Love, Loss, and Honor Volume II The Palouse: The Palouse

By Herbert Wiens

Her injuries from escaping a serial killer healed, Karen Williams-Schmidt becomes a war hero's widow. Dealing with not only PTSD but debilitating guilt for cheating on her husband while he was still alive, she tries to provide a stable life for her children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.P. Waterhouse Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985408379

Herbert Wiens

Herbert Wiens is the grandson of the two volume "They Have Conquered" lead character, Gerhardt. Having been raised around these heroic people, he knows intimately the stoicism and macabre gallows sense of humor this generation needed to survive. Born into a large blue collar family, Herbert Wiens was raised to value the rewards gained from hard work. Starting the summer after first grade, he tagged along with his older sisters as they boarded the "Bean Bus" at dawn to pick berries and string beans in Oregon's Willamette Valley. From then on, he never failed to have an after (or before) school job to help with family expenses. In high school, he started working on North Idaho ranches. In college, he fought forest fires in the summer and started working nights in a sawmill to pay tuition. His college experience was interrupted by a non-negotiable invitation from Uncle Sam, requesting his presence for the next few years in an all expenses paid, Vietnam era, tour of the world. Upon discharge, not having anything else better to do until he decided upon a future, he returned to the sawmill. Life got in the way for the next twenty years. Then, he became a small businessman for the next twenty. Now, he is spending his time using a keyboard to torture editors.

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H. P. Waterhouse Publishing

© 2021 by Herbert Wiens

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 9798987879610 (paperback)

ISBN: 9798985408379 (ebook)

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

C-17 TO VALHALLA

HEALING ON ICE

OLD BLUE RIDES AGAIN

LOST WARRIOR AWAKENS

MAN OUT OF TIME

NEW LIFE IN THE PALOUSE

FINDING PURPOSE ON A RANCH

KAREN AND JOSIE AT THE CLINIC

AN ARTIST IS BORN

MED SCHOOL REUNION

HEARTBREAK RIDES THE RIDGE

GENERATIONS COLLIDE

AWAKENED FEELINGS

BIRTH OF A RANCH HAND

A DEADBEAT RETURNS

GIRLS’ DAY IN THE CITY

A TEEN’S TRAUMA

A TWEAKER’S REWARD

BURNING COURAGE

HEART ON THE VERGE

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

KNOWLEDGE FROM THE ASHES

COMING CLEAN

A PRESENT THROUGH THE AGES

GLITCH FROM A FORGOTTEN PAST

LOST GIRL

YOU’RE WHO?

IS IT A TREAT OR TRICK?

TYPHOON JOSIE

RUN MANDY RUN

SLIT HER THROAT!

BAD VOICE FROM THE PAST

IT’S NEVER TOO LATE

PROLOGUE

Maerten van de Brune’s garish carriage carried him east from Het Steen prison. On edge, he’d left a very dangerous loose end still dangling after he publicly burned four heretical women the previous October. One of the executed women had a fiancé, a blacksmith who lived just north of the cattle market near Antwerp’s eastern wall.

At the time, he thought little of a mere peasant’s hurt feelings. Then, he discovered the blacksmith’s true identity—The Hero of Heiligerlee, revered by the Guezen. The enraged city bailiff, Maerten’s uncle, ordered the smith found and eliminated. Hunting for months, spies finally reported sightings.

On the western perimeter of the cattle market, Maerten’s servitor approached and pointed to a tall man barely visible through the steam rising in the frigid mid-winter morning air. Ordering the blacksmith’s arrest, his carriage followed as mounted soldiers spurred their horses through the herd. Smiling, the blacksmith stepped into an alley.

Get him! Arrest him! ordered the ostentatiously attired passenger. Leaving the carriage, the squad of soldiers charged the alley entrance. Twenty well-armed Guezen rebels ran out toward the guards. More rebels came from behind the carriage. It’s an ambush! Get us out of here! Maerten yelled up at the driver.

I can’t go back! the coachman called down. The cattle are blocking us.

