Sown In Peace: Operation Return To Peace, #1

By Joy Avery Melville

How much can one wounded soul take?

 

Victoria (Tori) Archer has the heart of a soldier. Taken down by an IED during her fourth deployment, she's permanently separated from her military career and left with physical scars as well as PTSD. Moving back to her hometown of Three Rivers, Michigan, she's forced by circumstances to live with an irascible and unsympathetic aunt. Tori's battle with pain, horrific memories, and loss of independence creates a deep yearning for peace. Will God grant her even a small measure of it?

 

Retired Military Dog Handler Griffin (Griff) McKay turns to training dogs at his farm for wounded warrior therapy, desiring to bring former military men and women emotional and mental healing. Implementing his plan proves to be more difficult than visualized with the arrival of one stubborn soldier. Why has God placed that particular warrior in his path?

 

Christian Contemporary Romantic Women's Fiction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joy Avery Melville
• Release date: Apr 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224924851

Book preview

~ This Book is Dedicated ~

First ~ and above anything or anyone else ~ To my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who saved me from myself and has loved me with an unconditional love that has never failed. The One who called me to write the message He wants out there, not the stories I’d had in mind. ~ Thank You, Lord!

Second ~ To that wonderful man~of~my dreams, Jerry, and the countless and loving allowances he’s made in order for me to carry out the CALL I received to write in that last marking period of my eighth grade. For all your supportive sacrifices over the years. ~ Thank you, Jerry.

Third ~ To the memory of my father, Cleon E. Avery, who encouraged me to be everything God wants me to be. The man whose lifestyle of walking by faith, not by sight taught me to be ever mindful of the fact God holds everything He wants of us in His righteous right hand. We are to trust and obey, regardless of the world’s logic. ~ Thank you, Daddy.

Fourth ~ To two men, Jeremy Rockstroh of Fort Wayne, Indiana & Keith Youngblood of Bryan, Texas, who God provided for what I had thought would strictly be technical information research for Sown In Peace. I’ve learned so much more from you. God blessed me richly when he placed you each into my life. ~ Thank you, Jeremy and Keith!

TO GOD BE THE GLORY!

~ Acknowledgements ~

As much as I’d love to be able to say I wrote this novel and produced it all on my own… that’d be a lie. God instilled the idea, with some argument from me at first, of the entire storyline of Sown In Peace. Then, He gave me the nudge to find men or women who could help me with the right terminology… men who have been dealing with PTSD since their service days. Little did I know the depth of human touch God had planned for Sown In Peace through those wounded men He’d chosen to help me.

After I prayed for human resources, God prompted one of my editing clients and my editor to connect me to Jeremy Rockstroh and Keith Youngblood. All of my reading and research, though amazingly helpful, didn’t provide the elements these men brought to the story. The honorably discharged, twelve-year-service soldier and the retired soldier have gone above and beyond in gifting me with information. Meeting with Jeremy numerous times, and talking to both Jeremy and Keith via Facebook, many phone calls, and communicating via email over a period of months, netted me a complete three-ring binder of research information. What truly puts the heart and meat into Sown In Peace, though, are the many personal, real-life experiences of these men. Honestly, but for the two of them and their willingness, Sown In Peace would be a mere shell of the novel it’s become. Any military informational mistakes are my own. They are certainly not the fault of Jeremy or Keith.

Editors and Proof Readers ~ These are the people who held my fingers to the keyboard after the story was written, to dig for the right depth of a scene… even a paragraph… a sentence… exchanging a word or words. Then, after multiple revisions the proof readers still caught slight issues readers don’t appreciate seeing. The missing commas, or extra commas, typos, or even a missing word. ~ Thank you, Dawn M. Turner, Sara L. Foust, and Rebekka Bartels, for the multiple content edits, line edits, and proof reader polishing.

Assistant ~ A willing friend and fellow writer helped with a lot of odds and ends, freeing me to continue with the revising and tweaking of the manuscript. She also generously spent numerous hours praying and enlisting others at specific junctures to pray for Sown In Peace, this author, and the men who graciously shared to make the story all it could be. ~ Thank you, my friend, for the time, effort, and love you’ve poured into this work and my life. ~ For also allowing me to use your name for one of the incidental characters.

