter asked.
Seth chuckled. “No, because of his addiction to carrots. I keep a ten-pound bag of them in my
fridge. Doesn’t leave much room for my food.
Carrots nickered, and Seth reached for his back pocket. “I keep ‘em handy when I’m out here,
too.”
Captain Carter laughed as he watched Carrots gobble it up and nuzzle Seth’s pocket for more.
Then he sobered. “So how are you, really? You’re not wearing your new hand.”
Seth grimaced, not wanting to admit he was at fault. But this was his captain, and somehow he
couldn’t fudge, not like he did with his family. “It was clunky and heavy and weird, and I quit wearing
it.” He sighed and rubbed Carrots’ forehead. “Maybe I didn’t want to admit this was permanent.
Besides, it doesn’t fit anymore.”
“Was it one of those fancy ones that do everything?” The captain’s voice didn’t seem to hold any
judgment.
“Nah, just the end of my arm with a fake hand. It was an interim thing before they do the bionic
one. I’m not sure where that leaves me now.”
Captain Carter looked thoughtful. “So, I’m going to ask the question you’re undoubtedly waiting
for and hoping I don’t get to: Why are you out here, anyway? Why not in the main house with your
family?”
Seth looked across the meadow. The question might have been couched in polite terms, but this
was the captain. He expected a straight answer. “Too much hovering,” Seth finally said. “Too many
expectations.”
Captain Carter nodded but didn’t say anything.
Seth kept his silence, too.
“You doing your PT?” the captain finally said, looking over Seth’s body.
“Sometimes.” Seth didn’t look at him.
“You still seeing a counselor?”
Seth only shrugged.
The captain gave him a piercing look. “It helps, even if you don’t think it does at the time.”
Seth met his eyes. “With all due respect, sir, you haven’t been in my shoes. I don’t like someone
digging into my mind.”
It was the captain’s turn to shrug. “I can’t make you do it. But a whole lot of other soldiers swear
by it.”
“Right. ‘A whole lot of others’ can usually find work that fits their disability. They don’t come
from ranches where the work is so physical. Where it takes two hands.” Seth couldn’t help that his
voice was bitter.
Captain Carter looked at him a long while, then pursed his lips and nodded. “Want to show me
around?”
Seth turned Carrots loose in the corral, then took the captain on a tour, cringing as he saw it
through a visitor’s eyes. The fence was wo rn and would be missing boards if his brothers hadn’t
fixed it up before he came up here. As it was, the second corral had a few rails completely down.
Knee high weeds surrounded each fence post, and the woodpile at the side of the cabin was down to
nothing.
The little porch was covered in dirt and the windows were filthy. Inside, the barely-used kitchen
was decent—he lived off frozen burritos and paper plates. And for once, the couch wasn’t covered in
stuff.
They chatted for a while, catching up on what the unit was doing, who had gotten promoted, who
had separated. And then Captain Carter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and got to the point.
“Wasn’t sure I was going to ask, but I think I will,” he said. “Remember Corporal Callahan? Was
in our unit a few years ago and then transferred out?”
“Tank Callahan? The guy who was as big as three of us?”
The captain chuckled. “That’s the one. He had an accident too, about a year ago. He’s doing pretty
well on the surface, has a job, getting along. But, well, I think he could do with a change. I was
hoping he might be able to come stay with you for a while.”
Tank. A guy whose size had provided his nickname—he must have been 6-6 and 300 pounds of
muscle. But he’d always been up for whatever job needed to be done, with a deep, easy laugh to go
along with it.
And it might be nice to have some company out here. Someone who wasn’t family and watching
his every expression. And if Tank had had his arm chopped off too...Seth began to nod, then looked
around the cabin. Small kitchen set up in one corner, a scarred table, and the couch and TV/DVD
combo to round it out. His bed used to be in another corner, but his over-attentive brothers had added
a small bedroom and bath.
“Uh, Tank’s okay, but we’ll never fit in here. Maybe he could stay at the homestead with my
brothers.”
Captain Carter’s gaze was piercing. “No, I think he needs to be out here with you.”
Seth looked out the window. What should he say? Did he really want someone else up here with
him? Someone who might talk too much? Who might judge him?
After a long moment, the captain gave a resigned sigh. “Right. Well, it was worth a try.”
Seth was surprised at the disappointment that washed over him—maybe he really was lonely.
“Wait,” he said slowly, “if I could find someone with a trailer, they wouldn’t mind loaning out…”
The captain smiled and nodded. “You let me know. And good luck.”
Captain Carter left. Seth settled in a chair on the small porch and looked over the corral and the
woods beyond, trying to picture boisterous Tank Callahan there with him. “I’m going to need a little
help here, God. I know You’re not telling me much these days, or I’m not hearing it, but a little
smoothing things out would be appreciated.”

A WEEK LATER, a small travel trailer sat next to the cabin. There was no water to it—Tank would have
to come in and use Seth’s shower—but Seth hooked up an extension cord from the cabin for
electricity. If Tank didn’t like Seth’s DVDs, he could watch his own.
The cabin could use a little sprucing up, though. He smiled as he awkwardly made his bed—his
mother would be shocked he did it at all. He couldn’t sweep very well one-handed, but he’d tracked
enough dirt in that even his clumsy efforts made a pile he could send out the front door.
He checked his stock of burritos and pizzas and decided it would last them a day or two. And that
was enough for now. He had time for a ride if he kept it short.
Back in the corral an hour later, Seth heard, “Yo, Preach! You out here?”
He grinned. He hadn’t heard his old nickname in a while, but Tank never had been a shy one. Seth
turned Carrots loose as Tank came around the corner, duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” Tank dropped the duffel and drew Seth into a giant, one-armed bear hug.
“Oof. You are. Up. Still.” Seth stepped back and craned his neck to see. “I swear you’ve grown
another three inches.” He didn’t mention Tank’s missing left arm.
“Nah, you’ve shrunk.” The big guy looked around. “So this is where you’re hiding out.”
Seth grunted. “Not hiding. Just trying to live.”
Tank let out his deep chuckle. “I see you, Preach. And I know how it is.” He held up what
remained of his left arm, a shiny psychedelic sock cover over the short stump below his shoulder.
“Uh, you sure know how to make a statement.” Seth couldn’t take his eyes off it.
Tank shrugged. “Better to have a conversation piece than to have people try to hide their stares. I
always—“
“Tank? You back here?” came a female voice.
Seth whipped his head around.
The voice was followed by a tall, slender woman with wavy black hair, lustrous blue eyes, and a
smattering of freckles.
She stopped and looked back and forth between the two of them. “You didn’t tell him, did you?
Tank, I swear someday—“
“Uh, Preach? This is my sister, Riley. She likes to be my keeper.”
She huffed. “I do not! It’s just that this big lug was nervous about—“
“I was not! You’re the one who—“
Seth listened to them banter. Tank wasn’t usually a person who receded into the background, but
Riley…boy, she was something else. Feisty, not giving an inch. Not to mention gorgeous.
And then he noticed the duffel she carried. Slung over her shoulder just like Tank’s, and she didn’t
lean to one side with the weight of it. Which meant that lovely figure had some good muscle to it, but
it didn’t answer his question.
“Uh, guys? What’s with that?” He prayed it wouldn’t be the answer he expected.
It was.
“He wouldn’t come— “
“She wouldn’t let me— “
They stopped and looked at each other. Tank gave Seth a pleading look. “Do you have room for
her to stay, too?”
 2

R iley stiffened, watching the two men. She knew they had sprung it all on Preach, but she really
didn’t want to go into details other than helping her brother. Not that he needed too much help—he
was pretty well adjusted with his missing arm now, but miserable in his job and not sure what to do
about it.
Her own reasons? Well, it was enough to say that she had problems at work, too, and was using
her brother as an excuse to get away for a bit. Would Preach have a spot for her?
She really ought to not call him Preach. That’s what her brother called him because Seth had
prayed over every meal and before every training exercise in the Army. She guessed the rest of his
platoon called him that, too. Now it was more likely Sarge, but she’d rather think of him as Seth.
It fit him. She didn’t know much about Seth in the Bible, but this Seth seemed reserved, thinking
before he spoke, quietly going about his business. Except for what Captain Carter had said. He needs
people around him. Which made her think he wasn’t adjusting so well to his own disability.
At least Tank hadn’t lost his dominant hand. It would be harder to get along if you couldn’t even
write your name decently, let alone hammer a nail into a fence post.
Once again, Riley was in a situation where she couldn’t fix everything. Where—
Seth frowned, a little line appearing between his eyebrows. He studied her, looked her up and
down. Not like a man perusing a woman’s figure, but like she was an unforeseen problem that
required long examination.
She guessed she was a problem. It looked like Tank had run with his favorite old saying: it was
better to ask forgiveness than permission.
Seth looked away, over to the cabin and then to the mountains beyond. Then his gaze returned to
her, meeting her eyes with a question.
What was it? What was he judging her on? Her attitude? Her toughness? Her ability to fade into
the background?
Riley finally huffed. “Look, if you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.” She didn’t have anything to go
back to, and Tank needed her, but that wasn’t any of Seth’s business.
“Sorry,” he finally said. “It’s just…unexpected. I’m used to being alone. But maybe it’s good.
Maybe you can keep an eye on Tank. He’s too big for me to take down if he gets out of line.” He sent
a half-grin her brother’s way.
The tightness in her shoulders relaxed. It would be okay. It had to be.
“Okay, then.” She put a smile on her face and cheer in her voice as she shifted her duffel to the
other shoulder. “Where do you want me to bunk?”
“Uh…” Seth glanced from her to Tank, from the cabin to the trailer. “I guess you get the trailer,
and I’ll find a corner for Tank in with me.”
He didn’t look too happy about it, though. His mouth tightened and those chocolate brown eyes
held impatience.
“We can share the trailer,” Riley stammered. “I mean, Tank and me.” She managed not to blush,
hoping he didn’t pick up on the other possibility.
Seth shook his head and finally smiled. “Your hulk of a brother? It might be fun to watch him
squeeze himself around things in there, but—”
“Hey, I resemble that remark!” Tank laughed.
“No offense, Callahan, but you’ll be better off in the cabin. Or the barn.”
Tank wrinkled his nose, and Riley laughed. “The trailer for me, got it.”
She felt Seth’s eyes on her as she opened the trailer door. Because he was unhappy about it all, or
because she was worth watching? The latter, she thought—she’d felt that look from guys before, but
never with anyone she might be interested in. She refrained from giving him a flirty little wave, but
she had to admit that the attraction, if that’s what it was, went both ways.
Beyond the sorrow in his soulful eyes and the way he still carried his arm to protect his stump, he
was a downright handsome guy. Tall enough—right about six feet compared to her five-nine—yet
somehow compact as well. Must be all those lovely muscles through his chest and arms. And his still-
short hair. And the slight cleft in his chin.
Stop it, Riley! She wasn’t here to go all flutter-hearted over a guy. She was here to watch over her
brother and take a break from her own problems.
She glanced around the living area she’d entered—a couch and soft chair that had seen better days
but were still decent enough to use. A small dinette table and kitchenette to the left, and a couple
doors to the right. One was a bathroom with a shower, the other held a double bed and a dresser.
Seth had been right—no way could she and Tank have shared this, but it was enough for one
person to be comfortable. She could even lay out her yoga mat in front of the couch if she didn’t find a
good place outside. Or if she didn’t want to be watched. She tossed her duffel onto the bed, flopped
beside it, and pulled out her phone.
One little bar of service that flickered on and off. She stared as she watched the little circle
continue to search for wi-fi. Nothing. Nada.
Riley guessed that if Seth had come up here to get away, it was far enough from anywhere that wi-
fi wasn’t a possibility. Maybe that would be good for Tank—he couldn’t spend his time looking at
possible careers or moaning over listed jobs that he couldn’t have. He had three weeks to simply
relax and recharge.
But the lack of signal also meant that she couldn’t see what was happening in her Children’s
Services office. Couldn’t check on her cases that had been assigned to other people. Couldn’t
message Susan to see if they’d approved any new foster parents or hired that social worker they’d
just interviewed.
Couldn’t see what was happening with little Amelia and her family.
Her heart tugged at the thought, and she pushed it out of her mind. Susan Howahkan was a
competent social worker and knew how to work within the system instead of trying to go around the
regulations. Susan was dealing with it.
Riley needed to trust the process. All of it.
She pushed herself off the bed and headed out to Tank’s SUV to get her yoga mat and good
camera. If she let herself think too much, all she would do was wallow in self-pity. Instead, she had
her brother to worry about, lovely mountains to explore and photograph, and a hunky cowboy to get to
know. She’d try to let God take care of the rest.

