Tyson's War: Finding Perfect, #3

By Amy Gregory

Leaving his last foster home, Tyson Ellison signed his name on the dotted line and checked out entirely, looking for something he felt missing. Four tours of service over-seas, too much death, too much violence, brought him back stateside. He was tired, drained, and still empty with nothing left to give. He hopped on his Ducati and headed northwest from his base in Georgia, the only place he’d ever called home. Fate ran him out of gas in the tiny town of Renlend, Kansas with nothing but his Army-issued duffle holding a few meager belongings.

For two years Dianna’s father has made sure something around their family-owned Bed and Breakfast needed attention. Tyson’s attention. His handy-man skills put them in each other’s space on a regular basis, her dad pointing out the vet’s attributes regularly. She isn’t oblivious, she’d memorized each one. Tyson’s body was made for the movies, and so he kind of flirted with and smiled at her. Always managed to speak to her when he is there working.

But in what lifetime would a ripped, tanned, tattooed Army veteran want with the shyest girl in town? Especially someone as plain Jane as her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Gregory
• Release date: Jul 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781500389765

Amy Gregory

When asked ‘when do you have time to write’, Amy Gregory simply laughs.  The real answer is, “in bits and pieces”.  She and her husband live in Kansas City with their three fantastic kids that keep them running in three very different directions.  Because she sits so much, she always carries a notebook with her at all times. She has an off the wall, snarky, off the cuff sense of humor that often shocks even those who’ve known her for years.  And she loves that her children have all been blessed that ability to make others laugh as well.  At least she’s grateful most of the time!  Her husband often teases her about how she “makes this stuff up” when he’s reading a piece of her work. … The answer—“it just comes to me when I’m typing”. Scary thought, huh!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Two years prior

Twelve years…twelve years and still Tyson didn’t own any more than would fit in his Army-issued duffel. Glancing around his government-furnished apartment, there was nothing left marking his existence. No pictures, no additional purchases he’d made. He’d boxed up what little uneaten food he had and his opened bottle of Patron Silver and taken them to his buddy next door earlier that morning. His goodbyes were said, promises made to stay in touch, but his years he’d dedicated to the Army were coming to an end.

He’d been as green as they came when he first arrived. Now, Sergeant First Class Tyson Ellison was leaving as one of Fort Benning’s most admired marksmen. Taking a deep breath, he yanked the long zipper of his ragged duffle, closing his current life into one bag. This wasn’t the first time he closed a chapter never to return, and Tyson didn’t know what to expect of the future.

The muscles in his forearm flexed as he removed the key ring from his left pocket. Thumbing through the tarnished silver ring, he found the front door key of the only place he’d ever even thought of as home. So he’d spent more time away from the bleak apartment, in the dirt, heat, and hell of war than he did here. Tour after tour, Tyson did what his body was honed for, his brain trained for. Fingering the used piece of metal, he spun the ring, removing the key from his life. He tossed it on the spotless kitchen counter. Like before him and the man after him…Tyson was nothing more than another soldier passing through. The walls and furniture were there to use, but always waiting on the next man in uniform.

A smear of pride tipped the corner of his mouth as he pulled the front door shut behind him, his duffel slung over his shoulder. Tyson walked toward the only extravagance he’d ever afforded himself. His Ducati Superbike was the only item he owned outright, except for a few shirts, jeans, and the pair of scuffed cowboy boots he wore now—instead of his combat boots. Strapping the worn bag to the back of his baby with the bungee cords, Tyson straddled the bike, twisted his favorite key, and enjoyed the purr of the engine coming to life.

There was a place special to his heart he had to visit one last time before leaving Georgia forever. With his black helmet strapped on tight, Tyson slid the eye shield into place, leaned over the bike, and headed for the exit of Fort Benning, his destination in Columbus—the National Infantry Museum. Walking The Last 100 Yards was something he’d done every time he returned from each of his tours. A tribute to those before him, a dedication to those comrades he’d lost during each tour. A calming source of peace he needed for his battered soul. The same soul he’d prayed the Army would have healed when he first enlisted.

Only one thing had changed since then. Instead of being beaten regularly, Tyson Ellison was now a precisely trained killing machine.