Alpha/Beta Readers ~ Often an author has a first reader or readers known as Alpha Readers ~ Sown In Peace had three willing readers in its most raw beginnings. Not one self-edit had even touched it, much less a critiquer or editor. Then, after my initial self-edits and revisions, another agreed to become a Beta reader. All made it through the messiness, able to see the story within. ~ Thank you, ladies, for your reading, your attention to detail, and your comments.

Influencer Team ~ The Lord nudged me to create a team from some of the readers of my first novel in the Intended For Her Series ~ Meant For Her. Even though I thought it might be too early in the process, God affirmed a start-up date and gave me the names of those who needed to be asked. Within weeks I had established the Journeys To Joy Influencer Team. These women have kindly promoted Meant For Her, and they have become staunch prayer warriors on behalf of Sown In Peace. I am so glad God prompted the establishment of the team when He did. ~ Thank you to you amazing ladies!

Book Cover ~ I’ve heard it said, One should not judge a book by its cover. I prayed a long time for the right cover for Sown In Peace. There was a scene in the book that needed to be portrayed, but I hadn’t been able to quite get it put together with the background I desired. It’s one thing to take an idea and make a novel out of it but, with no technical ability or graphic design expertise, it’s an impossibility to take an idea from this author’s brain and put it into a cover. Then, God gifted me with an internal picture of the book cover. It was as clear as if I already held the published novel.

Having contacted Dawn M. Turner, an extraordinarily multi-talented author, gifted photographer, and graphic artist, I explained what I had in mind, describing it to the best of my ability in words. Within a very short time, she sent options and variations. By the end of that afternoon, the resulting Sown In Peace book cover precisely matched my vision of how readers should see it. This isn’t the first time Dawn has interpreted my ideas and put them into covers.

She also did a superb job of formatting Sown In Peace for e-book and paperback. ~Thank you, Dawn M. Turner. Your creative and technical expertise never ceases to astound me!

Readers ~ It is my prayer that you will see this story for more than just a good read. ~ May it enrich your life and the way you view our military men and women, who carry burdens far beyond their deployments. ~ Thank you, Reader, for taking your precious time to read Sown In Peace.

Contemporary Christian Women’s Fiction

Intended for Her Series

Meant For Her

Kept For Her (coming next)

Operation Return To Peace Series

Sown In Peace

~ Glossary ~

AAR - After Action Review

ETS - Expiration of Terms of Service

FOB - Forward Operating Base

GSD - German Shepherd Dog

HMMWV - High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle (pronounced Humvee)

IED - Improvised Explosive Device

MP - Military Police

MRAP - Mine Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle

MRE - Meals Ready-to-Eat

MWD - Military Working Dog

PMSC - Preventative Maintenance Service Checks

PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

TBI - Traumatic Brain Injury

But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, reasonable, full of mercy and good fruit, unwavering, without hypocrisy. And the seed whose fruit is righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.

~ James 3: 17 & 18

Prologue

Afghanistan ~ Forward Operating Base (FOB) ~ July 4, 2014

Heated words pinged against the outside wall of the port-a-john. Military Police Staff Sergeant Victoria Archer leaned, dipping her head, trying to catch the rapid torrent of dialogue. Why was the angry conversation in Dari at a U. S. FOB camp? Men’s voices. Too bad she was suffering brain-fog. If she’d only studied the local language more.

Spending a lot of time with children in the village at her last post, she’d traded some English for Dari. Ten-year-old Adiva had caught on fast, and one of her little sisters, Lina, hadn’t been about to let her get ahead.

Wait. I recognize that voice. One of the interpreters. A university graduate from Egypt. Pay attention, Tori. She shook her head, leaning toward the wall behind her. A grin tugged at her dust-crusted lips. Port-a-johns weren’t as soundproof as the latrines on stateside bases. Well, unless you don’t count the ones when in the field at Fort Hood. Different story with those. She’d have traded any of them for her private bathroom back in Three Rivers, Michigan. That would’ve been nice.

Tori, back from a forty-eight-hour convoy mission, had hurried to the latrine area as soon as she could leave the after action review, having obtained her post-mission assignment. The AAR had taken longer than normal with two jokers in their midst. She released her breath in a sigh. They’d have never gotten away with that stuff stateside. Even Lieutenant Colonel Nelson had been hard-pressed to keep his features from so much as twitching. That shocked them all. She might have cut loose with a laugh, if her bladder hadn’t screamed for release. Yesakes. Not a pretty picture. Not to mention how physically depleted she’d become. Another two or three hours and I can rectify that by hitting the rack. Okay, Jesus?