Head toward the eastern wall! the panicked passenger yelled back. There are Spanish troops guarding the Kipdorp Gate! They will protect us!

The driver whipped the horses into a gallop around the periphery of the battle. Just as the carriage cleared the melee, the blacksmith stepped in front of the charging team, wielding a large battle axe. When the coachman attempted to turn his team and run over the tall man, the smith jumped aside and swung his axe at the lead horse. Tumbling to the ground, missing its right front leg, the horse brought down the rest of the team. Flung from his perch, the driver was quickly dispatched with a swift axe blow to the back of the neck.

Calmly, the blacksmith strode to the right carriage door. Panicked, Maerten scrambled out the left door. The tall smith caught him within a few paces and, with one expertly aimed blow, severed the finely dressed man’s spine just above his pelvis. His lower body instantly paralyzed, the peacock fell to the ground.

Deliberately, the blacksmith rolled the gentleman over with the toe of his boot and easily kicked the dagger from Maerten’s desperately swinging hand. Looking at the panicked peacock, with his finery no longer splayed out in pretentious display, the smith laid his axe down on the cobblestone street.

I am not going to kill you. Pieter’s voice quivered with anger. That would be too good for you. I have already ensured you will never walk again, just as you did to my betrothed.

He reached into his tunic, pulled out a long dagger, and knelt, straddling the peacock’s paralyzed legs, out of reach of the man’s flailing arms. "What I am going to do is ensure that you die a long, painful death just as my fiancé did. The smith slid the point of his blade slowly across the wounded Maerten’s codpiece. That is the one benefit of actually being in the battle rather than watching from a hill, sipping wine. You learn which wounds surgeons can’t repair, and which kill slowly with considerable pain."

The tall man inserted the tip of his dagger into the gentleman’s lower abdomen. Slowly, he pushed the dagger to its hilt and wiggled it back and forth. Maerten flailed and screamed, but the tall man was too strong and couldn’t be stopped.

You see, by inserting my blade here, I sever your intestines but not any major blood vessels. Pieter leaned forward and forced Maerten to look into his eyes. I have only met one surgeon who was skilled enough to keep you from dying a slow, excruciating, death. It’s too bad you burned her at the stake.

With the Bailiff’s guards all lying dead, the Geuzen rebels melded back into the throng of onlookers. Spanish soldiers were running toward the cattle market from their post on the eastern city wall.

Standing, the smith retrieved his axe. Looking back at the molting peacock lying in a pool of liquefied cattle dung, staring in disbelief at his bloody abdomen, Pieter sadly remembered his lost love. Raising his axe, he smiled and charged the soldiers.

CHAPTER ONE

C-17 TO VALHALLA

Karen stood with shaking legs on the rain-soaked runway. Her father, George, braced her with his interlocking arm. Holding her other arm, Karen’s best friend, Josie, leaned against her. She stared into the distance through the lightly falling drizzle at the leafless winter trees. Slowly, her eyes moved across the field to the prefab concrete hangars, then to the row of gray C-17s lined up along the taxiway. The sound of a hydraulic door lowering brought her gaze back to the airplane directly in front of them.

Two airmen pushed a flag-draped, aluminum transfer case out of the aircraft onto a raised mobile hydraulic platform then stiffly stood upright, saluting. The platform lowered to chest height then stopped. Three camo-wearing chaplains slowly marched up to the platform and paused, heads bowed, praying. After the prayer, one of the three chaplains stood to the side while the other two slowly marched back to a row of gathered dignitaries.

In complete silence, Karen could hear cameras clicking on the other side of the large van that had ferried her, George, and Josie onto the tarmac. Since the press was forbidden from taking pictures of the immediate family, the van served as a sight block. A sharp, guttural command broke the silence.

"Forwarrd … harch!"

Two lines of three soldiers each, a seventh beside them, marched deliberately from behind gathered officials. When they were halfway between the dignitaries and Karen’s small group, the seventh barked more commands.