Topping off his tank, he replaced the gas pump and tightened the cap on the bike’s tank. So far his body wasn’t going along with his schedule. With his fingers laced, he stretched, arching his back. Sleeping until noon today at the roadside hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas hadn’t been in his plan. Now he found himself in the middle of a quaint, but tiny-ass town somewhere in Kansas. Strapping his helmet on once again, he scanned the area, a habit he caught himself doing way too many times. He was a long way from post-traumatic stress syndrome, but there were subconscious instincts he couldn’t seem to break. He rode out of the parking lot and turned right onto the main street leading into town. The gas station attendant had mentioned a bed and breakfast off the square. The directions seemed easy enough to get to. As trained as he was to take care of himself in any emergency, Tyson didn’t trust the other drivers on the highway enough to keep riding after night fell.

He was so used to every minute being structured, trying to go with the flow was wreaking havoc on his system. So he wasn’t getting as far today as he would have liked to, so what? Exhaling through his nose, he deliberately willed his nerves to calm and his heart rate to lower. He didn’t have a deadline. Tyson didn’t even have a true destination. The combination was unnerving. He’d up and left Georgia on a wing and a prayer hoping to find somewhere peaceful to start over. Maybe Montana, he’d always pictured a place out in the middle of nowhere. No neighbors, no noise, just peace and quiet, and so he saved every penny he could of his Army pay to try and achieve serenity.

Rolling to a stop when he came to the square, he had to grin, though it was dark and his smile was hidden behind his full-face helmet. This was a homey little town. The brick store fronts all had different colored awnings, the edges ruffled in the night’s breeze. Several had pots bursting with flowers. In the middle of the square was a gazebo, an actual gazebo. Like all the movies always portrayed.

The attendant said things here were laid back, Tyson chuckled. Guess he meant it.

His gaze followed the line of buildings as he turned the left, staying on the square as directed. Jenny’s. Must be good, still looks pretty busy. Fuck. Who the hell am I talking to? Damn good thing no one can see me. I’d look like a mental patient.

The lights were off in most of the businesses and stores, but he noticed several lights dotted the square above the buildings. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. That would be kind of cool. The more he thought about the ease of small town living, being able to walk to the diner, the coffee shop, bank, or the bar and grill he’d passed might be kind of fun as a single guy. As he came to the third stop on the square, he rolled his eyes. They have a freaking soda shop. You’re fucking kidding me. Probably has the spinning stools and candy too. For fuck’s sake.

No one knew him here. And he’d be gone tomorrow, so what if he stopped in and stocked up on a few of his weaknesses. He’d treated his body as a temple for over a decade. There were a few things a man had to do now and then. Cinnamon gummy bears, was one of them. Tyson snorted as he hatched a plan to get up early and hit the store as soon as they opened so he could get back on his way to the middle of nowhere.

Wow. His jaw dropped. Damn. The gas station guy wasn’t lying. Can’t miss this place. Tyson turned into the small parking lot of the Renlend Square Bed and Breakfast. The lot wasn’t proportionate to the size of the massive home. Jesus Christ.

Killing the bike, he took his key out, and unstrapped his helmet. He pushed it up and off, resting it momentarily on the left handlebar. With the kick stand in place he released his duffle from the cords holding the bag onto the bike, and took a minute to stare at the mansion. Even his favorite family’s home hadn’t been a sixth the size of this place.

Tyson dropped his duffle to the gravel. Bracing himself, palms flat on the seat still warm from his butt, he closed his eyes. He hadn’t allowed thoughts of growing up to enter his mind in years. With his eyes clenched tight and his jaw even more so, Tyson’s body tensed, muscle-by-muscle until he was ready to snap.

Now? He spit through gritted teeth. Haven’t been off the base more than twenty-four hours. Already…the fucking attacks are starting. His breathing started coming faster as the panic closed in around him. Mental pictures. Think, Ellison, think.

Detaching from his past was so much easier to do when he had much bigger things to worry about, like the target he was staring at through the scope of his gun. As a sniper, his past wasn’t allowed anywhere near his present. It’d get him killed, or worse, someone else in his unit.