S ETH LOOKED around the cabin ruefully. It fit him well, but Tank seemed to fill every inch of space by
himself. And the two of them together?
Tank glanced around, and then, without waiting for an invitation, poked his head into Seth’s
bedroom. “Huh,” he grunted. “No way we’re both bunking in there.”
“Ya think?” Seth huffed. “You’ll have to take the couch.”
Tank eyed the worn piece of furniture warily. “I’m supposed to fit on that? Besides, it’d probably
come down with a crash in the middle of the night.” His eyes narrowed as he examined the layout.
Seth cussed lightly. Then he motioned to the table. “I used to have a mattress there. We could
move the table over.”
“I’ve slept in worse places. Remember Raqqa? Not a soft spot around, just millions of sharp little
rocks poking into you all night long.”
“That was only the first bit—we did get beds after a bit. But I think I was too tired to care.
Clearing explosives one day, re-building a school the next. Kind of crazy, huh?”
“Yeah, well, you got an extra blanket? Or two?”
Seth hauled out a plastic garbage bag, flipped it over, and dumped out two quilts. “I have a sister-
in-law who thinks I’m a softie.”
Tank chuckled. “Only softies need actual beds to sleep in.” He folded them until he had a pad the
way he wanted.
It wasn’t very thick—it couldn’t be and still be big enough for Tank’s body. Seth made a face and
lay down on it. He turned onto his good side, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine sleeping through
the night. He rubbed his stump absently—getting to sleep always included total awareness of pain in
his missing hand and forearm. He still didn’t understand it, just knew that it was real. And that not
much alleviated it.
“What are you doing down there?” came Riley’s voice.
Seth pushed the pain to the back of his mind. “Figuring out that living in civilization requires a
decent bunk,” he said. He opened his eyes to see her long, lustrous hair hanging down as she bent to
peer at him. He caught his breath. She really was quite beautiful.
“Glad to know you don’t nap on the floor on a regular basis.” She shifted a grocery sack to the
other hand. “We brought a few groceries, but not a lot. Didn’t know what you liked to eat.”
Seth clambered to his feet. “Mostly frozen pizza or burritos right now. Or cereal. Kind of hard to
cook, you know.”
Riley looked puzzled. “But Tank does a lot of…” Her voice trailed off. “Anyway, I’ll just put
these in the fridge. Eggs, veggies, fruit, some hamburger. The bread and chips are still out in the
SUV.”
Seth intercepted a pointed look from Tank to Riley and shrugged. He didn’t like his deficiencies
pointed out, but he’d be happy for this beautiful woman to cook for him. He gave himself a mental
slap—that really sounded sexist. She probably wouldn’t like being relegated to kitchen duty all the
time, anyway. What was he going to do with them?
He managed a “Thanks,” and grabbed his cell phone to send a text. Those sometimes went through
even if there wasn’t enough signal for a call.
 “Hey, Adam,” he dictated from a stool on the porch. “Tank’s sister turned up with him, and she’s
going to take the trailer. Tank’s okay on the floor tonight—Maddy’s blankets are coming in handy—
but could you send up a mattress from one of the empty cabins tomorrow?” Adam was the oldest of
the four brothers, basically running the ranch now that Dad seemed out of the picture. Seth didn’t care
who brought it, but über-responsible Adam would make sure it happened. And if he never got the text,
they’d go down and get a mattress tomorrow.
Riley went to settle into the trailer, and Tank pulled a chair out to join Seth on the porch. They
were quiet for a while, until Tank finally said, “So what do you do out here?”
Seth leaned against the cabin wall. “I dunno. Ride. Groom. Hike in the woods.”
“Dullsville, huh? No wild parties?”
“Yeah, right. I came out here to get away from people, not invite them up to make noise.” Seth
gave Tank a long look. “What about you? What did you come up here to do?”
Tank’s mouth quirked up. “Ride. Groom. Hike.” Then he roared with laughter. “No, really, I just
needed to get away from it all. Take a break and figure some things out. So whatever you do, I’m
happy to do too.”
Seth nodded and closed his eyes. The nice thing about guys was that they didn’t need to talk all the
time. Didn’t need to dissect everything six ways from Sunday. But… “What about Riley?”
“Did I just hear my name?” the woman in question asked.
Seth’s eyes popped open.
“Nah,” her brother said. “You always think people are talking about you.”
She sat gracefully on the small step. “Yeah, well people are always talking about you!” she shot
back.
Seth listened contentedly as they bantered. It was nice experiencing that sibling thing without
having said siblings hovering over him. Then Riley asked a question that made him sit up.
“How’s the skin doing?”
Tank shrugged, and Seth watched, fascinated, as he pulled his psychedelic covering off. “You tell
me.”
Riley looked closely, ran her finger over it. “Still red and inflamed. But it doesn’t look infected.”
“Should I leave it open to the air?” Tank mused. He turned to Seth. “This is why I don’t have my
prosthesis on.”
Seth wanted to hide his own arm, but Tank didn’t even look at it.
Riley looked around, then back at Tank’s stump. “It’s going to get dirty, but there’s no broken skin
so that shouldn’t matter if you keep it uncovered. You ought to protect it if you’re going to be doing
anything, though.”
“Can’t do much with only one arm anyway,” Seth put in.
Tank raised his eyebrows. “You’d be surprised.” And didn’t say anything else.
No lecture? No scolding? No offer to help?
Maybe having people up here wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Riley stood and brushed her shorts off. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. And since
we brought everything for hamburgers, dinner will be in twenty minutes.”
Seth’s mouth watered at the thought of something other than a microwaved burrito.
A TRUCK RUMBLED up the rough lane just as Seth was taking a bite of the juiciest burger he’d had in a
long time. He chewed fast, swallowed hard, and took one more big bite before he stood.
Adam, Maddy and Mia all piled out of the truck.
“Uncle Seth! We brought you a surprise!” seven-year-old Mia came running toward him. She
hugged him around the legs, then tugged on his hand. His only hand. “Come see! Come see!”
Seth gave Adam the what-do-you-think-you’re-doing raised eyebrows that they’d all learned
from their father. “I didn’t realize a mattress required a horse trailer.”
Adam shrugged. “You’ve got guests, so you need horses, right? Carrots might ride double but no
way could he take all three of you.” He looked at Tank’s height and bulk. “Especially this one.”
Seth sighed. He thought one of his other brothers had said Adam had loosened up his control
issues. “Tank, this is my oldest brother, Adam. He takes charge of everything.”
Adam shook Tank’s hand and smiled. “Come on, I’ve got just the horse for you.” He opened the
trailer gate and out stepped a big bay gelding that Seth had never seen before. Not only tall, but big
boned—must have some draft horse in him somewhere.
“This is Scout,” Adam said. “Generally gentle, but he’ll give you a good ride if you want it. And
he’ll take your weight just fine.”
Tank’s eyes lit up, and Seth guessed that Adam was right in his choice.
“And for you—” Adam continued, looking at Riley.
Seth introduced them, and Riley twisted her hands together as a black and white mare backed out
of the trailer.
“Oh, good,” Riley said, relaxing a bit. “She’s not near as big as the other one.”
“I’ve ridden her,” Maddy put in. “She’s sweet. And a little fat—she’s a retired broodmare—but
she’ll take care of you. Her name’s Magpie.”
“Fitting,” Riley said, reaching her hand out for the mare to sniff.
Mia tugged on Seth’s pants. “Do you like your surprise? Daddy’s pretty smart, isn’t he?”
Seth hunkered down to meet her eyes. Adam was actually her stepfather, but Mia didn’t care. She
probably even loved his bossy personality. “I love your surprise, Mia. And I love that you came to
bring it to me.”
She flung her arms around his neck, and a wave of bittersweet longing rose up in him. He wished
he could lift her effortlessly with two whole, strong arms. Swing her high, twirl her around and listen
to her laugh. But there was no hope of that, and suddenly his regrets weren’t just about Mia—they
were about his uncertain future.
Seth had always pictured himself as a father someday, but if his injury still revolted him, what
woman in her right mind would want to be attached to someone with such an ugly, useless part of
him? Who would be able to see past it to the man he was inside?
And for that matter, what kind of a man was he anymore? Maybe not quite as hopeless as he was,
but bitterness still crept in frequently. And frustration. He knew God would help him through it, but he
also knew it wouldn’t be quick—God worked on His own timetable. And patience wasn’t one of
Seth’s strong suits.
“Come on, guys, let’s get this show on the road,” Maddy said. “I’ve got a pie ready when they’re
all put away.”
Mia wiggled away, leaving Seth feeling even emptier.
“Pie?” Tank exclaimed, picking Maddy up and twirling her. “You’re a woman after my own
heart.”
Seth growled, the edges of his resentful thoughts still present. “She’s taken.” Nobody messed with
his family.
“Of course she is,” Tank shot back. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a pretty woman who
can bake!”
Seth knew Tank’s reputation with the ladies, but Maddy just laughed.
Tank didn’t mean anything serious, and Seth had to let this go. He needed to add short-tempered to
his list of failings.
Riley and Tank helped Adam take the horses to the corral, and Seth, Maddy and little Mia
unloaded the tack from the back of the truck. Seth walked awkwardly, one hand holding the saddle as
it flapped against his legs.
Maddy peered up at him. “You doing okay, Seth? Up here by yourself?”
Seth huffed. “I’m hardly alone anymore.”
She elbowed him, both arms hooked under her saddle. “You know what I mean. How are you
getting by doing things? Are you in a good place in your head?”
He sent her a sideways look. “I’m fine. Don’t start hovering again, Maddy.”
“What’s hovering, Mama?” Mia asked, bits jangling as she carried a bunched-up pair of bridles.
The reins trailed in the dirt behind her.
“Yeah, go ahead, Maddy,” Seth prodded. “Define hovering.”
Maddy shifted the saddle in her arms. “It’s, uh, it’s watching over someone too closely. Like when
Daddy looks over my shoulder and wants to know everything I’m putting in the computer to pay the
ranch bills.”
“But Uncle Seth isn’t paying bills. Is he?”
Seth gave a satisfied grin. “No, he’s not. So he doesn’t need anyone hovering over him. Right,
Maddy?”
His sister-in-law had the good sense to change the subject. “Look, Mia, the horses are all eating,”
she said.
The three others had re-introduced Carrots to the equine newcomers and thrown out a few flakes
of hay. Eating was always good for settling in. While Mia ran to peer through the fence, Seth and
Maddy found places for the saddles and hung the bridles on extra nails near Carrots’ bosal.
Tank turned to Maddy. “Pie time?”
“After we get the mattress in,” Adam said. “You coming, Seth?”
Seth leaned on the corral fence and didn’t look over. “Nah, I’ll stay here for a bit.” The happy
little family could make noise getting things settled; he’d rather let the horses and God’s stars quiet
his soul.
“Suit yourself.”
He heard them troop off, listened to them wrangle the mattress out of the back of the truck. Tank
knew where it should go—they didn’t need another one-handed guy giving directions.
Riley stayed nearby, watching the horses eat for a few minutes. “It makes you feel useless, doesn’t
it? Not needed for all the stuff that used to be easy.”
Seth didn’t answer.
“You just hang around Tank for a while. You’ll see all the things you can still do.” She put her
hand, light but warm, on his shoulder, then left to join the others.
The feeling of her hand lingered. Seth looked up at the stars and sighed. “I need some strength
here, God. Or just some peace, if I can’t have strength.”
He waited, but only heard the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He retrieved a brush and went out to
Carrots. The gelding nuzzled his empty pocket, then returned to his hay as Seth ran long, soothing
strokes over Carrots’ body.
 3

F eed the horses before you feed yourself. Seth’s father’s mantra echoed through his mind as he left
Tank sleeping and headed out into a new day. He didn’t get as far as the barn, though.
Riley had laid her yoga mat on the dirt in front of the trailer and was currently bent in a semi-
cartwheel with one hand touching the ground and the opposite leg stretched to the sky. Her free arm
looked like she was trying to touch the sliver of moon, still visible in the breaking day.
Seth didn’t think he could stretch himself half that far, but boy, he could watch her for a long time.
Long legs, graceful body, smooth movements into some other pose. Nothing at all like her brother,
other than she had some of his height. But her beautiful, serene face would probably scrunch up if she
knew he was there. He slipped quietly over to the horses.
The gorgeous woman stayed on Seth’s mind, though. He threw hay to the horses, all the while
thinking of taking her out to dinner, or dancing with her in his arms, or just walking hand in hand. But
that was the problem—one of his arms was an ugly, useless stump. And who would want to date a guy
like that?
He’d had a social life in the Army, gone out, had fun, enjoyed the gals’ company and a even a few
kisses. But he’d never been ready to be serious, not with deployments and changes of duty stations.
Now it really wasn’t an option—a gal like Riley should be proud of the man she was with. Look
forward to being with him. Do fun, exciting things with him.
And if he didn’t like being with himself, how could he expect a woman to feel any differently?
He brushed the hay dust off his shirt and gave Carrots a pat. A walk through the woods would be
good to clear his head right now.