"Left turrrn … harch! In unison, the six turned and marched with the seventh to the side. Your left … your left … left right left, he called out as the detachment approached the aircraft’s platform. Halt!"

The seventh member of the detachment slowly marched between the two rows of three. Pausing at the platform, he pulled the aluminum transfer case into the waiting arms of the six. Turning, the detail slowly marched the two hundred feet to a waiting box van, followed by the praying remaining chaplain.

Unable to control herself any longer as the ice-filled aluminum transfer case containing Peter passed in front of her, Karen started to sob. Her whole body shook as she watched him being loaded, feet first, into the van. When the female airman slowly closed the van doors then stood back and saluted, Karen completely lost it. The finality of the doors being latched for the van’s trip to Dover AFB’s mortuary was more than she could handle, and her legs collapsed. Her father and Josie caught her and helped her into their waiting passenger van.

Unable to cope with the thought of her husband taking the last leg of his journey in a military aircraft, Karen elected to take Peter home on a commercial flight. Sitting between her consolers in the last row of seats, she leaned on her father’s shoulder, holding Josie’s hand. On the Sea-Tac taxi-way, the plane stopped short of the terminal. Requesting passenger patience and to please remain seated, the pilot announced a deceased soldier transfer ceremony would be taking place before they could disembark.

As the sad-eyed stewardess escorted Karen’s group up the aisle to the front of the plane, ex-service members stood as best they could to salute. Knowing they meant well, she cringed when women reached out and patted her hand. She just wanted to curl up into grief’s solitude and pull a blanket over her head. Even on the tarmac, she felt the other passengers’ eyes, gathered at the plane’s windows, watching the color guard repeat the unloading of the flag-draped transfer case ceremony.

Riding in a limo, she followed the hearse past airport workers either saluting or standing with their hands over their hearts. Police and local motorcycle club members escorted the hearse all the way home.

The night before the funeral, Karen refused to leave the mortuary, wanting to sleep near her hero warrior one last time. Ever the caregiver, she had pizza delivered to the anteroom off of the sanctuary for the honor guard to eat when off duty. Even though it wasn’t part of their usual assignment, members of Peter’s reserve unit volunteered to stand watch over his body.

She pleaded, but the mortician would not lift the lid of the casket for her to view her husband’s body. The explosion had caused too much damage. Finally, after her unrelenting begging, the mortician had the off-duty honor guard soldiers keep her in the anteroom while he lifted the lid and covered Peter’s body with a sheet—leaving his still intact right arm exposed.

Sitting in a chair beside the casket, Karen held and kissed the hand of the man who sacrificed his dreams of being an engineer to support her medical career education and raise their children. She held his hand to her cheek until falling asleep. One of the honor guards picked her up and laid her on a pew. Another covered her with a blanket.

The next morning, Josie dragged her home to shower and prepare for the funeral. It was one of the few times Karen had put on a dress since the pins had been removed from her lower legs. The scars were fading but still there. Black stockings would keep questions from curious onlookers to a minimum.

Her mother, Lilly, arrived with Karen’s two children. Since the mortuary and small church she attended since waking from her coma were both too small, the high school gym was pressed into service for the remembrance ceremony. Peter’s complete reserve unit and their families came, along with his co-workers from the sawmill, and corporation management. With her past co-workers from the hospital, current ones from the clinic, and random people from the community wishing to express condolences, the gym was filled to capacity.

Needing to be strong for her children, she sat stoically with her arms around them during the remembrance ceremony, then the graveside services. Emotionally contained through the speeches, three volleys from seven rifles, and the playing of Taps, when the officer knelt in front of Karen to place the triangularly folded flag containing a few shell casings from the salute in her lap, her composure came undone. The dam of tears let loose.

Bill, her twelve-year-old son, became her protector and put his arms around her. Karen’s tears dripped off the end of her nose onto the folded flag laying on her knees. Six-year-old Nettie held her mother’s hand and furnished tissues from the box in her own lap.