One of the two voices outside changed decibels. Tori shook her head and hauled her wandering mind back. Fuel. He’d used the word fuel. The second was truck. She’d had no trouble recognizing that. Yup. Fuel truck. As many deployments as she’d experienced in the country of sand, rocks, and dust, she should have netted more than an occasional recognized term or phrase.

Okay. She knew a second one. Place. That much had penetrated the mush in her brain. A convoy crossing the base smothered the argument beyond her cubicle. Place? What came after place? Why would either of those guys have to place fuel trucks? No, that would put the word place out of order… even for Dari.

Tori stood and fastened her pants. If only she could get that other one pulled into the sentence. She readjusted her vest and Military Police brassard at her bicep and headed outside to the washing stand in the center of the latrine complex.

She glanced around. The guys had been behind the semi-circle of port-a-johns. I can probably find an excuse to—

There you are, Tori-bow.

Tori jerked and turned her head. Recognizing the MP approaching the washing station, she relaxed, accustomed to the nickname.

You’ve got another hour of duty, don’t you?

"I’ve got two hours. Why?"

I was wondering if we could switch duty. Tori’s battle-buddy and fellow military police officer, Coop, known to her superiors as MP Angela Cooper, scuffed her boot in the sand-covered rock at their feet, and her cheeks reddened.

"You realize the colonel stands at the door of HQ every time a convoy shows up. I’m going to be exactly where I’m supposed to be when those trucks roll in. Besides, I’ve got an issue I need to deal with before I can hit that gate."

The soldier’s shoulders slumped. Fine. Got it. She did a half-turn.

Tori shook her head and scanned the area with a nonchalance she’d had to dredge up. No sign of the interpreters.

Without changing position, she spoke. Oh, Coop. You might want to watch your back when you’re flirting with a specific somebody who will remain nameless for now.

Angela shifted, walking sideways a few feet. I’m careful. Rapidly completing a pivot, she left.

"You definitely don’t need another reprimand," Tori called before bending to finish rinsing her hands.

Going through the conversation she’d overheard while in the port-a-john, Tori knew there was an issue. What had those guys been yelling about? With wet hands, she removed her helmet, clamped it between her thighs, and roughed up the shortened layers of her thick hair.

Some women soldiers let their hair grow long, wearing it in a tight bun, but in the higher desert temperatures, Tori did what she could to keep as cool as possible. Caps or helmets, either one, were plenty hot enough without her thick, heavy mop.

She splashed her eyes then her cheeks with the tepid water, hoping it would make her more alert, while watching to see if the two involved in that agitated discussion would come from behind the johns.

Unable to wait any longer, she ambled outside the latrine compound, sorting through the overheard discussion, trying, once more, to put context to the parts she hadn’t recognized.

~ ~ ~ ~

Tori made it to the gate as Medic Vincent Morelli jumped from the passenger side of the first truck of the convoy when it rolled to a stop at the base. Hey, Doc, you guys bring ice and real food by chance? Maybe a way to celebrate America’s birthday? She grinned large at the cheery medic. Tori had a soft spot for the Italian. He was taller and slimmer than the other Italian soldiers she’d known. The guy continued to wear a grin when most soldiers scowled because they were overheated, overworked, underfed, or just because they happened to be male and irritated. Her grin widened as she gazed upward at the friendly, brown-eyed soldier.

We wish. Doc shook his head. "Sorry. Those MREs the Army provides, just don’t extend to as much as a resemblance of real. Definitely not ice, Tori-bow."

Tanner Micky Michaels, Convoy Commander and dog handler, walked around the front of the truck with his Military Working Dog, Halley, to join them.

Micky took off his headgear then shook his head, sweat drops flying in such a way Tori was reminded of the water coming off Halley after one of her baths. That trip was about as hot and grueling as any we’ve taken out there. A hundred and twenty degrees, at least. I traded places with Gunner in the Turret to guarantee he got down long enough to get hydrated. It was sweltering in that thing. I could use some ice in some strategic spots about now. He bent and rubbed Halley’s head. You, too, huh? Straightening, he leaned sideways toward Tori with a grin. Happy Fourth of July, Tori-bow.

Tori glanced over her shoulder, noting with surprise their CO wasn’t standing in his normal position overseeing the trucks’ check-in. He had been when she’d hurried past on her way to meet the convoy. She sighed her relief. No need to ignore the friendly, five-foot-ten-inch, prematurely graying soldier at her side. He and Doc were the most placid and compassionate of any of the soldiers she’d been privileged to serve with. It’d been unusual that they’d also been with her three of her four deployments so far.