“COME ON , when are we going to ride?” Tank asked impatiently that afternoon.
Seth wasn’t thrilled with having to take people out, show them how to ride, coddle them along the
trail. For that matter, he wasn’t thrilled about having to work his day around them at all. Lunch was
when Riley or Tank fixed it, whether or not Seth was hungry. Voices when he was used to solitude.
Simply having people in his space. Any semblance of happiness at them being there seemed to have
vanished overnight.
And riding…did Tank know what he was asking? Seth had made do for himself, but he couldn’t
just throw newbies up on a horse bareback.
He glared at his friend, but no words came out. Even with someone like Tank who could
understand, Seth couldn’t admit his shortcomings.
 “You still have two legs,” Tank said into his silence. “And you ride one-handed anyway, right?
Nothing’s stopping you in the saddle.”
Seth’s glare intensified. “I’ve been riding bareback—it takes two hands to saddle a horse. And I
have to use a bosal—a type of hackamore—because I can’t hold a bit in his mouth while I pull the
headstall over his ears. It’s not as easy as you think.”
Tank rolled his eyes. “That’s an excuse.” He stepped closer, met Seth stare for stare. “Unless
you’re doing brain surgery, there’s always a way. So find one.”
Seth stiffened. Tank was supposed to be a friend, a help, not push him like this. The guy knew
what it was like to be crippled, to have his life taken away. So what was Tank thinking, getting in
Seth’s face? All Seth’s plans, his expectations, his hope for anything—all gone.
Stupid car accident. Stupid driver. Stupid Seth for having his arm out the window.
Seth’s eyes steeled as he stepped closer, their chests almost bumping. “You’re out of line,
Corporal.”
“You know I’m not, Sarge,” Tank snapped back. And then he laughed, big and loud. “You’re not a
sergeant, I’m not a corporal, and the Army wouldn’t have us back if we begged. But come on,
between us we’ve got a full set of arms—let’s do it together.” He slapped Seth’s shoulder and turned
for the barn again.
Seth stared after him, shook his head in disbelief, then jogged to catch up.
Once they had Scout tied up and brushed—at least Seth had gotten fairly good at that—he gave
Tank a rueful glance. “This really isn’t going to work, you know.”
“Wait and see.” The big guy grinned. “So what do we do first?”
“Put the saddle pad on, and I usually do that with my left hand, anyway.” Seth swung the thick,
cushioned pad onto the gelding’s back.
Tank was eager. “Now the saddle?”
“Yeah, but even if I could swing it up with one hand, it has to get settled in the right place. Don’t
want it too far up or too far back. And sometimes it scoots the pad out of position.”
Tank took the back of the saddle, Seth took the front, and they awkwardly perched it on Scout’s
broad back.
“See, not so hard,” Tank gloated. “What’s next?”
And then Scout shifted sideways and gave a shiver, and the saddle went over the other side.
“Oops,” Tank said.
Seth cussed.
“Gimme a break, Preach. I’m going to have to give you another nickname if you keep swearing.
You never did before.”
That was true. Seth had managed to keep control over the words that came out of his mouth during
his Army years, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t settled in his brain. Any stress now, especially
without the emotional control he used to have, tended to let them out. “Sorry. I’ll try.”
“You better.” Tank laughed. “I won’t know who you are if you keep going down that path!”
They finagled the saddle back on, and Seth made extra sure it was settled well. Which took a lot
longer than he’d ever expected.
They got the cinch hanging straight down the other side and hooked the stirrup over the saddle
horn without a problem. And then came cinching it up, which took one of them on each side of Scout.
“Push it farther, I can’t reach.”
“No, you need to come around here. Push the latigo—the strap—through there.”
“It won’t go through the top ring.”
 “You push, I’ll grab.”
The stirrup came loose from the saddle horn and hit Seth in the head. He let go of the latigo to put
the stirrup back, and the cinch dropped back, completely loose. He clenched his fist and cussed again,
but all Tank did was laugh.
“It’s not funny!”
“Oh, it is,’ Tank countered. “Or at least it will be later.”
Seth stewed through the next ten minutes, but they finally managed to get the saddle secured. Then
Tank held the bridle upside down, and Seth sighed. This was not going to be as easy as Carrots’
bosal.
He got Tank holding it right side up in front of Scout’s face. Seth took the bit in his left hand, ready
to ease it into the gelding’s mouth. “Ready?”
Poor Scout. The big bay had only flicked an ear at their clumsy saddling attempts, but now he
protested. He jerked his head high, refusing to be part of their bumbling effort.
Seth frowned. “He should drop his head for this automatically. Can you rest your arm on the top of
his neck up high?”
“Uh, no arm on that side, remember?” Tank chuckled. “Can you put your stump up there?”
Seth tried but couldn’t get it high enough for Scout to respond except for a stomp of a hind foot.
“Arrgh! This is frustrating, not funny!” At least he didn’t cuss that time.
Tank only laughed some more. “Deal with it, Preach. Where’s your can-do attitude?”
“Landed in the garbage with my hand,” Seth grumbled. If he could stop now and put Scout back in
the corral, he would. But one look at Tank told him that was a non-starter. “Look, let go of the
headstall and push on his neck instead. I’ll get the bit in and hold it there, and then you can pull the
headstall up.”
Scout accepted the bit readily enough, but still wasn’t going along with two people working on
him. His head rose again, and even Tank couldn’t reach.
It was the big guy’s turn to let out a string of cuss words. “Look, Horse, all you have to do is
cooperate. You’re used to this, right?”
Seth shook his head. “Not so funny now, is it?” He crooned to the gelding, rubbing his stump
lightly against the horse’s neck while he kept the bit snugly in place. Scout relaxed a little. “Tank, you
hold the bridle just in front of his face. You can rest your hand on his nose if you want, but don’t let
the bit drop and hit his teeth.”
With his friend keeping things in place, Seth used his left hand to slip the bridle over Scout’s ears.
“Sorry, boy,” he said when one ear bent unnaturally, but it didn’t seem to bother the horse. Thank
goodness it wasn’t a one-eared bridle—he wasn’t sure how he’d work an ear into a small loop. But
now they had the throat latch to buckle.
He took a deep breath and sighed. “Okay, I’ve got him. Can you come help me over here?”
Forty minutes after starting what should have been a five-minute task, Scout was ready to go. He
even nudged Seth with his nose, asking for a head rub.
Seth sent a wry look to Tank. “And now we do it all over again with Carrots? Maybe I’ll stick
with bareback.”
“Nah, it’ll be good practice for dancing with a girl. You know, you twirl her one way, I’ll send
her the other?”
Seth laughed at the image. Not loud, not uproariously, but a laugh nonetheless. The first one in six
months, he figured, despite the last hour’s frustration.
Tank chuckled along with him, then gave him a quizzical look. “Why don’t you wear your
prosthesis? Getting his head down would be a lot easier. Or even pulling the bridle up. I mean, you
got one, didn’t you?”
Seth took a deep breath and let it out. The elephant in the room. He’d known Tank would bring it
up sometime, and he guessed now was as good a time as any. “Yeah, I got one. But it seems so fake
and it’s not all that comfortable.”
Tank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well that’s why you keep going in for adjustments.”
Seth kept his mouth closed. Maybe he could talk about the loss of his hand, but that didn’t mean he
had to admit how stupid he felt with the doctor. Or how depressing the Veteran’s Administration
hospital was. Or how hopeless it all made him.
It seemed like Tank had adjusted well—he used his prosthesis when his skin was good, he could
do lots without it, and he talked and joked all he wanted.
For Seth, it was only a reminder of what he’d lost. Of all he couldn’t have now. Help me, Lord,
he prayed for the umpteenth time.
 4

R iley leaned against a post as the guys tried their best to saddle and bridle Scout. It really was
funny, the way they bumped heads and tried to coordinate their movements. What Seth did
automatically, Tank had no clue about, and it showed.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and snapped a few pictures.
And then Tank asked about Seth’s prosthesis, and things got serious. She stayed in the background,
her heart going out to Seth but not wanting to interrupt.
The guys still looked worn out as they brushed Carrots. When they carried the saddle out, she
finally spoke up. “Need a little help there?”
Seth whipped his head around and stared. “How long have you been there?”
“Not long, or she would have been laughing her head off,” grunted Tank.
Riley’s smile widened. “I’m not sure I’d put the two of you in charge of anything together, but it
was fun to watch. Want some help with Carrots?”
Seth straightened to his full height. “Not at all.”
“Only if you’ll do it with one arm tied to your side,” Tank said.
“Uh, no thanks.” Riley didn’t tell her brother that she’d done exactly that when he’d been
recovering. She’d had to know what it was like to be one-handed, to feel what he’d been feeling.
She’d thought she’d be able to help him more that way. “I do want to ride, though.”
Seth gave her an assessing look, his dark hair catching the glint of the sun. “I figured you would.
You get Magpie brushed while we do Carrots. Then you can tack her up going step by step with us.”
Cool. She’d always wanted to ride a horse, and now she got to do it with this handsome, hurting
cowboy.
The boys bumbled around saddling Carrots. Riley watched and followed their lead. The saddle
was heavy, and even though Magpie wasn’t tall, Riley had to use a step stool to get the saddle up.
And when it came time to lacing the latigo thing through? She couldn’t even find it.
“Uh, Seth? I need some help here.”
Seth left Tank holding part of the saddle or cinch or something and came over. “It looks good.
What’s up?”
“Where did my latigo go?” The words sounded fun enough to ease some of her embarrassment.
Seth grinned. “Your saddle isn’t as ancient as ours. You have a buckle.”
All her embarrassment came back. How stupid could she be, not to have seen how different it
was?
Seth watched while she buckled the cinch to the thick leather, cautioning her not to do it too tightly
at first. He supervised her bridling, and she suddenly understood how impossible it would be to do
with one hand. Then he was back to Carrots, and the air around her felt empty.
Having a bosal for Carrots helped the guys. Seth had shown it to her the day before, and the thick
loop of braided rawhide was much easier to slip over his nose instead of keeping a bit in place.
Easier on the horse, but not as laughter-inducing.
Eventually, they were ready to go. The step stool became a mounting block for each of them, even
Tank. His horse could probably pull the Budweiser wagon by itself. Riley envisioned Tank and Scout
in medieval armor, charging into battle. She watched her brother sit stiff and clench the reins, and she
chuckled. Maybe battle would have to wait until Tank learned to ride.
Seth, on the other hand, looked like a centaur. He’d had an awkward time getting on, having to do
something natural in a different way, but once he was mounted, he was fully at home. He wiggled in
the saddle for a minute. “I’ve been riding bareback too long.”
“Bareback?” Riley shuddered at the thought.
“Yeah, couldn’t saddle him, remember?” Seth glanced at Tank. “Relax, Callahan. Remember what
Adam said? Scout’s a lazy softie. He takes care of beginners.” And then he looked at Riley again.
And smiled.
Her heart flip-flopped, and she gripped the saddle horn harder. How could the smile of a guy
she’d just met stir her insides like that? She’d had a few semi-serious relationships, but nothing that
felt like this without knowing the man better.
Magpie tossed her head, bringing Riley back to the present and jerking the reins from her fingers.
She watched them fall to the ground and grabbed the horn with both hands, all thoughts of Seth
vanishing. What if the horse took off with her? How far was it to a hospital if she fell?
“You pulled on her and she didn’t like it,” Seth said, riding closer. He let Carrots’ reins rest on
his neck and reached forward to grab Magpie’s closest one. Once it was in Riley’s tense fist, he rode
around to get the other. “Now, tighten them slowly until you can just feel the pull on her bit, and then
loosen them a little. She needs room to move.”
Magpie turned her head to look at Riley, who could have sworn the horse knew exactly what to do
to dump her in the dust.
Get a grip, Riley Marie Callahan! She had separated abusive parents from cowering children,
conquered challenging rock walls, and could flow from Open Lizard through to Leg Cradle in her
yoga practice. Why did being on a horse feel so different?
Because the horse was alive. Sentient. Smart. And definitely aware that Riley was a beginner.
She took a deep breath and exhaled with determination. If she could face down angry parents, she
could certainly make a horse think she was in charge.
She looked up to see Seth looking between her and Tank. “You guys ready?”
“Oh sure, why not?” Tank said, his voice a little tentative.
“Of course,” Riley said. Maybe she even believed it.
“Right then,” Seth said. “These are the guidelines. Adam picked these horses for you because
they’re calm and well-trained. I don’t expect either of them to shy or run away, but you still need to
keep your attention on what you’re doing. If you have to pull back on the reins, do it gently. No
jerking. If you want them to go faster, just squeeze your legs—no need to kick them in the sides. And
if you lose your balance, grab the saddle horn instead of hauling on the reins. Got it?”
“Basically learn by doing, huh, Sarge?” Tank’s grip tightened on the reins.
Seth shrugged. “My brother Caleb knows how to teach people a lot better than I do. But this isn’t
hard.”
“Says the guy who was probably born on a horse,” Riley murmured.
 Seth caught her eye and shrugged. “Let’s go.”
If she fell, would he catch her? She smiled at the crazy thought—he’d have to be a stunt rider to
do that.
Seth led the way to a gate, and they rode into the field beyond. “We’ll stay near the fence. The
cattle are still up on the summer range, and we’ll be harvesting this for hay towards the end of next
month.”
Where will I be then, Lord? Do You have a plan for me besides a time-out up here? She was
surprised she could ask God questions with a thousand-pound animal moving under her, but riding
Magpie was surprisingly smooth. Riley sort of rocked side to side with each of the mare’s steps, but
felt secure.
It made her grin, this sense of being tall and in charge. Of working in partnership with an animal
so much bigger than she was.
“How’re you doing?” Seth asked, reining his horse next to her.
“Great! I can’t believe I’ve never done this before. Do you ever have people come up just to
ride?”
“Nah, we’re a working ranch. Cattle and horses. Caleb trains our horses, sells some, keeps some.
And he’s in charge of the breeding program—we’ve got two stallions, with a third growing up. Adam
takes care of the cattle side of the business, pasture management, all that.”
“Adam was the one that brought the horses, right? With his family?”
Seth nodded.
“Don’t you have another brother?”
He nodded again. “Micah. He keeps all the machinery running and fills in where he’s needed. And
we’ve got a couple ranch hands year-round, plus a lot more in the spring when we’re calving.”
“Busy place!” Magpie flicked an ear at Riley’s voice. “Is she really listening to me?”
“Of course,” Seth said. “Your tone and your touch tell her what’s happening, what to expect.”
Riley was amazed. She expected such things from dogs, maybe, but had never connected it to
horses. “She’s just like a person!”
Seth chuckled. “She is a person. An individual, just not a human.”
Riley pondered that. “God’s creations really are glorious.”
“I guess.”
“So what’s your job on the ranch?”
Seth was silent, his jaw tight, his mouth compressed. “I don’t have one,” he finally said. Then he
moved Carrots into a trot to catch up with Tank.
Arrgh! Magpie tossed her head, and Riley loosened the reins she hadn’t realized she’d tightened.
It was a beautiful day, she was on a horse and having a fun, but… I really put my foot in that one,
God. Please give me better words next time. Please help him figure out his new life.
Riley watched the two guys ahead of her. They didn’t talk much, just rode. But she knew her
brother’s jovial exterior had been covering his frustration and depression, and she could tell his
emotions were eased a little after just this one day. If Seth’s allowing them to be here would help
Tank, maybe she could repay the favor and find ways to help Seth.
Tank twisted in his saddle to look back at her. “You ready to trot? Seth says we’ll just jog slowly
and it’s best to sit soft in the saddle, but you can stand in your stirrups if you want.”
They waited a few moments before they trotted off, giving Riley time to steel herself. She gripped
the reins in one hand and the saddle horn in the other, and remembered to only squeeze her legs, not
kick like in the movies. Magpie eased into a jog that was almost as slow as her walk, and Riley sat
easily. As she relaxed, the thought came back to her.
What could she do to help Seth?
 5

R iley spent the next day moving very stiffly, her inner thighs tight in ways she didn’t know was
possible. Her yoga practice reverted to basic sun salutations and lots of stretches, and she
determined to add more inner thigh strengthening poses to her routine. Although more riding would
accomplish the same purpose.
She wandered the paths through the woods when she wasn’t stretching. She had only her phone
camera, not her big one, but it would do. She studied the light and angles and pulled her phone out to
take close-ups photos of patterns that fascinated her: a burl on a tree trunk, the underside of a fungus,
the shadow of a leaf against a rock. Photography had been an outlet for her after hard days at work,
and there were so many of God’s fascinating creations to explore up here.
And she came back to Tank’s groans and Seth’s knowing grin. “It really would be better if you
rode just a little bit today,” Seth said.
But Tank was having nothing to do with that, and Riley didn’t push it. She wasn’t hurting nearly as
much as he was.
The next day, though, Seth didn’t take no for an answer. He dragged her grumbling brother out to
the corral, like it or not.
Riley followed and brushed Magpie, trying to flick the light dirt off like Seth showed her. It
wasn’t the easiest thing—her instinct was to use long, smooth strokes across the mare’s back. But like
Seth had said, it wasn’t like she had long hair that needed help lying smooth. Riley could do the long
strokes after the dirt was off.
She took her time, still wrapped up in patterns and textures, and thinking she needed to come out
with her phone when she wasn’t going to ride. The barn had a spot where light came through the roof,
which would be great for catching dust motes and interesting shadows.
She looked over at the guys. They had finished grooming already because she’d also given
Magpie extra ear scratches, murmuring all her thoughts to the mare. Besides, Seth could groom much
faster than either of them even with just his left hand.
Riley wondered what it would have been like if she had grown up around horses and cattle
instead of lots of people living close together. There was an openness and freedom up here that she
could never find in the city.
She ran the brush through Magpie’s dark tail, pulling out a sticker or two. Listening to her brother
and Seth, though—it was almost like a TV sitcom.
“No, over here.” “Ow!” “Sorry, didn’t mean to—oof!” “Grab it!”
She heard something hit the ground and couldn’t help looking over.
Seth’s left arm stretched over Carrots as far as he could reach, holding tightly to a leather strap.
Tank, on the other side, was sprawled on his butt on the ground, with one arm keeping the saddle from
smashing his head.
Riley controlled her laughter enough to whip out her phone and take a picture. Or three.
Tank saw. “Riley!”
Seth looked back at her. “You know, we’d appreciate not having a record of this.”
Riley just smirked. “Anytime you need a hand—get it, a hand—just let me know.”
Seth let go of the strap, and Tank got the saddle off himself. “We’re still way ahead of you, little
sis. You haven’t even gotten your saddle out. If you need any help, you’ll have to ask nicely.”
Riley smiled ever-so-sweetly at him and turned back to Magpie. They needed some time to
recover their dignity, after all.