Life slowly returning to a new normal, Karen went back to work at the emergency care clinic. Debts weren’t going to pay themselves. With only one household income, she elected to put her military survivor benefit into the children’s future college fund savings account. Thanks to Peter’s frugal practicality and insistence to stay in the old single wide trailer, her student loans were paid off.

Bill was old enough to take care of himself after school. Nettie would either go to Mae’s house or hang out with Peter’s ex-coworker Liam’s kids after school. With her children not needing the constant attention of toddlers anymore, Karen spent her off duty hours simply going through life in an emotionless trance. Almost catatonically, she attended Bill’s games and took Nettie to her dance lessons. Josie tried, but couldn’t talk Karen into attending anything social as a distraction.

With the kids at their grandparent’s house for a month during summer break, Karen woke up to a completely silent house. Instinctively, she threw her arm on the other side of the bed to arouse her husband and plan their day. When her hand landed on undisturbed bedding, reality sank in. She rolled over in the queen-sized bed and stared at Peter’s unused pillow.

Fully intending to sit at the table in her bathrobe sipping coffee until bedtime, she robotically went to the kitchen. She focused unwillingly on the display shelves her husband built on the living room wall for their kid’s trophies, unable to take her eyes off Peter’s picture beside the framed, triangularly folded flag.

The neighborhood children’s soccer ball bouncing off of the trailer brought Karen out of her trance. Looking out the window, Peter’s old dust- and grime-coated truck sat between her and the children playing in the trailer park street. It hadn’t moved in over a year. Maybe it was time, time to take care of things.

Wanting to spare his daughter the grief of looking at them until she was ready, George had placed Peter’s personal effects, sent back with his corpse, in the back of the closet. Sitting with the box on the bed, one by one, she spread out the dog tags, pocket knife, and good luck trinkets. His wedding band wasn’t there, but she knew it wouldn’t be. The explosion scattered most of his left hand, and the ring was never recovered.

Finally, Karen pulled out the battered shoe box Peter stowed her letters in. She held the rubber-band-bound letters to her chest and closed her eyes. She had poured every ounce of her love into those letters to keep his spirits up and give him a reason to return. Placing the letters beside her on the bed, she looked back in the box. There was a small manila envelope with a blurred postmark, somewhere in the Maldives. From all the official military postmarks, it must have been delivered only a day or two before Peter’s death.

She rolled the envelope over and over, trying to figure out what he could possibly have ordered from the Maldives. All it seemed to contain was wrapping paper. Confused, she shook the bag, and out came a ring—Peter’s wedding band. She picked it up, delighted; the band wasn’t lost. Then it hit her—why wasn’t he wearing his ring? Why was it in an empty envelope?

Looking back into the envelope, Karen pulled out the wadded-up paper packing material. There was nothing more. Shrugging, she started to put the paper back in, then realized it wasn’t packing material but a crumpled up letter.

Dear, Peter,

I thought you might like this picture to help you get through your deployment. It’s your wife in my bed. I thought you’d like to know your whole marriage was based on lies. You were stupid enough to think she quit seeing Martin when you married, weren’t you? Ha! Are you sure those kids are even yours? I finally ran him off, so I could do her. For months, we had constant sex. The things she did for me while wearing your ring. Who do you think her legs are wrapped around now with you over there? Thought you’d like to know.

Your buddy, Lamont.

P.S. You killed the wrong guy.

She started to shake, her thoughts racing. Opening the envelope again, stuck to the side was a picture. A picture of her sleeping naked in bed—Lamont’s bed. Peter knew. He knew. What kind of sick, sadistic bastard would do this kind of thing? Her husband took off his ring. Did that mean he was done with her? Was her past affair on his mind, distracting him, when he died? Karen stared at the letter, almost catatonic.

I killed Peter.