So, going to help celebrate American freedom tonight, Sarge? Doc’s words had her partially turning back their direction.

She shook her head but grinned at her buddy. "Seriously? I get enough of the real thing out here. Don’t need to be purposely shooting off firepower. Releasing the lighthearted banter and, with it, her grin, she turned farther to peer at the truck behind the soldiers. In a much more serious vein, she responded to her friends. Yup. Happy birthday, America. I hope and pray what we’re doing over here gives them more to celebrate back home. She straightened her shoulders and spieled her usual reminder. You’ll need to report in, and—"

Get the trucks over to PMSC, and have everything refueled before we head to AAR and get our camp assignment, Doc rattled off, as he turned to peer at the line of vehicles behind theirs.

Yup. I’m going off duty in ten, Micky. Tori nodded, and before pivoting toward the gate to double check she’d taken care of everything, she bent and rubbed Halley’s neck. The dog, oblivious to the affection Tori gave her, gazed up at her partner, enrapt and ready for the next command. Poor Halley. A heavy vest, dark black fur with that touch of tan, and a lot of penetrating sun. Too bad she isn’t a lighter color.

The German shepherd didn’t seem to notice. She was all about her work, and nobody could call her off except her soldier when she was in the zone. From all appearances, she was still on the job for the time being. Tori knew Halley had more than work in that body of hers. She’d seen her streaking across portions of the base at times, loving speed. No wonder they’d named her Halley.

Micky touched Tori’s forearm, tugging her focus back to him and Doc. His grin dipped a bit. You doin’ good, Tori-bow? he drawled. The strong but gentle Texan studied her with narrowed eyes. Somethin’ eatin’ at you?

That reminder revived the tension clawing at the fringes of recall, signaling a sensation of wrong. Very wrong. Tori’s palms were wet with sweat but not from the desert heat. Taking time to sleep had been a reward she’d anticipated. That’s what being dead on one’s feet did to a gal. I’m exhausted after the heat of our mission a few hours ago. Unusually so. She was careful to directly meet his gaze… not flinching. Maybe after a good rest, I’ll be back on top. Maybe. So, what’s keeping me from being able to hurry myself toward an overdue MRE, and then my cot? Although food doesn’t even sound good the way my stomach’s clenching in this desert… besides the feeling I’ve missed something.

Micky nodded and turned to walk with Halley, following Doc toward HQ.

Tori pivoted and strode toward her assigned quarters. About to enter, a third term from the argument she’d overheard clarified itself in her mind. Her breath catching in her throat, Tori pulled to an abrupt stop. Even while trying to process more of the debate in her memory, she spun and sprinted across the camp toward HQ, fatigue forgotten. She was nearly there when noisy activity at the fueling area drew her attention to a group of soldiers, standing about and jawing while fueling the CO’s vehicle. He was there.

She changed course and picked up speed.

Sweat flowed from every pore, dripping into her mouth as she opened it to scream, Lieutenant Colonel! Get back! Away from the trucks! Colonel, move out! She gulped but didn’t slow.

Her commanding officer turned and ran a few steps in her direction.

Even yards away she noted his scowl. Based on his expression, he was not amused at her order. She could only hope he’d have reason and opportunity to reprimand her after hearing what she had to impart.

Adrenaline surged, and Tori waved her arms, screaming as loudly as her punished lungs and vocal cords allowed. BOMB! Colonel. Get. Away. From the trucks. BOMB! MOVE OUT!

Colonel Nelson swiveled toward those near the trucks. He joined Tori in yelling for the soldiers to get out of the area before switching back to run her way again.

She concentrated on getting to him, no longer bothering to look at the others around the vehicles. Her heart pounded, pressure building within, and she drew on one more spurt of adrenaline in order to yell.

IED under tru—

A blast bellowed up. Its forceful energy stopped Tori from taking another step. She stared, powerless to budge or help.

Her commander fell forward into a depression in the dirt just yards from where she stood.

She’d hardly absorbed that fact when percussion slammed her chest, effectually snapping her mouth shut on her tongue and making it impossible to draw a breath.

Debris penetrated her limbs, neck, and exposed skin. The intensity of the impact drove her to her back, shoving her helmeted head into the ground beneath.