WHEN ALL THREE horses were finally saddled, Tank simply stepped into the stirrup and hauled himself
up. It helped that his legs were long enough he hardly had to try, even with Scout’s size. Riley was tall
for a girl, but she had nothing on her brother. And today, instead of being docile and sleepy, Magpie
kept taking a step every time Riley got her foot in the stirrup.
She heard Seth’s sigh before she saw him at Magpie’s head. He took the reins and held the mare
steady while Riley mounted.
“Thanks, that helped,” she said once she was settled.
Seth only nodded.
He led Carrots to a tree stump and got on, but never smiled. What was with him? Instead of hot
cowboy, she ought to start thinking of him as Mr. Grumpypants.
The thought should have made her chuckle, but it brought back memories instead. Mr.
Grumpypants, Mrs. Bossypants, Mr. or Mrs. Lovey Dovey were all names she used with her littlest
kids. “Sometimes your dad is Mr. Grumpypants and isn’t very nice, and we have to keep you safe.”
Would she ever get back to them? She had another few weeks of suspension, but what if they
decided to let her go? Who would watch over the particularly needy children with everyone’s
caseloads so heavy already?
Magpie raised her head abruptly—a bird had flown close—and Riley turned her attention back to
where it should be. They were almost to the second gate already, and she hadn’t even noticed.
Once Seth had closed the gate behind him, Tank kicked his horse into a strong trot. He bounced in
the saddle, elbows flapping, but stayed pretty upright anyway.
Seth, riding next to Riley, grunted. “Hasn’t changed one bit.”
Riley shot him a sideways look, mindful of the way Magpie had her head up and alert. “He has
changed—he just isn’t letting you see it.”
She waited for Seth to ask more about Tank, but all the cowboy did was grunt.
Another gust of wind blew past, and Magpie took a sudden step sideways. Riley hadn’t known the
horse could do anything suddenly, especially when they were just walking.
“It’s the wind,” Seth said. “I’d forgotten that about her.” His grin made her heart pounds again.
“The wind?”
“Yeah, she was always super frisky when a storm blew in. Running and bucking in the pasture,
usually with a colt alongside. Fun to watch.”
“Bucking?” Riley tightened her grip on the reins and kept one hand ready to grab the saddle horn.
‘She was younger then, maybe five or six, but age doesn’t matter much when there’s electricity in
the air.”
Riley looked for storm clouds, but most of the sky was blocked by trees now.
“Don’t worry,” Seth said. “We might get some tonight, but we’re fine for the next few hours. Just a
breeze.” He grimaced.
“Seth? Are you okay?”
‘Fine,” he answered through a tight jaw.
Riley thought of her brother and how stoic he tried to be. What was it with these Army guys,
trying to hide everything? “You’re not fine. I can see it in your face.”
“It’s nothing you can help with.”
“Try me. Helping is my middle name.”
Seth pulled his horse up short. “All right then, Miss Help-Everyone-In-Sight. My hand—my non-
existent hand—is killing me. Got an answer for that?”
Riley opened her mouth and closed it again. She didn’t, not really. Nothing his therapists wouldn’t
have already shown him. And nothing he could do on a trail ride. “Why don’t we go back? I could
make a warm compress for you—that sometimes helped Tank.”
Seth growled. “And leave Wild Guy out there on a horse by himself? Anytime you two greenhorns
want to ride, I have to come along.”
Oh. Riley was more comfortable riding this time, but she had a long way to go. And Tank was
being downright reckless. But it hadn’t occurred to her that Seth might not want to ride all the time.
And she should have realized Seth would be dealing with phantom pain at least occasionally. She
hoped it wasn’t constant.
They sank into their own thoughts until Seth said, “Ready to trot? We ought to catch up to Tank. I
shouldn’t have let him go off by himself.”
Riley shortened her reins and nudged Magpie into her very slow jog. Except it wasn’t slow this
time, and Riley had to grab the saddle horn to keep from bouncing off. Seth showed her how to post,
rising and lowering herself with each stride. She wobbled a bit as she got the hang of it, but it was
much better than bouncing as badly as a football. Who knew where she would have landed!
They crossed a shallow creek and caught up to Tank a few minutes later—sitting on the forest
floor.
“Tank!” Riley cried. “Are you okay?” She pulled Magpie to a halt and got off faster than she
thought possible.
“Where’s Scout?” Seth demanded.
She whirled on him. “My brother just got bucked off, maybe hurt, and you want to know where the
horse is?”
He gave her the same disdainful look she’d gotten from her boss when she’d been suspended.
“First, the number one rule is not to let go of the reins—you may never find your horse again. Second,
look at Tank’s face—he’s obviously not hurt. And third, my dad always said that you’re not a rider
until you’ve hit the ground. We’ve all fallen, we all get up.”
“You…you…cowboy!” Riley sputtered.
Tank rose, brushing his jeans off. “He’s right, Sis. I’m fine, and I didn’t get bucked off. Scout was
feeling good and started galloping and it was loads of fun. Until I slipped sideways and fell off.” He
turned to Seth. “I’m sorry I didn’t hold on to him. I just didn’t think about it. And, um, you know you
never actually told us that.”
Seth cussed under his breath. “You’re right, I didn’t. But now you know. And rule number one
ought to be to stay with the group.”
 But Tank was looking at him goggle-eyed. “Again, Preach? That’s more four-letter-words in a
few days than I heard from you in two years!”
Seth glared at him. “You guys left a lot of them floating in my brain and sometimes they come out.
So sue me.” He got back on Carrots. “You two stay here. I’m going to find Scout.”
Tank turned to Riley as Seth loped out of sight. “What’s with him? That’s not the easy-going
Preach I used to know.”
Riley sighed. “Phantom pain.”
“That explains a lot.”
“I tried to get him to go back and let me make a compress for it, but he wouldn’t. Said anytime we
wanted to ride, he had to come. Called us greenhorns.”
Tank shrugged. “Well, we are. And he’s right—we shouldn’t be out of his sight when we’re on a
horse. I was being stupid.”
Riley fiddled with Magpie’s reins. “So what now?”
“Now we make a most comfortable nest of pine needles and wait.”
“But should we head back home, today or tomorrow, and leave the ranch for another time?”
Tank took a long time to answer. “I don’t think…I’m not ready to go back. Are you? Besides, I
think Seth needs us as much as we need him.”
 6

S eth stared at his button-down Sunday shirt. Glared at it, actually. It had bested him before, but
maybe he should try again.
He pulled his t-shirt off and slipped his arms into the blue shirtsleeves. With his ever-awkward
left hand, he straightened the front out. He could do this. Maybe his coordination had gotten better
since the last time he tried.
His fingers fumbled with the first button. It would start in the buttonhole, but as before, every time
he tried to grab it from the other side, it slipped back out again.
Three tries later, he gave in and picked up the button hook. No cussing allowed. But the button
hook felt just as awkward. He couldn’t seem to aim it well just to get it through the buttonhole, and
when he did manage to grab the button, he couldn’t put the right twist on it to pull it through.
He started to swear, then shut it off. Tank was right—he couldn’t let his standards down because
life had changed. Please, Lord, I know You won’t be giving me my hand back. But could you help me
with this one little thing?
He tried again. Got stymied again. Kept at it.
Finally, success! He grabbed his t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead—ridiculous to need
such an intense effort for such a little thing.
And then he realized he had five more buttons to go.
“Hey, Preach! You ready?” Tank called from the other room.
It was almost time to leave for church. “Just about,” he shouted back. At least the clock saved him
from the other five buttons. It turned out shoving the button back through was easier than buttoning it in
the first place, and he gladly pulled a clean t-shirt over his head. At least he’d been able to master
that.
He dug a beige compression sock out of his drawer and pulled it over his bad arm as best he
could—no way was he going to church with an ugly, scarred stump for people to stare at.
Tank looked shocked when Seth came out. “I expected a button-down shirt and bolo tie, from the
way you used to talk.”
“Yeah, well, things change. But…can you get this up tighter?” He held his stump out.
Between the two of them, they worked the compression sock up until it was tight. ‘Thanks, man,”
Seth said, adjusting his t-shirt.
There was a knock on the door, and it opened a crack. “You guys decent?” Riley called.
“Yup, almost ready,” Tank answered.
Riley came in, and Seth’s heart stuttered. He shut it down fast but couldn’t keep from taking quick
looks at her. She wore a soft, floaty skirt that showcased her long legs. Her hair sported some sort of
fancy braid. He had no idea what family traits gave her the black hair and blue eyes, but she was
absolutely gorgeous.
Tank elbowed him. “Eyes forward, Sarge.”
“Huh? Oh, right. Uh, my truck or your SUV?”
“Whatever you—” Tank began.
“The SUV, please,” Riley said firmly. “No offense, Seth, but your truck has lots of dirt and hay in
it, and I’m in a white skirt.”
“True that,” Seth said, grinning. “You drive, big guy.” Although he would have loved to have
Riley close beside him on the way to town.
They slipped into church just before the music started, amid smiles and stares from his friends.
And his family hovered.
“Here, sit where you won’t get bumped.”
“I’ll hold the hymnal for you.”
Worse was when he grimaced at Pastor Rich’s sermon on trusting God. “Do you need another pain
pill?” his sister-in-law, Jo, asked solicitously.
“I’m fine,” he grumbled under his breath.
Caleb elbowed him. “Be nice. That’s my wife you’re growling at.”
At least afterward he’d be able to introduce Tank and Riley properly, and they could carry the
social load.
Pastor Rich gave the last announcements before the benediction. “You all know our food bank is
open on the second Saturday of the month, but you may not know that some of our regular volunteers
aren’t able to help anymore. So if you’re available, please see Mary McGready. Also, we’d like to
give a huge welcome back to Seth Black. Praise to God for helping him recover from his injury.
Tank nudged his shoulder, but Seth kept his head down and wished he hadn’t been singled out.
Wished he’d stayed home, in fact.
Just getting out of the sanctuary was an ordeal.
“Good to see you again, Seth!” Mr. Brown clapped his hand on Seth’s good shoulder, keeping his
eyes averted from his stump.
“Glad you’re recovered now,” said old Mrs. Hernandez, who used to hold him up with all kinds
of chit-chat, but not this time.
“Hey,” said Lucas Wilson, who then ducked his head and walked away.
Caleb steered him downstairs to the coffee-and-donuts area. “Don’t mind them. They’re glad to
see you; they just don’t know what to say.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t either,” Seth muttered. “Maybe we’ll just go home.”
“Nah, you got this.” Caleb rolled his eyes. “You gotta face it sometime, bro. May as well be
now.”
So Seth went through the motions of talking to people. Some ignored him, would hardly meet his
eyes across the room. Some would talk to him but wouldn’t look at his arm. Some hovered even
worse than Riley. “Here, let me get the door for you.” “I’ll get your coffee.” And even, “Does it still
hurt?” He shook his head to everything and backed away.
It seemed easier for Tank. He was more relaxed about it all anyway, and his blue and yellow
psychedelic sleeve gave people an easy talking point.
“That’s cool. Where’d you get it?”
“Is it just decoration or does it do something?”
Someone even asked, “What happened?”
 But Seth couldn’t face those questions, even if he’d had an eye-catching sleeve over his arm. He
made sure the old biddy who’d stopped him was caught up in conversation with a young cowboy, left
Tank and Riley to the others, and headed for refreshments. If he put his donut plate on top of his cup of
coffee, he could carry it just fine.
Until he sat down with no place to put them.
The coffee was warm in his hand, the scent of the donut was making his mouth water, and he
couldn’t do a thing about it.
Thank heaven for Riley.
She excused herself from her conversation and came to rescue him, taking the plate off the top of
the cup.
Seth breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I was kind of stuck there.”
“They need little end tables by the chairs,” she said. “Maybe I can talk to Pastor Rich.”
“Don’t make waves, Riley.” He sipped the coffee, then traded her for the donut and took a
luscious bite. It almost settled the anxiety of being there. Too many people, too much awkwardness.
He couldn’t wait to get back to the cabin and relax.