His buddy Tucker once recognized the signs the lines in his face gave away to those who’d lived through the same haunted nightmares. Tiny, as they called him even though his six foot nine-inch body was anything but…he knew. Tiny was the only one, but he told Tyson to picture beaches, war zones, boot camp, anything or anywhere to try and pull himself out of the darkness. Yeah, Tiny was a good man, one of his best friends until the day they shipped him back to the States while the unit they were in was still deep in enemy territory in an undisclosed location.

Damn it, Tiny. You son-of-a-bitch. The biggest black man, Tyson had ever met, with an even bigger heart. They were brothers. Why’d you go and get yourself killed, you bastard? We were supposed to be doing this adventure together.

Swallowing, his body slowly relaxed as the panic faded into sadness. Leaving his eyes closed for another moment, he could still see the wide smile his friend always wore, and heard the hearty laugh. Tyson wasn’t a small guy and was pure muscle, but if one of Tiny’s paws caught him on the back in a fit of laughter, it’d damn near knock the wind out of even Tyson. Over two years later and Tyson could still feel the sting. Mumbling, he continued cursing his deceased friend, Jackass.

Their kinship was built on mutual respect for survival. The teasing, cruel names and banter, stealing money from his buddy because Tiny couldn’t play Texas Hold ‘em to save his life. Giving him shit because Tiny wanted some big ass Harley for their trip instead of a crotch rocket like Tyson’s Ducati, was part of how they rolled.

Tyson stood up straight, slipped his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, and looked up at the night sky. Here in the middle of nowhere, Kansas, diamonds covered the dark. Pulling in several breaths through his nose, he wondered if Tiny was up there. Tyson wasn’t sure if there was such a thing as God as people said. Hell, wasn’t religion half the damn reason they were overseas most of the time he’d spent as a sniper?

The tension of the panic attack started fading and breathing in the fresh country air helped, washing over him, pushing the tightness in his shoulders away. The weight of his demons still aged him. His soul felt older than thirty-one, more like eighty-one.

If there was a God, then there was a hell and Tyson had lived through the fire and heat more times than his fair share.

He rolled his neck and let out a deep breath. Bending over he fished for the strap of the duffle bag and brushed off the gravel dust before turning to the brick walkway. Maybe there was a silver lining to his oversleeping this morning. His body needed the rest obviously, and now he was absolutely positive there was no way he would have made it any further down the road tonight. Not after the last few moments of fighting with his demons.

There was still a light on in the front window. As he opened the door, Tyson felt a weight hit him hard on the back. With one hand still on the door handle, he tightened his grip on both the knob and his helmet in his other hand trying to maintain his balance. Damn, he whispered. Hell, if I believed in fucking ghosts, Tiny—I’d swear. Shaking his head, he blinked, trying to grasp his bearings.

Son! The friendly voice came from the side. Let me grab your bag for you.

Tyson did a double-take, his brow tight as he scanned the man. Pulling back his duffle near his leg, Tiny’s dog tags jingled as they hung from the handle. I’m fine. Thanks?

Sorry. I got overwhelmed. I’m George Lane. This is our B and B, technically, my daughter’s now. But she can’t seem to get rid of me. I’m so honored to have you here.

Do we know each other? Tyson asked. I know I’m tired, but, I can’t place your face or name, sir.

No sir here in Renlend, son. George, you call me George. And no we don’t. But your service, allows me the ability to live my dream. He waved his hand around the entry hall of the Renlend Bed and Breakfast on his way toward the backside of the cherry counter.

Oh. No thanks needed.

You’re very wrong. And here, this is on us.

Tyson started to reach for the key, but stopped. I can’t stay here free. Completely necessary, with all due respect.

I won’t argue.

Really, sir, I mean, George.

Young man, what’s your name?

Sergeant First Class Ellison, sir. Tyson Ellison I mean. Sorry. Habit.

Tyson, here in Renlend, you’re appreciated. And I understand if you don’t feel comfortable at our B and B. But don’t go to either of the other places in town to stay and expect to pay. It’s simply an unspoken agreement.

I’m not going to win this am I? A smile tugged at his mouth and the weight he’d felt when being pushed through the