She exploded into frenzied denial. She had to make up for cheating on him. She had to clean Old Blue and get it ready for him to drive when he forgave her. Karen launched off the bed. She needed to get dressed and take the truck to the car wash. She quickly threw on old jeans and a sweatshirt, no time for make-up, a few strokes of a hair brush and a headscarf would have to do. She grabbed her purse, walked as fast as she could to the truck, and climbed up into the driver’s seat.

The truck wouldn’t start. She tried and tried, but it just wouldn’t fire. Pausing for a moment to let the starter cool, Karen looked around inside the truck.

Sitting on its tailgate was where she and Peter had their first lunch. The front seat was where they shared their first kiss. He drove this truck when she took him to her hometown to share Easter with her family, again to tell her parents she was pregnant, and to get married. He taught her how to drive a stick shift in this truck before he left for basic training. This truck brought their firstborn child home from the hospital.

Desperately trying to start Old Blue again, she pounded the steering wheel out of frustration. The battery was dead. Karen came back to reality—so was Peter. She broke. For the first time since the funeral, she cried. All the pent-up tears poured out at once. Unable to restrain her grief and remorse, she flung her head back against the rifle rack and let out a loud wail. Her wailing, sobbing convulsions were so violent, the whole truck shook.

Startled children in the street ran home to tell their parents. Mae watched the episode unfold from her latest quilting project in her double wide’s dining room table. Knowing she was too old to do what was really needed, she picked up her phone and called Josie. The elderly woman hung up the phone and went out to comfort Karen until Josie arrived. By the time Mae reached the truck, neighbors Liam and his wife, Sharon, were already helping the young widow out of Old Blue. While Mae and Sharon hugged Karen to calm her, Liam peered under the hood.

You know, this is a really, really old truck. Maybe it’s time to let it go. As soon as it came out of his mouth, he knew by the fire in his wife’s eyes that he’d said precisely the wrong thing.

Karen started to cry again. "I will never get rid of Peter’s truck."

I’m sorry I said that. It was stupid. Liam had an idea. How would you feel if a few friends of mine got it running again for you?

Could you? I don’t need much, she pleaded. I’d just like it to limp around the neighborhood.

By the time Josie’s shift at the hospital ended and she showed up at Mae’s house to support Karen, the company mechanic from the sawmill Peter and Liam worked at was loading Old Blue up on a car dolly.

This might take a little while, the mechanic told Karen while ratcheting tight the straps around the front wheels. I’m going to put it in the back of the shop at the mill. We can fiddle with it in our spare time there.

I can’t thank you enough. Karen took turns taking the hands of Liam and the mechanic between both of hers. Take your time. You’re doing more than I could have asked for. I’d be happy just to be able to start it every now and then.

After everyone left, she sat at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope. The foggy memories from her last night with Lamont finally became clear since coming out of her coma. She remembered what he did to her, and realized Martin had actually been trying to save her. Karen found the card of the detective who interviewed her in the hospital. It was time to come clean. It was time to tell him the whole story. She picked up the phone.

Hello? Detective Thompson? It’s Karen Schmidt. We need to talk.

CHAPTER TWO

HEALING ON ICE

"M ommy, why’d I have to quit dance class?" Nettie asked her mother with a child’s ignorance of adult finances.

Karen looked down sadly at her daughter. How would she tell her that the dance academy’s semi-annual tuition ran out shortly after Thanksgiving break, and they didn’t have the money to renew it?

Because dad died and we’re broke, Bill said, glancing up from his homework at the dining room table. Get used to it.

Shocked at her just turned thirteen-year-old’s jaded bluntness, Karen tried to smooth the blow to her seven-year-old daughter. We’re not broke. We just have to be more careful where we spend our money. Maybe we can find something else you can do that fits our budget.

You could teach me to skate better, Nettie pleaded. You and Daddy used to skate all the time.

Karen was without an answer. She hadn’t laced up her skates since coming out of the coma. After the pins were removed, both of her legs ached whenever a weather front approached. She was unsure if her ankles were ready for the physical demands. She was even more in doubt if she could withstand the emotional demands.