RILEY STOPPED TALKING mid-sentence and waited. Tank polished off his donut and looked at her with
raised eyebrows. Seth came back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “Huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “Sheesh, guys! Don’t you ever listen? The food bank has lost some regular
volunteers and they need help.”
Seth raised his stump in answer. “Not much good at lifting boxes, sorry.”
Riley elbowed him. “You can still pack them, you know.”
“What if they’ve already got packers?” Tank asked.
She shook her head at their lack of imagination. “First, brother dear, you won’t even know what
tasks are needed until you ask the pastor or Mrs. Whoever. And second, even if the people leaving are
the ones who loaded boxes, maybe a couple of them could switch roles and let you two pack.”
Tank looked sheepish, but Seth’s face shut down.
Riley closed her eyes. Dear God, help him see he’s not useless. That he still has a lot to give.
“We need to at least find out. It would be good for you, and I really need something like this.” Helping
people was what Riley lived for, and she missed the fulfillment she got through her work.
She looked around and waved Pastor Rich over. “Could you tell us more about the food bank and
what the volunteers do?”
Pastor Rich shook her hand, then the guys’, switching smoothly to his left hand for Seth. “You
three would be awesome. It would be the three of you?”
“Yes,” Riley answered, just as Seth and Tank said, “Maybe,” in unison.
The pastor grinned. “Well, Jack Harris had been helping while he was unemployed, but he starts
his new job this week. Mrs. Tuttle is going to be taking care of her grandchildren, and Carol Peabody
will be taking over as my secretary. We can use her in a pinch, but a few young, strong volunteers are
just what we need. You three are an answer to prayer.”
Seth raised his eyebrows. “You did notice that two of us are one-handed? Tank will have his other
one sometime, but we don’t know how long that will be.”
Tank shoulder-bumped him, upsetting Seth’s balance and making Riley stifle a grin. “Remember
what I said, Sarge—you find a way to make things work.” He turned back to the pastor. “So what
exactly would we be doing?”
“Let me introduce you to our food bank coordinator, Mary McGready.”
They went through the whole thing again, Mrs. McGready nodding the whole time.
“We have a lot to do besides lifting boxes, lads,” she said. “Each box is packed for a family, most
of it ahead of time. They get canned goods, cereal, pasta and such. Frozen meat and fresh items get
added at pick up. You could pack the boxes, no problem. Also, the produce sits outside near the pick-
up line, and you could gather what the family requests there.”
Riley watched the guys’ faces. Tank was nodding agreement, and even Seth looked interested.
“And for you, lass,” Mrs. McGready continued, “could you load the boxes into the recipients’
cars? I’ve got some elderly helpers who aren’t up to it, but you look rather fit yourself.”
“Of course.” This was exactly what Riley needed, and she hoped it would fill a void inside Seth,
too. She didn’t worry about Tank like she worried about Seth—her brother had already worked
through a lot of his issues. “When do you need us?”
“Nine o’clock on the Saturdays we’re open. Which is only once a month now, but hopefully going
to more. We’re open from ten to noon.” Her long hair, a mix of gray and red, swung as she spoke.
“That works, doesn’t it, Seth?”
He looked a little exasperated. “Sure. It’s not like we have anything else going on.”
Riley kept her mouth shut. Seth would shut down anything out of his comfort zone if he could. She
remembered Tank being willing to try things, but she wasn’t sure how much their parents had needed
to coax him. For Seth, it would be more prodding than coaxing, but she couldn’t help think that he’d
be glad for it in the end.
“And Saturdays mean you won’t miss any OT appointments, right?” Tank put in.
Seth sighed. “Whatever.”
Riley waited until they were on their way home to ask, “What’s this about OT? Haven’t you been
going?”
Seth kept his eyes on the road. “I went for a month. Got tired of doing baby stuff.”
Tank huffed. “Which is why you still can’t tie your shoes.”
“I don’t need to—I wear boots!”
Riley looked between the two of them. She remembered Tank going to occupational therapy twice
a week, remembered how frustrated he’d been until he learned to adapt and find new ways of doing
things. And the physical therapy was important too—he needed to keep his normally-used muscles
toned and fit so they’d be ready for his prosthesis.
She couldn’t give Seth his natural hand back, but she could certainly help him do the necessary
things to be ready for a new one.

HER FIRST CHANCE came the next morning.

Riley had just flipped the bacon over when Seth came out of his room. His jeans were bunched up
above the top of his boots, and he flopped onto the couch with a sigh.
She watched while he worked his thumb and fingers to get one side of the hem over the boot, but
when he fussed with the other side, the first wiggled up again.
“You need bell-bottoms from the 70s, not a slim boot-cut,” Riley said, leaving the bacon to kneel
in front of him. “Look, if you try it this way—”
 “I can do it,” he muttered, brushing her hand away.
She jerked back, feeling almost burned. “Fine, then. I’ll focus on breakfast.” If he wanted to be a
touchy cowboy, that was his business. Touch, grumpy and prideful. He’d be up and going faster if he
let her help.
The air in the cabin simmered with tension for several moments. “Smells good,” Seth finally said,
almost in apology.
Riley forced herself to calm. “Nothing better than the smell of bacon,” she answered, finally
finding a smile.
Tank burst through the door, bringing the fresh morning air with him. “Ain’t that the truth! And you
don’t burn it anymore, either!” He laughed and squeezed her shoulder.
He’d been out to check the horses—Riley had never guessed her brother would get quite so
enamored of them—and was full of energy. “We going riding today?” he asked. “Right after
breakfast?”
Seth lifted one shoulder. “If you want.”
Riley studied him covertly. His handsome face seemed slack—he was a lot more down-hearted
than he had been last night. His hair wasn’t combed yet, and his hand trembled. She couldn’t fix
anything for him, but she wished she could make things better. Even a little bit. He was kind, at least
when he wasn’t grumping over his arm. He’d been a hard worker when he was able-bodied, and he’d
given a lot of years in service to his country. Seth deserved to feel better.
But she couldn’t heal for him, couldn’t make the adjustments for him. All she could do was make
a few little things easier.
She forked the now-crispy bacon to a paper towel to drain and reached for a mug from his
cupboard. Raised on country sunshine, this one said. Perfect for his cloudy mood. She poured coffee,
added the sugar she’d noticed he liked, and took it over.
Seth glared at her.
“I thought it might wake you up. You need some sunshine.”
He worked his jaw, but finally gave her an acknowledging nod. He picked the mug up, stood, and
half-tripped over the low table. Coffee sloshed all over. “Blast it all!” he snapped.
Riley ran to get paper towels and started mopping up the spilled coffee.
“I can do it!” Seth’s words shot like a gun. “I’m not helpless, you know.” He set the mug down,
grabbed the paper towels from her hand and knelt. She blinked back tears, her help rejected once
again, while he made wide swipes, half soaking up the brown liquid and half smearing it farther
away.
Riley bit the inside of her cheek, then stomped to the small counter and grabbed the whole roll.
“Here. You’ll need them.” She threw them down, turned the stove burner off, and stalked outside.
The bright morning, so refreshing when Tank had come in earlier, now seemed to mock her. She
raised her voice to the sky but didn’t go as far as shaking her fist at it.
“What am I supposed to do, God? Is it wrong to try to help people? Do you expect me to just sit
there and be yelled at? He’s so…frustrating! And pig-headed! And wallowing in his own problems!”
She knew Seth was in pain, mentally if not physically, but all she wanted to do was ease his
struggle. Was that such a bad thing?
Even if it wasn’t what she would consider a prayer, telling God seemed to take the edge off her
anger. She inhaled deeply and let the scent of pine and grass and wildness settle in her. Not to mention
the still-present smell of bacon, which was probably quite crisp now and coated in grease after sitting
in the pan.
 She glanced at the cabin door, but even food wouldn’t draw her back in there right now. On the
other hand, Magpie was always ready for some brushing and one-sided conversation.
 7

S eth mopped up the rest of his mess, sucking in his abs for support because he couldn’t lean on his
hand and clean up at the same time. For all he liked Riley, he really didn’t need her help doing
every little thing. It felt like he was back at the homestead with his brother and sister looming over
him.
“She mothers everyone,” Tank reassured him. “You should have seen her when I came home.
Pulled my t-shirt over my head for way too many days. Always checking to make sure I took my
meds.”
“Just like my family.”
“Just like most families, I s’pose. But Riley’s got the mothering gene through and through. She
could see what I needed before I even thought it, and showed up with whatever it was—a glass of
juice, a sandwich, a book. She hugs you all the time. She kept changing my bandages even when they
got infected.”
“Yeah, but that’s you,” Seth said. “You’re her brother and you got hurt.”
“No, that’s just Riley…with anyone. She buys Mom flowers at the grocery store just because it
will make her smile. She puts a blanket over Dad when he falls asleep in his chair. She spends too
much time helping her casework families—way more than the job requires, and it makes for very long
days for her at work. Especially—” He cut off.
“What?”
Tank shook his head. “Over-mothering has caused problems at work, but that’s her story to tell.
But she’s got to realize that she can still care without solving everyone’s problems for them.”
“Seems like everyone gets carried away when someone needs help. My family—they just got
overwhelming, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I’ve been there. I know. But Preach, if you could put up with it for a while—or at least some of it
—it would really help. She needs a chance to figure things out.”
Seth fiddled with his hat. “So to help her, you want me to let her help me?”
“That’d be awesome. If you can deal with it.”
Could he deal with Riley hovering like a parent of a preschooler? Over-protective, over-
solicitous, and undoubtedly over-reaching.
The month on his own had been peaceful and restorative for him. Sure, there had been a hole
where his family had been, but he’d known it was for the best. He’d settled into life on his own:
caring for himself, taking solace from the mountains, riding when he felt like it without people
worrying about him bumping his arm. And when they braved a visit, he worked to keep conversation
to what was happening down at the homestead.
 On the other hand, having Tank and Riley there had shown him what he lacked. He hadn’t been
doing his exercises, he was living off frozen food, and he was too much in his own head. Even
wallowing in it sometimes. And, to be honest, sometimes taking too many pain pills. He hadn’t
expected to still need them after one month, let alone three.
Seth sighed and gathered up the used paper towels. The coffee table and floor were wiped off,
even if he didn’t want to see how much dirt he’d picked up along with the spilled coffee.
“Come on, let’s go check the horses,” he said, dumping the paper towels in the trash and grabbing
a handful of grease-soaked bacon.
Tank smirked. “Want me to help get your jeans over your boots?” And then laughed gleefully.
Seth glared but couldn’t help the corners of his mouth lifting. Just a little.
The horses still had their faces stuck into their piles of hay, so Seth just leaned against Carrots,
soaking in the warmth of the sun on his sorrel coat. Tank did the same with Scout, which left Seth’s
mind with time to work things over.
Could he cope with Riley constantly helping him? Did that mean letting her do anything she
thought of, even if he could do it himself? Or just giving her a pass on her mothering attitude?
If he was going to let anyone hover, Riley had a lot going for her. Her smile, her flashing sapphire
eyes, her… He knew he should admire someone for their inner qualities, not how they looked, but he
couldn’t help being entranced with her slender figure and lovely face. She was just the right height for
kissing, and those lips—
That’s enough! he scolded himself. He had no right to think about kissing any girl, especially
Riley. She had a job, she had a life in the city, and she certainly didn’t need to settle for someone like
him. Change the subject, doofus!
“Hey, Callahan,” he called. “Let’s fix that board while the horses are eating.”
“In a minute,” Tank answered, still leaning against Scout’s belly.
“Hmmph.” Seth left Carrots to his hay and scouted in the barn for a hammer and nails. Tank joined
him soon enough.
Seth lifted the fallen board into position, but they needed to place a new nail—there was a split
from the old nail hole to the end. He braced his leg against it and held the nail in his good hand while
Tank wielded the hammer. “Make sure you don’t smash my remaining thumb, okay?”
Tank laughed and hit the nail squarely on the head.
“If you had your prosthesis, you could do this by yourself, couldn’t you?” Seth asked.
Tank glanced at his stump. “Yeah, sure. I mean, it takes a little longer to grip a nail with a
mechanical hand instead of live fingers, but sure. I’ll be glad when this skin irritation goes away.” He
sent Seth a knowing look. “But it doesn’t stop me doing things, you know? If I want to do something,
I’ll find a way.” He pounded the nail in the rest of the way, then they did a second nail.
Seth moved to the other end of the board. “Like what?” He couldn’t believe he was asking. A
week ago, he didn’t believe anything was possible. Tank was sort of changing his thinking.
“Like using my teeth to hold something. Like bracing with my leg.” He tilted his head toward
Seth’s leg against the board. “Like using my stump to steady something, although you’ll be able to do
a lot more with yours. I don’t have much left.”
Seth looked at Tank’s arm, cut off between his shoulder and elbow. At least Seth still had his
elbow.
“And changing some little things helps. You already discovered pump bottles for shampoo and
such, right? There’s a lot of stuff to help in the kitchen, too. Rocker knives, little vise holders to keep
the cutting board in place, things like that. But the new arm does make it easier to cut a steak.”
 Seth closed his eyes, thinking of eating without needing someone to cut his food for him. It
sounded like Tank had it all pretty well figured out. But if he wasn’t having problems dealing with
losing his arm, then… “Uh, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want…”
“Yeah?”
Seth searched for words that wouldn’t be too intrusive. “Captain Carter asked if you could come
up here because you weren’t doing so good. Maybe not those words exactly, but that was the
impression.” He paused for a moment. “It’s just that…you seem to be coping just fine.”
Tank didn’t look at him, just sank the next nail, then another. He stood and stretched his back.
“That looks a lot better now.” He looked down the fence line, then out to the woods. “I’m not having
problems being an amp so much, just…maybe…dealing with life. Other parts of life.”
Seth nodded, but he wasn’t going to push any more. If Tank didn’t want to explain, he didn’t have
to—a man had a right to keep private things private.
But Tank continued. “There were things that happened at work that, well, they shoved me into a
box, and I can’t seem to get out. And I guess my depression was getting worse—”
“Wait, you’re depressed?”
Tank shrugged. “That’s a whole ‘nother story. But anyway, Riley realized how bad it was and
nagged me, but I guess she was still afraid. So when she heard Captain Carter was home on leave, she
called him. We have a cousin who is friends with Mrs. Carter and Riley got his cell number, but I bet
she would have found a way anyway.”
Seth pocketed the old nails and started back toward the barn. “So you came up here to get away
from work problems?”
“I guess.” Tank stopped to rub Scout’s face. “For a while, anyway. They just don’t see what I can
do,” he said, frustrated. “It’s OutdoorXplorers, and we send people on rafting trips, rock climbing,
mountain climbing, stuff like that. And I’m stuck in the office setting things up and handling insurance
waivers and claims just because I don’t have two natural arms.”
“But you can do that, can’t you? Go rafting and stuff?”
“Oh yeah.” Tank’s voice was bitter. “I do it myself, and I could pull someone out of the water, no
problem. But if I go out as a guide, ‘it raises our insurance rates too much.’ What a load of bull.”
Seth’s brow furrowed. “They can’t do that, can they? Doesn’t the ADA make them accommodate
you?”
“Not if it’s detrimental to the company.” Tank paused, then sighed. “And they’re right. The
liability insurance would skyrocket. I guess it’s the insurance people I’d have to convince, not my
boss.” He gave Scout one last pat and turned back toward the barn.
Seth followed, feeling sorry for him—it wasn’t fair. And then he realized... “We’re in the same
fix, aren’t we? I can’t do what I want, and they won’t let you do what you want. Right?”
Tank gave him a look. “You don’t know yet what you’re capable of.”
“Yeah, but...” Seth rubbed his stump absently—it was aching deeply again, but that was better
than the stabbing pains. “What are you going to do?”
Tank laughed as he put the hammer in the old toolbox. “I’m going to enjoy the break while we’re
up here and watch over my sister.”
Riley of the gorgeous blue eyes and black hair—Seth wondered if they had some Irish in their
background—looked like she was doing just fine, though. “So why’d she come with you?”
Tank peered over a stall wall as he chuckled. “To be honest, I tricked her. She’s been going
through her own tough time, so I told her I wouldn’t come without her—she needs the break as much
as I do. So she thinks she’s here because I wouldn’t stay if she didn’t come, and she’s desperate for
me to not be alone.”
Seth jerked his head up.
Tank gave him a wry half-smile. “I don’t sleep with my weapon under my pillow anymore, but
she’s never sure.”
Seth thought of his first weeks at home when he’d done just that. Not because of PTSD—it wasn’t
like he had flashbacks or threw himself under the bed with loud noises. But he’d been overwhelmed
with hopelessness, and nobody seemed to understand. If he were being completely honest, he’d have
to admit he might have used it if he could have found a way to pull the trigger.
As it was, being out here away from his family had actually helped—there was nobody to put
pressure on him. Not that they’d meant to, it was just a side effect of them caring. Had he done his
physical therapy? Was he taking his pills on time? He needed to eat and keep up his strength. He
needed to get out for fresh air or lie down and rest. And on and on.
As for the hopelessness, yeah, he’d been there. He was still there. There didn’t seem much point
to living if his life was useless. His army career was gone and his ranching abilities taken away, all
without his choice. He’d had no control over any of it.
But one sleepless night, in the wee hours of the morning, his desperation had softened him enough
to listen for God again. No direct answers had come, but he’d felt a sense of being wrapped in His
arms. And that “hug” had been enough to carry him through most days so far, even if he didn’t know
what his life would look like.
Now, with Tank around, he realized that Captain Carter had done a good thing. Friendship and
time away from pressures was a good thing.
 8

T hewould
next few days helped Seth realize that good friends didn’t have to be all male. Even if no one
ever be interested in him romantically, Riley didn’t seem too put off by his lack of a hand.
He supposed that Tank’s experience had helped her see past it. And she was becoming a friend.
The problem was that she wasn’t just gorgeous, she was kind and interesting. Most mornings, she
had her yoga mat out and went through a set of poses that would have twisted Seth into a pretzel. And
she found the weirdest things to take pictures of. Well, not weird, really, just mundane. A fence post.
A tall bunch of grass. The bark on a tree.
And Seth couldn’t help the way his pulse quickened when she came close. She had no idea, of
course—he was just her brother’s buddy, another guy missing a limb. She probably felt sorry for him,
but at least she wasn’t revolted. Still, if he wanted her to stick around, even as just a friend, he had to
keep his attraction to himself. The same determination that got him through maneuvers with a full ruck
would help him keep his feelings tightened down. I know she’s not for me, Lord. Could You help me
shove these feelings to the side?
The three of them cleared an area for a campfire one evening, and Riley shaved feathered tinder
sticks while Seth and Tank gathered more wood. With the fire built, Seth went in for matches. And
slapped his head.
“Hey, guys, we’ve got a problem,” he called through the open door. “No matches—haven’t
needed them and couldn’t have lit them if I did!”
Tank rolled his eyes. “You got a travel trailer sitting right there—why don’t you see if there’s a
lighter in a drawer somewhere?”
Well, duh. Anyone would think Seth was missing his brain, not just his hand. He found a lighter in
the trailer and they were soon watching flames flicker and rise.
They told stories of childhood: Seth’s first horse, Riley and Tank fishing with their dad, favorite
teachers, how Riley was the only one who liked history.
The fire finally softened to low flames and glowing coals. “Do we have any marshmallows
around?” Tank asked.
Seth shook his head. “Never needed any.”
Riley grinned. “Maddy—that’s Adam’s wife, right?—brought some on Sunday. Said we might
have a chance to roast them. Brought the marshmallow sticks, too.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Tank headed for the trailer. “They’re in here, right?”
He came back shortly, passed out the sticks, and opened the bag of marshmallows with his teeth.
Riley poked the fire until there were perfect coals in front of her and had two marshmallows on
her stick before Seth got his out of the bag.
 And then he was stuck. One marshmallow in the palm of his hand, one stick held by the fingers of
the same hand, and no way to connect them.
“Sarge, Sarge, Sarge.” Tank shook his head in disbelief. “There are a gazillion ways to do it. Use
your head.”
“Here, Seth, if you—” Riley started to stand.
“No, Rile,” Tank shut her down, “he’s got to figure this out himself.”
Seth looked at the marshmallow. Maybe he’d rather just eat it raw. But no, with both of them
watching, he had to figure this out. He stuck his marshmallow in his mouth, hoping he wasn’t
drooling, and wedged the base of the stick between his boots and higher up between his knees. Three
seconds later, his marshmallow was on, followed quickly by a second.
It was so simple if he only let his mind open to possibilities.
Tank laughed. “You could also just use your elbow, since you’ve still got one, to press the stick to
your side or your lap.”
Seth stuck his jaw out and ignored him. He held his marshmallows over a low flame.
They rotated their sticks slowly. Tank got his too close to the coals and it caught fire. He blew it
out quickly. “I like them black!”
Riley laughed and rolled her eyes.
“Black, maybe, but not totally charred,” Seth put in. His own was just right—a shade darker than
dark brown, but not truly burnt.
“Nuh unh,” Riley said. “Golden brown on all sides. And it takes skill to achieve perfection, not
just eating the haphazard results.” The embers added a glow to her face, and Seth reminded himself
once more that they were only friends.
“Miss Perfect, huh?” Tank teased his sister. “Shall I remind you of the time you got sticky
marshmallow all up in your hair?”
“I was eight years old! Maybe I should remind you of getting stuck hanging upside down from a
tree branch.”
Seth laughed. “I remember when Adam and Micah were swinging from the rafters. Dad was gone
somewhere, and Mom was out in the garden. I was about six, so they would have been young teens.
Caleb decided he was going to try it, too.
“He was awesome on a horse, even at that age, but he never was great at climbing trees. So you
get this dorky ten-year-old wanting to do what his big brothers were doing. He somehow shinnied up
a post from the hay loft that supported the rafters but couldn’t get himself up onto the rafter. Stuck,
thoroughly stuck. And Micah and Adam weren’t really old enough to know how to get him down.”
“So what happened?” Riley’s gaze never left his face, and he tucked the image into his mind to
savor later.
“They yelled a lot, at him and at each other. They finally found another way down to the loft floor,
and then Micah climbed on Adam’s shoulders, holding on to the post, and then I climbed up both of
them until I was on Micah’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. Like a human totem pole. But I was up
to Caleb’s knees, and he could shimmy down our bodies.”
“All right!” Tank gave a fist pump. “Pretty ingenious, actually.”
Riley shook her head but laughed, a light, musical sound. Something else for Seth to store for
later.
“We should have gotten away with it—nobody got hurt—but Caleb had to blurt it all out at dinner,
how he’d been up high in the barn rafters. Boy, did we all get in trouble.”
“Did you get spanked?”
 “Oh, nothing that straightforward,” Seth laughed. “My parents believed in the redemptive power
of work. We had the privilege of cleaning out not one, but two of the cow sheds—yuk!”
Tank hooted, and Seth reveled in the camaraderie. He hadn’t expected to feel like this again. Like
a normal person, where no one gave a second thought to his missing arm.
And, he had to admit, the firelight making Riley’s face glow and her eyes shine was an added
bonus. Even if they couldn’t be anything more than friends.

THE NEXT MORNING ’ S light added a different glow on the other side of Seth’s eyelids. He groaned—
they’d been up way too late around the campfire. He flipped onto his side and reached to pull the
blanket up higher. His fingers couldn’t find it, so he cracked one eye open.
Duh. No fingers. No hand.
It was only his mind telling him the missing fingers were moving. He wondered if that sensation
would ever go away, or if he’d spend the rest of his life trying to grab things with a hand that wasn’t
there.
He might be able to cope with that if he didn’t have the pain to go with it. Pain for a nonexistent
piece of arm. “Phantom,” they called it—hah! There wasn’t anything phantom about how much it hurt.
He rubbed it lightly—sometimes that helped, even if the rubbing itself still hurt. Maybe he’d try a
heating pad again, although that hadn’t made any difference before.
Perhaps he really was ready for some professional help. He had to admit he’d been coasting,
getting by day to day without any true desire to change things. Where would he be now if he’d been
doing his physical therapy exercises properly? If he’d been searching out ways to do things instead of
moaning about his fate?
He’d given up on himself for too long, and God must have known it and sent Captain Carter to
arrange Tank coming. He huffed to himself. Tank, who probably thought he could climb Mount Everest
if he wanted to.
Seth wasn't like that—had no desire to go mountain climbing anyway—but it was time he got an
evaluation for a prosthesis again, some advice on the phantom pain, and whatever else they might
offer.
And while he rubbed his stump and pondered making the phone call, he also wondered if Riley
was doing yoga this early. And if so, was there a way he could watch without being noticed?
Lord, I know I’ve been clueless about myself, and I’m sorry. But girls? I’m gonna need some
help accepting reality here.
 9

S eth took a deep breath and steeled himself before opening the door to the prosthetist’s office the
next Tuesday. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. Riley, who had errands to run in Grand Junction as
well, carried his pointless fake arm for him.
He tried to keep calm in the monotone waiting room until his name was called. Would he get
scolded for losing muscle tone? Or for not doing the physical therapy exercises that would prepare
him for a new arm.
Riley squeezed his hand, and he couldn’t help a small smile from appearing. At least some things
were going right.
A large, ebony-skinned woman with a wide smile opened the door. “Seth Black, come on down!”
Seth blinked.
Riley stood, grinning. “That’s you, cowboy.”
“I’m not a cowboy anymore,” he growled. But he stood and followed the woman with the chart in
her hand.
She led him back to an office rather than the workshop he remembered from before. “I’m Yolanda.
Nice to meet you, Seth,” she said, holding out her left hand.
He tilted his head but accepted the handshake. “I thought I was seeing George?”
Yolanda nodded. “He’s not here anymore—he somehow got the idea that spending a year
exploring the Amazon would be more exciting than spending time with us. So you get me instead, and
I will tell you right now that I have superpowers. I can make your wildest prosthetic dreams come
true, up to and including an arm with a coffee maker attached if you want!”
Seth scowled, but Yolanda laughed and turned to Riley. “And you are?”
“Riley Callahan. I’m, uh—” she looked at Seth, “staying up at the ranch for a while.”
“Good. Always good to have a friend to carry things, right? Just don’t let her do too much.”
Yolanda took Seth’s fake arm from her. “So, Seth…I’d ask how things were going, but I’d guess it
hasn’t been all unicorns and rainbows. Tell me about it.”
Seth tried to explain how clunky the prosthesis had felt and how frustrated he’d been, and
admitted he’d basically given up. “But then Tank—Riley’s brother and an old army friend—came up
to the ranch. He’s had an amputation too, on his other arm, and he does a lot even without a
prosthesis. He’s pushing me to do more—we even fixed a fence board the other day—but…doing
things like that is complicated. Hard. It does make me want a working hand, though.”
Yolanda lifted the prosthesis. “But the socket doesn’t fit your arm anymore, does it? Let’s check
some measurements.”
She compared them with his computer record, and they talked about how long it would take for
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “The dreadful summit of the cliff,
That beetles o’er his base into the sea....
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea,
And hears it roar beneath.”

Nor is the much talked of cradle forgotten, slung on ropes, for crossing the
chasm between a lower cliff and the Holm of Noss;—a detached rocky islet,
the top of which only affords pasture, during the summer months, for some
half dozen sheep.
The curious and singularly-perfect ancient Pictish or Scandinavian Burgh, in
the Island of Moosa, rises again before me; Scalloway Bay, with its old Castle
in ruins, its fishermen’s cots, and fish-drying sheds. A high, long, out-jutting
rocky promontory too, on which I had stood watching the “yeasty waves” far
below, as they rolled thundering into an irregular cave, which, in the course of
ages, they had scooped out among the basaltic crags, and, leaping up, scattered
drenching showers of diamond spray. Every succeeding dash of the billows
produced a loud report like the discharge of artillery, the reverberations
echoing along the shore. In the black creek below, the brine seething like a
caldron was literally churned into white foam-flakes, which, rising into the air
on sudden gusts of wind, sailed away inland, high overhead, like a flock of sea-
birds. These flakes were of all sizes, large masses of froth at times floating
down, and alighting at our very feet, from so great a height that they had
merely shewed as black specks against the bright sunlight. In lulls one could
actually lift them bodily from the ground, upwards of two cubic feet in size;
but when the wind rose, such masses of whipped sea-cream were again seized
upon, swept aloft, divided into smaller portions, and carried away across the
island. These and other pleasing memories presented themselves as we now
gazed on the distant, dim-blue Shetland Isles.
Saw a large vessel disabled and being towed southwards from Shetland, where
she appears to have come to grief. Topmasts gone, sides battered and patched
with boards. She is high out of the water, so that the cargo must have been
discharged. All our opera-glasses and telescopes are in requisition.
 FOOLA.

Sat on the boom for hours, the vessel rolling heavily over the great smooth
Atlantic billows. In the afternoon passed the island of Foola, which has been
called the St. Kilda of Shetland. It lies about sixteen miles west of Mainland,
and is high and precipitous. The cliffs are tenanted by innumerable sea-fowls,
which are caught in thousands by the cragsmen, and afford a considerable
source of revenue to the inhabitants.
Blue and cloudlike the detached and isolated heights of Mainland, Yell, and
Unst—the promontory of Hermanness, on the latter, being the most northerly
point of the British islands—are fast sinking beneath the horizon. Ere long
Foola, left astern, follows the others. No land in sight, not a sail on the
horizon; all round is now one smooth heaving circular plain of blue water—
the ever changing level producing a most singular optical effect.
In the evening walked the deck with Mr. Haycock, discoursing of Norwegian
scenery, and of yacht excursions thither. The evening clear and pleasant,
although the ground-swell continued to increase. Turned in, at half-past ten
o’clock. The vessel rolled much during the night. Professor Chadbourne, Mr.
Murray, and Mr. Cleghorn’s berths were in the same state-room as mine. The
quarter-deck being elevated, one of our windows opened towards the deck,
and could at all times afford good and safe ventilation; but the stewards always
would shut it, watching their opportunity of doing so when we were asleep. We
always opened it again, when on waking we found the deed had been done;
and all of us made a point of shouting out ferociously when we caught them
stealthily at it. This shutting and opening occurred several times every night,
and seemed destined to go on, spite of all our remonstrances; a nuisance only
relieved by a slight dash of the ludicrous. Danes don’t seem to like fresh air.