For a year before her injury, her marriage had been strained, her relationship with Peter distant. The last winter, she had been completely consumed in her affair with Lamont. Peter took the kids skating alone. She was too busy sharing her lover’s bed to go with them.

Uhh, I don’t know. It’s been a while.

"Please, Mommy." Nettie gave her mother the best begging waif look she could manage.

You should do it, Mom. Bill abandoned his homework to proffer unsolicited advice to his mother. It’d do you good to do something other than working and sitting in the house.

Karen’s temper flared. How dare someone tell her how to grieve? What gave a child the right to tell her how to live her life? She turned to snap at her son but stopped when she saw the sincere concern in his eyes. Her children had lost someone also.

Just how did you get so smart? she softly asked her son.

It’s what Dad would have said, he replied.

Karen gathered her children into her arms and held them tight, kissing the tops of their heads. She resolved to do better—even if it hurt.

On her next day off, she drove her kids to the ice rink. Bill secretly dug her skate bag out of the closet and placed it on the floor in the back of the car. When he pulled them out in the rink parking lot, Karen stared at the skates blankly.

I was planning on coaching from the bleachers.

You never know. He shrugged. It doesn’t hurt to have them just in case.

When he handed her the bag, she almost couldn’t take it from him. The handle felt like it was burning her hand, and she couldn’t sit it down quickly enough beside her perch near the ice.

While her children were being fitted at the rental counter, Karen looked around the arena. She hadn’t been here in years. Nothing had changed other than some of the sponsor signs above the bleachers. Coaches yelling instructions at a few potential figure skaters gliding around the ice brought back memories from her childhood. Off to the side, a couple of teenagers caught her attention.

The girl was obviously a good skater, but the boy had no clue. It was clear they cared for each other. Whenever the boy thunderously fell on the ice, he’d laugh it off even though Karen knew it had to hurt. The young girl kept patiently helping him up to try again. There was so much joy being shared between them. If the boy would do something goofy, she’d giggle. Whenever he accomplished a new task, she’d reach up and kiss him on the cheek as a reward. Memories of teaching Peter to skate as a college freshman flooding over her, Karen reached for her skate bag to leave.

Aren’t you going to put on your skates, Mommy?

Karen smiled weakly at her daughter anxiously wanting to get on the ice. No, dear. I’ll sit here like all the other coaches and yell instructions. Your brother can skate beside you for a while.

Saying nothing, Bill shrugged and led his little sister out on the ice, looking dubiously back at his mother. He did his best but was no teacher. Nettie was becoming increasingly frustrated and discouraged. Finally, she stormed off of the ice and planted herself on the bench beside Karen, emitting a dissatisfied grunt.

I quit! Nettie was on the verge of tears. I’m no good. I’ll never get it.

Bill skated up to his mother and just said softly, Mom?

Looking at her son, then down at her daughter, Karen realized it was a make-or-break moment. If she was ever going to be there for her children and provide a decent life for them, now was the time. Studying her skate bag, she finally kicked off her shoes.

With shaking hands, she tied her laces. Gingerly, she stood up and slowly, stiffly, headed for the ice. She hadn’t pushed her ankles beyond ordinary activity since her attacker shoved her off of the cliff. After enduring months of being wheelchair bound with both legs in casts, pin removal surgery and rehab therapy, she hadn’t even braved stiletto heels. Starting to hyperventilate, Karen froze and grasped the gate to the ice hard enough that her knuckles turned white.

Come on, Mom. We’ll help.

She leaned against her thirteen-year-old son as he lifted her arm up and put it around his shoulder. Her seven-year-old daughter gently pulled Karen’s hand loose from the post and placed it on her own shoulder. Holding tightly to her pillars of support, Karen stepped onto the ice.

Feeling his mother’s hand quivering on his shoulder, Bill reached up and squeezed it tightly. Karen looked lovingly at her son. Almost as tall as she was, he would be tall like Peter. And, every bit his father’s son, he instinctively knew what she needed.

After a few minutes of gently