Saturday morning, July 23.—No land in sight, open sea from Norway to
America; heavy swell on the Atlantic, and wind changing from N.E. to N.W.;
numerous whales blowing, quite close to the vessel; gulls and kittiwakes flying
about.
At mid-day came in sight of the Faröe Islands rising above the horizon; fixed
the first glimpse of them, and continued sketching their outline from time to
time, as on nearing them it developed itself—watching with great interest the
seeming clouds slowly becoming crags. Little Dimon, a lofty rock-island,
somewhat resembling Ailsa, and purple in the distance, was, from the first, the
most prominent and singular object on the horizon line.
The waves rolling so heavily that not only the hull, but the mast of a sloop, not
very far off, is quite hid by each long swell. The Professor, Dr. Livingston, and
Mr. Murray all agree in saying that they never had such heavy seas in crossing
the Atlantic.
The Faröe group consists of twenty-two islands, seventeen of which are
inhabited. A bird’s-eye view of them would exhibit a series of bare, steep,
oblong hills, in parallel ranges; with either valleys or narrow arms of the sea
between them, and all lying north-west and south-east. The name Faröe is said
to be derived from faar or foer, the old word for a sheep; that animal having
probably been introduced by the Norse sea-rovers long before these islands
were permanently colonised in the time of Harold. However, fier—the Danish
word for feathers—is more likely to be the correct etymology; for these islands
are the native habitat of innumerable sea-birds.
They lie 185 miles north-west of the Shetland Isles, 400 west of Norway, and
320 south-east of Iceland; population upwards of 3000, and subject to
Denmark.
We are now approaching Suderoe, the most southerly of the islands. On our
left lie several curious detached rocks, near one of which, called the Monk, is a
whirlpool, dangerous in some states of the tide; although its perils, like those
of Corrivreckan between Jura and Scarba in the Hebrides, have been greatly
exaggerated. On one occasion I sailed over the latter unharmed by Sirens,
Mermaids, or Kelpies; only observing an irregular fresh on the water, where
the tide-ways met, and hearing nothing save a dripping, plashing noise in the
cross-cut ripple, as if many fish were leaping around the boat.
In storms, however, such places had better receive a wide berth.
The approach to the Faröe group is very fine, presenting to our view a
magnificent panorama of fantastically-shaped islands—peaked sharp angular
bare precipitous rocks, rising sheer from the sea; the larger-sized islands being
regularly terraced in two or more successive grades of columnar trap-rock.
Some of these singular hill-islets are sharp along the top, like the ridge of a
house, and slope down on either side to the sea, at an angle of fifty degrees.
Others of them are isolated stacks.
The hard trap-rock, nearly everywhere alternating with soft tufa, or claystone,
sufficiently accounts for the regular, stair-like terraces which form a striking
and characteristic feature of these picturesque islands. The whole have
evidently, in remote epochs, been subjected to violent physical abrasion,
probably glacial, during the period of the ice-drift; and, subsequently, to the
disintegrating crumbling influences of moisture, and of the atmosphere itself.
Frost converts each particle of moisture into a crystal expanding wedge of ice,
which does its work silently but surely and to an extent which few people
would imagine.
We now pass that singular rock-island, Little Dimon, which supports a few
wild sheep; and Store Dimon, on which only one family resides. The cliffs
here, as also on others of the islands, are so steep that boats are lowered with
ropes into the sea; and people landing are either pulled up by ropes, or are
obliged to clamber up by fixing their toes and fingers in holes cut on the face
of the rock. Sea-fowls and eggs are every year collected in thousands from
these islets by the bold cragsmen. These men climb from below; or, like the
samphire-gatherer—“dreadful trade”—are let down to the nests by means of a
rope, and there they pursue their perilous calling while hanging in “midway
air” over the sea. They also sometimes approach the cliffs at night, in boats,
carrying lighted torches, which lure and dazzle the birds that come flying
around them, so that they are easily knocked down with sticks, and the boat is
thus speedily filled. As many as five thousand birds have been taken in one
year from Store Dimon alone, and in former times they were much more
numerous.
We watch clouds like white fleecy wool rolling past, and apparently being raked
by the violet-coloured peaks; whilst others lower down are pierced and rest
peacefully among them.
Having passed Sandoe, through the Skaapen Fiord, we see Hestoe, Kolter,
Vaagoe, and other distant blue island heights in the direction of Myggenaes,
the most western island of the group. We now sail between Stromoe on the
west, and Naalsöe on the east. Stromoe is the central and largest island of the
group, being twenty-seven miles long and seven broad. It contains Thorshavn,
the capital of Faröe. Naalsöe, the needle island, is so called from a curious cave
at the south end which penetrates the island from side to side like the eye of a
needle—larger, by a long way, than Cleopatra’s. Daylight shews through it, and,
in calm weather, boats can sail from the one side to the other. We observe a
succession of sea-caves in the rocks as we sail along, the action of the waves
having evidently scooped out the softer strata, and left the columnar trap-rock
hanging like a pent-house over each entrance. These caves are tenanted by
innumerable sea-birds. On the brink of the water stand restless glossy
cormorants; along the horizontal rock-ledges above them, sit skua-gulls,
kittiwakes, auks, guillemots, and puffins, in rows; and generally ranged in the
order we have indicated, beginning with the cormorant on the lower stones or
rocks next the sea, and ending with the puffin, which takes the highest station
in this bird congress.
If disturbed, they raise a harsh, confused, deafening noise; screaming and
fluttering about in myriads. Their numbers are so frequently thinned, and in
such a variety of ways, that old birds may, on these occasions, be excused for
exhibiting signs of alarm.

NAALSÖE.
The Faröese eat every kind of sea-fowl, with the exception of gulls, skuas, and
cormorants; but are partial to auks, guillemots, and puffins. They use them
either fresh, salted or dried. The rancid fishy taste of sea-birds resides, for the
most part, in the skin only—that removed, the rest is generally palatable. In
the month of May the inhabitants of many of the islands subsist chiefly on
eggs. Feathers form an important article of export.
We watched several gulls confidingly following the steamer; one in particular,
now flying over the deck as far as the funnel, now falling astern to pick up bits
of biscuit that were thrown overboard to it. Long I stood admiring its beautiful
soft downy plumage, its easy graceful motions, the great distance to which a
few strokes of its powerful pinions urged it forward, or, spread bow-like and
motionless, allowed it simply to float and at times remain poised in the air
right over the deck, now peering down with its keen yet mild eyes, and leaving
us to surmise what embryo ideas of wonder might now be passing through its
little bird-brain.
The Danish officer raised, levelled his piece, and fired; the poor thing
screamed like a child, threw up its wings, turned round, and fell upon the sea
like a stone; its companions came flying confusedly in crowds to see what was
wrong with it, and received another shower of lead for their pains.
Holding no peace-society, vegetarian, homeopathic &c. views, I do not object
to the bona fide clearing of a country from dangerous animals; or to shooting,
when rendered necessary for supplying our wants; but—from the higher,
healthier platform of Christian manliness, reason and common sense—would
most emphatically protest against thoughtless or wanton cruelty. Such
barbarism could not be indulged in, much less be regarded as sport, but from
sheer thoughtlessness in the best; while, under almost any circumstances, the
destruction of animal life will, by the true gentleman, be regarded as a painful
necessity.
Those who love sport for its own sake may be divided into three classes—the
majority of sportsmen it is to be hoped belonging to the first of these
divisions;—viz., the thoughtless, who have never considered the subject at all,
or looked at any of its bearings; those whose blunted feelings are, in one
direction, estranged from the beauty and joy of existence; and the third and
last class, where civilization makes so near an approach to the depravity of
savage natures, that a tiger-like eagerness to destroy life takes possession of a
man and becomes a passion. He then only reckons the number of braces
bagged, and considers not desolate nests, broken-winged pining birds, and the
many dire tragedies wrought on the moor by his murderous gun.
A study of the habits of birds, taking cognizance of all the interesting ongoings
of their daily lives, of their wonderful instincts and labours of love, would, we
should think, make a man of rightly-constituted mind feel the necessity of
destroying them to be painful; and he certainly would not choose to engage in
it as sport. The fable of the boys and the frogs is in point, and the term
“sport,” thus applied, is surely a cruel, and certainly a one-sided word. In low
natures, sympathy becomes totally eclipsed and obscured by selfishness; and all
selfishness is sin.
Although shocked at witnessing the needless destruction of the poor gull, for
the sake of the officer, who was of a gentle kindly nature, doubtless belonging
to the “first division,” we tried hard to palliate the deed; but that pitiful cry of
agony haunts us yet!
“Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.

“He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”

Whales rising to the surface and spouting around the vessel; also shoals of
porpoises tumbling and gambolling about; sometimes swimming in line so as
closely to resemble the coils of a snake moving along; such an appearance has
probably originated the mythic sea-serpent.
There are still many caves in the rocks close on the sea; innumerable birds
flying out of them and settling on the surface of the heaving water close under
the cliffs.
We now approach a little bay, surrounded by an amphitheatre of bare hills; the
hollow, for a wonder, slopes down to the shore; we observe patches of green
among the rocks, and a flag flying. Several fishing sloops lie at anchor, but
there is no appearance of a town. Here we are told is Thorshavn, the capital of
Faröe—the haven of Thor. As we approach, we discover that it is a town, the
chief part of it built upon a rocky promontory which divides the bay; we can
also distinguish the church and fort. The green tint we had observed is grassy
turf—but it happens to be growing on the roofs of the wooden houses; and
the houses are scattered irregularly among the brown rocks. On the
promontory, house rises above house from the water’s edge; and the black,
wooden church tower rising behind appears to crown them all. On an
eminence, to the right of the town, is the battery or fort, with a flagstaff in
front. All glasses in requisition, we curiously examine the place and discover
several wooden jetties—landing places for fishing boats. Beneath the fort and
all round, split fish are spread on the rocks to dry; many square fish-heaps also
are being pressed under boards, with heavy stones placed above them.
The scenery around is not unlike that of Loch Long in Scotland, while the
general aspect of Thorshavn itself resembles the pictures of old towns given in
the corners of maps of the fifteenth century.
As we enter the bay with colours flying, the Danish flag is run up at the fort,
displayed by the sloops, and flutters from the flagstaff at Mr. Müller’s house.
This gentleman is one of the local authorities and also agent for the steamer. A
cold wind blows down the ravine, boats are coming off, the steam-whistle
rejoices on hearing itself echoed among the hills, and the anchor is let go.
Now, that we are near it, the town appears really picturesque and carries one
several hundred years back, with its veritable old-world, higgledy-piggledy
quaintness.

THORSHAVN.
Saturday night, 6 P.M.—Went on shore in the captain’s boat, called at Mr. Müller’s
office—a comfortable new erection—and then separated into parties to
explore the place. Crowds of men, women, and children, standing at every
door, stare at us with undisguised child-like wonder; the men—middle-sized
stalwart fellows with light hair and weathered faces—taking off their caps to us
as we pass along returning their salutes.
“An ancient fishy smell,” together with a strong flavour of turf-smoke,
decidedly predominate over sundry other nondescript odours in this strange
out-landish town. The results of our exploration are embodied in the following
jottings, which, at all events, participate so far in the spirit of the place as to
resemble its ground-plan.
Houses, stone for a few feet next the ground, then wood, tarred or painted
black, and generally two stories in height; small windows, the sashes of which
are painted white; green turf on the roofs. The interiors of the poorer sort of
houses are very dark; an utter absence of voluntary ventilation; one fire, and that
in the kitchen, the chimney often only a hole in the roof. Yet even in these
hovels there is generally a guest-room, comfortably boarded and furnished. In
such apartments we observed chairs, tables, chests of drawers, feather-beds,
down coverlets, a few books, engravings on the walls, specimens of ingenious
native handiwork, curiosities, &c. This juxtaposition under the same roof was
new to us, and struck every one as something quite peculiar and contrary to all
our previous experiences. The streets of Thorshavn are only narrow dirty
irregular passages, often not more than two or three feet wide; one walks upon
bare rock or mud. These passages wind up steep places, and run in all manner
of zigzag directions, so that the most direct line from one point to another
generally leads “straight down crooked lane and all round the square.”
Observed a man on the top of a house cutting grass with a sickle. Here the
approach of spring is first indicated by the turf roofs of the houses becoming
green. Being invited, we entered several fishermen’s houses; they seemed dark,
smoky, and dirty; and, in all, the air was close and stifling. In one, observed a
savoury pot of puffin broth, suspended from the ceiling and boiling on a turf
fire built open like a smith’s forge, the smoke finding only a very partial egress
by the hole overhead; on the wall hung a number of plucked puffins and
guillemots; several hens seen through the smoke sitting contentedly perched
on a spar evidently intended for their accommodation in the corner of the
apartment; a stone hand-mill for grinding barley, such as Sarah may have used,
lay on the floor; reminding one of the East, from whence the Scandinavians
came in the days of Odin.
In passing along the street we saw strips of whale-flesh, black and reddish-
coloured, hanging outside the gable of almost every house to dry, just as we
have seen herrings in fishing-villages on our own coasts. When a shoal of
whales is driven ashore by the boatmen, there are great rejoicings among the
islanders, whose faces, we were told, actually shine for weeks after this their
season of feasting. What cannot be eaten at the time is dried for future use.
Boiled or roasted it is nutritious, and not very unpalatable. The dried flesh
which I tasted resembled tough beef, with a flavour of venison. Being “blood-
meat,” I would not have known it to be from the sea; and have been told that,
when fresh and properly cooked, tender steaks from a young whale can
scarcely be distinguished from beef-steak.
The costume of the men is curious, and somewhat like that of the Neapolitans;
—a woollen cap, like the Phrygian, generally dark-blue or reddish; a long jacket
and knee-breeches, both of coarse home-made cloth, blue or brown; long
stockings; and thin, soft, buff-coloured lamb-skin shoes, made of one piece of
leather, and without hard soles, so that they can find sure footing with them
on the rocks, or use their toes when climbing crags almost as well as if they
had their bare feet. There is less peculiarity in the female costume. The men
and women generally have light hair and blue eyes. Honest and industrious,
crime is scarcely known amongst them.
Visited the Fort, which is very primitive; simply a little space on a hill-side,
enclosed with a low rough stone wall; four small useless cannon lying on the
grass, enjoying a sinecure—literally lying in clover; a wooden sentry-box in the
corner; a flagstaff in front of it, and two little cottages behind, to
accommodate several of the garrison, who prefer living there to lodging in the
town, as their comrades do. There are only some eight or ten soldiers
altogether; and these, with the commander, constitute the sole military
establishment in Faröe. They appear to occupy themselves with fishing, &c.,
very much like the other inhabitants of the place.
 FORT.

Visited the library, which was established by a former Amptman or Governor.

It occupies two rooms, which are shelved all round and comfortably heated
with a stove. We observed many standard Danish, German, French and
English books, several valuable folio works of reference, and many trashy
modern novels. The Faröese are inquisitive and intelligent, show a taste for
reading, but possess no native literature like the Icelanders.
Visited the church, which is built of wood. The service performed in it is the
Lutheran, as in Denmark. It contains an altar-piece intended to represent
“Joseph of Arimathea with the dead body of Christ,” two large candles, and a
silver and ebony crucifix. The galleries, of plain unvarnished wood, are
arranged like opera stalls, one above the other from the floor, and with green
curtains to each. At the right side of the pulpit were three large sand-glasses,
an old custom once common in all our churches; fronting the altar was the
organ-loft. Everything about the church was neat, clean, and primitive. Flower-
beds were planted so as to form wreaths or crosses on the graves in the
churchyard; and all appeared to be carefully tended and kept in order by loving
hands.
Went by invitation of Fraulein Löbner to drink tea at her mother’s, the Danish
officer with me. We were ushered into a charming old-fashioned room with
low panelled roof; everything in it was neat, scrupulously clean, and primitive.
A valance of white Nottingham lace-curtain ran along the top of the diamond-
paned lattice windows; while a row of flower-pots, with blooming roses and
geraniums, stood in the window-sill. There were cabinets with rich old china-
ware; several paintings on the wall, two of which were really excellent—one, a
portrait in oil of her late father who had been Governor of Faröe; the other a
portrait of her brother, also deceased. Her father was a Dane of German
extraction; and her mother—a kindly old lady to whom we were now
introduced—a native of Faröe.
At tea we had preserves, made from rhubarb grown in their own garden; a
silver ewer of delicious cream highly creditable to Faröese dairyship; and buns,
tarts, almond-cakes, &c., baked by the one baker of Thorshavn, and quite as
good as could be had in London.
While the officer was sketching from the window, our kind hostess wound up
a musical box, at the same time expressing her regret that the piano-forte,
which I had observed standing in the room, was under repair. She also showed
us a folio of her own drawings, and many engravings. Here a lady of cultivated
mind, and who has mingled in good society, is happy and content to dwell in
this remote isle; for to her it possesses the magic of that endearing word—
home!
She tells us that wool, fish, feathers, and skins form the chief articles of export;
that barley is the only grain raised in Faröe, but the summer is so short that it
has not time to ripen. The ears are plucked by the hand and dried in a kiln.
The rye, of which their black bread is made, is imported chiefly from
Denmark. The hay-harvest is of great importance to the inhabitants. There are
numerous sheep in the islands—some individuals possessing flocks of from
four to five hundred, besides a few ponies and cows. Dried, the mutton is
serviceable for food during winter, when frequent storms interfere with fishing
operations.
As in Shetland, the wool is collected from the sheep by the hand, at the season
of the year when they are casting their fleeces; for shearing, besides being a
more painful process, would deprive them of the long hair so necessary for
their protection in an uncertain climate, and leave them to shiver exposed to
the untempered fury of the northern blast. The sheep thus enables the
islanders to supply their own home wants, and also annually to export many
thousand pairs of knitted stockings and gloves, together with the overplus raw
material.
Miss L. informs us that Thorshavn contains about eight hundred inhabitants.
Of these, most of the men are fishers when the weather will admit of their
going off. The people are very ingenious, and make knives of all sizes, with
curiously inlaid wooden handles and sheaths. The wood for such purposes is
obtained from logs of mahogany, which are frequently found as drift-wood
among these islands. We were shewn a home-made fancy work-table, neatly
put together in a very ingenious and workman-like manner.
Each man here is a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, from the mending of boats or
nets, to the killing of sheep and drying them in sheds for the winter store of
provisions; from the making of lamb-skin shoes to the building of houses, or
the manufacture of implements.
Miss Löbner has kindly and obligingly undertaken to procure some specimens
of these manufactures and local curiosities against my return from Iceland.
Gazing round, as we take leave of our kind entertainers, I fix in my mind’s eye
the lady-like air and quaint point-devise costume of the elder lady, who, with
silvery hair combed back from her brow, had moved about most assiduously
performing all the sacred rites of hospitality to her guests; the mediæval aspect
of everything in the room,—from the stove to the timepiece, from the
polished wooden floor to the panelled ceiling; the diamond-paned lattice
windows, with their old-world outlook on the town and the flat wooden
bridge, close by, which crosses a brawling stream rushing impetuously over
rocks from the gully behind; the absolute cleanness and polish of everything;
and the monthly roses blooming freshly as of old;—all so vividly impress
themselves upon my mind that the whole becomes a waking dream of other
days; and it would not seem much out of keeping, or at all surprising, were the
Emperor Charles V. himself to open the door and walk into the quaint old
apartment we are now about to leave.
 FROM THORSHAVN—SHOWING FARÖESE BOATS.

Nine P.M.—Wandered alone by the shore, and sketched the view, looking
north, from beneath the fort; also made a drawing of the bay from the wooden
jetty; while engaged on the latter, crowds of fishermen gathered around me
making odd remarks of wonder, the general scope of which I could gather, as
they recognised the steamer, boats, hills, &c., coming up on the paper;
sketched one of the onlookers, an intelligent looking fellow, and here he is.
 FARÖESE BOATMAN.

The fishing boats or skiffs, have all the high bow and stern of the Norwegian
yawl; square lug-sails very broad and carried low are the most common. The
weather is so very uncertain, the gusts so sudden and violent, that, preceded by
a lull during which a lighted candle may be carried in the open air, they come
roaring down the valleys or between the islands, bellowing with a noise like
thunder, and sometimes strip the turf from the hill side, roll it up like a sheet
of lead and carry it away into the sea, while the air is darkened by clouds of
dust and stones.
Felt comfortably warm when sketching in the open air between ten and eleven
P.M., for, though the climate is moist, the mean temperature is warmer than
that of Denmark, and, on account of the gulf stream, not much below our
own. Forchhammer states that at Thorshavn in mild years, it is 49·2°; in cold
years, 42·3°; the average temperature being 45·4°. The greatest height of the
thermometer during his observations was 72·5°, and the lowest 18·5°.
Shortly before eleven o’clock the soldiers of the fort manned their boat, and
rowed us off to the steamer.
After narrating our various experiences on shore, had a pleasant quiet home-
talk with Professor Chadbourne, read a few verses of the New Testament, and
as the week was drawing to a close we retired to our berths, wishing each other
a good night’s rest after all the novel excitement, wonder, and fatigues of the
day.

Sabbath, July 24.—Wind high, and the lashing rain pouring down in torrents.
Went ashore at ten o’clock to attend church; heard the pleasing sound of
psalm-singing in various of the fishermen’s dwellings as we passed along.
Called for Mr. Müller, who had invited me to his pew. The service was
Lutheran, and began at eleven o’clock. The pastor was absent, but the
assistant, M. Lützen, who is also schoolmaster and organist, officiated. All the
people, singing lowly, joined in several fine old German chorales, led by the
organist, who also played some of Sebastian Bach’s music with much taste and
feeling—although little indebted to the instrument, which was old and infirm,
piping feebly and tremulously in its second childhood.
The area of the church was entirely occupied by women, many of them with
their bare heads, but most of them with a quaint little covering on the back
part of the head for hair and comb; only saw two bonnets in the whole
congregation. One old lady—with her hair combed back, a black silk covering
on the back part of her head, and, from where it terminated behind her ears, a
stiff white frill sticking right out—looked as if she had just stepped out from
one of Holbein’s pictures; others resembled Gerard Dow’s old women. The
men “were drest, in their Sunday’s best;”—long jackets and knee-breeches of
coarse blue or brown cloth, frequently ornamented with rows of metal
buttons; stockings of the same colours; and the never-varying buff-coloured
lamb-skin shoes.
It was pleasing to see these stalwart descendants of the brave old Vikings “the
heathen of the Northern sea,”—these men whose daily avocations exposed
them to constant perils by sea and land, here, in the very haven of Thor,
walking reverently into a Christian church, with their caps and Bibles in their
hands, and quietly entering their pews to worship God.
Although the day was very wet, and the regular minister absent, there was
present a congregation of about two hundred; and all seemed truly devotional
during the service.
From the roof, between two old-fashioned brass chandeliers, was suspended a
brig, probably the gift of some sailor preserved from shipwreck. The service
began at eleven o’clock, and ended at half-past twelve. When it was over, I
spoke with Skolare Lützen, who had officiated. He is a native of Copenhagen,
speaks little English, but good German. He took me over the building, and
into the pulpit. Altogether, the quaint appearance of the church, the organ, the
singing of the people, the devout reading and simplicity of the service, and the
curious old costumes carried one back to the time of the Reformation, and to
me all was singularly interesting. One could fancy that here, if anywhere, the
European world had stood still, and that Luther himself would not have
detected the lapse of centuries, if permitted once more to gaze on such a scene
as was here presented.
Two of us accompanied Mr. Müller to his house before going on board the
steamer. His wife and daughter were hospitable and kind; and, as usual on a
visit here, tarts, cakes, and wine were produced. His home resembles a
museum, containing many stuffed birds, eggs, geological specimens and other
natural curiosities collected in these islands. His little son’s name is Erasmus.
Captain Andriessen had wished to sail to-day, but could not get men to work
on Sabbath discharging the cargo; at which I was well pleased, both for the
right feeling it indicated on the part of the Faröese, and for our own sakes.
Here we lie peacefully anchored in the bay, enjoying the Sabbath quiet, while
the tempest is now howling wildly outside the islands, and the lashing pelting
rain is pouring down on the deck overhead like a shower-bath.
“Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never
Remember to have heard.”
The rain having abated, ere retiring for the night, walked the deck for half an
hour. Thorshavn, as seen in the strong light and shade of evening from the
steamer’s deck, has truly a most quaint old-world look—all the more so now
that we know it from exploration—so very primitive that one can scarcely
imagine anything like it. It is unique.

BASALT CAVES—SOUTH POINT OF STROMOE.

Monday morning, July 25.—From an early hour, all hands busily occupied
discharging the cargo, heavily-laden boats following each other to the shore. At
half-past one o’clock, the last boat pushes off, the steam-whistle is blown, and
we sail away round the south point of Stromoe, shaping our course north-west
through Hestoe Fiord. The coast of the islands is abrupt, mostly rising sheer
from the sea; many basaltic columns, and a succession of wave-worn caves, in
front of which countless sea-birds are flying, swimming and diving. The trap
hills are regularly terraced like stairs. Clouds drifting among the hills, and from
every gully cataracts leaping down in white foam to the sea. The general colour
of the rocks is gray and brown, slightly touched here and there with green.
These islands might be characterized as several groups or chains of hills, lying
nearly parallel to each other and separated by narrow arms of the sea, which
run in straight lines north-west and south-east. The summits of the larger
islands reach an elevation of from one to two thousand feet; while the highest
hill—Slattaretind, near Eide in Oesteroe—is two thousand nine hundred feet
high.
The hills around still exhibit a succession of grassy declivities, alternating with
naked walls of black or brown rock. The flat heights of these islands, we are
told, are either bare rock or marshy hollows. There are also several small lakes,
the largest of which, in Vaagoe, is only two miles in circumference, and lies
surrounded by wild rugged mountain masses.
We count a dozen foaming cataracts, all in sight at once, and falling down over
precipitous rocks around us into the sea. The wind perceptibly sways them
hither and thither, and then dispersing the lower portion of the water raises it
in silvery clouds of vapour on which rainbows play. They resemble the
Staubach in Switzerland; and remind us of the wild mist-veil apparition of
Kühleborn, in the charming story of Undine.
The tidal currents, in the long narrow straits which divide the northern islands
from each other, are strong but regular; running six hours the one way and six
hours the other. Boatmen must calculate and wait for the stream, as the oar is
powerless against it.
The atmospheric effects are beautiful;—a bold headland, ten miles to the
south, appears in the bright sunshine to be of the deepest violet colour; no
magic of the pencil could approach such a tint. It is heightened too by the
white gleaming sail of a fishing smack relieved against it.
When we got clear of the islands, the ground-swell became much heavier; for
the storm of the preceding day had been terrific. Great heavy waves of smooth
unbroken water, worse than Spanish rollers; boat tumbling and plunging
about, with sail set to steady her; walked the deck for an hour and found use
for my sea-legs.
Several gulls follow the ship; I never tire of watching their graceful motions, as,
with white downy plumage and wings tipt with black, they fly forward round
the mast, remain poised over the deck, or fall astern keeping in the steamer’s
wake. Two of our companions have discovered a capital sheltered nook and sit
smoking, perched up inside the large inverted boat which we are taking north
with us.
An Icelander and a Dane are among the second-class passengers; got them to
read aloud to me Icelandic and Danish, also Greek and Latin. In pronouncing
the latter two, they follow the classic mode and give the broad vowel sounds,
as taught in the German and Scottish universities but not at Oxford or
Cambridge.
The dim Faröes are fast falling astern—
“Far-off mountains turnéd into clouds.”

The vessel by the log makes eight knots—course, N. by W. and sails set.
The day lengthens as we go north, and at midnight I can now see to read large
print, although the sky is very cloudy.
No land—no sail in sight; we heave over the billows of the lonely Northern
Sea, and now all is clear before us for Iceland!

PORTLAND HUK.