1

Kalamazoo, Michigan ~ A Monday ~ January 2015

Tori limped toward the luggage claim area of the Kalamazoo/Battle Creek International Airport while attempting to scan the surrounding area for her aunt’s lithe form. Before she could attempt a grasp at the duffle bag on the conveyor, a tall guy, not as tall as her dad but about his age and with sandy-colored hair, leaned toward her. Is that yours, soldier?

She studied him momentarily. His hair had been cut in a modified military style. His eyes, grayish blue. The lines around his features aged him.

At her nod, he lifted it and helped her position it over her less injured shoulder.

Thank you. She tried to smile at him but wasn’t optimistic it was all she’d aimed for. Can’t quite make all those facial muscles work the way they used to… yet.

The gentleman awkwardly patted her shoulder and smiled. "Thank you for what you’ve done. It’s my guess your job was in Iraq or Afghanistan. On target?" His statement had struck her as empathetic, accompanied by a nice, sincere smile. There was nothing in his expression to resent and nothing similar to those curious stares or rude statements and questions she’d gotten while waiting in the airport in Chicago. Unlike the one in Texas.

She nodded.

The man who’d greeted her turned to walk away but swung back. Do you need a ride some place, or are you being met?

Tori cleared her throat. My aunt’s coming.

Good. He paused, straightened, and saluted with a slightly deformed hand. Welcome home, Sergeant.

Tears surfaced as Tori automatically responded in the same manner with her injured right hand. "Thank you, sir." Stem the tears, Tori. What’s with the weak stuff, anyway?

The gentleman had to be ex-military and no doubt an officer, guessing by the confidence with which he carried himself. Probably retired shortly after one of the first engagements in Afghanistan or Iraq, based on the fact he wasn’t old enough for Vietnam, and she’d come to recognize post 9/11 injuries with acute accuracy. Her mind went back to Afghanistan, to her own CO, and Tori lost track of the man who’d graciously helped and welcomed her.

Victoria Kinnnseey. Her aunt’s highly recognizable shriek sang out, pulling Tori into the present. Over here, girl. Don’t stand there gawking. We need to go. There’s a snowstorm coming our way.

Searching in the direction of the strident tone, Tori found the woman standing a few steps inside the large plate-glass doors off the lobby.

A shudder cascaded from Tori’s shoulders, through her limbs, and out to the very tips of her digits. Aunt Deana has arrived. Courage, soldier… uh… woman. Tori focused on the floor at her feet in order to keep her combat boots from snagging when her right foot dragged across the transition from tile to carpet. A few more cautious steps and she was back onto tile again, at the same time her sixty-six-year-old, maternal aunt moved forward as though to relieve her of her duffle.

Tori shook her head. Thanks. This is way lighter than what I used to heft.

"I don’t comprehend why you can’t dress as a civilian and carry a suitcase as a normal woman, Victoria Kinsey. You won’t be heading back to duty, so there is no need to keep that military appearance."

A familiar wince was difficult to mask at the callous putting-into-words of what Tori most hated about her position, making it difficult to swallow that verbiage without reaction. No sense in explaining the hurt to Aunt Deana. She would never comprehend how important it’d been to Tori to wear her Army uniform for probably the last time. It’d brought her comfort heading home to the awaiting unknown. This is what I have. Don’t worry. I’ll be into civilian clothes as soon as we get my bins unpacked. They’ve arrived?

Months ago. Shortly after we got you moved to Fort Sam Houston for rehab and such. I saw to it they were unpacked and put away when I got home from Germany, and before I left again for Texas to see that you were cared for properly there, too.

Cared for properly? Aunt Deana had made life miserable for those trying to help her get back some semblance of who she’d been before that blast. At least the older woman had finally come home before Tori had finished rehab and her time in the Warrior Transition Unit.

Tori shifted the duffle bag higher on the stronger of her two shoulders.

A cold wind slapped at her body once they’d cleared the building, but rather than hurrying out to the car, Aunt Deana came to a stop short of the curb. She half-turned to scrutinize Tori. "I’m surprised they’ve not done more reconstructive surgery. What’s the hold-up on that? Is the military neglecting their duty toward you? After all, you were wounded working for them."

Actually, I was working for you, Aunt Deana, but there’s no way I will argue with you about it. Her reasoning for choosing a military career was beyond her aunt’s comprehension.

Tori forced herself to keep from slouching. She hadn’t had the inclination to do that since adolescence. No, wait. At Fort Sam Houston, whenever Aunt Deana managed to criticize a nurse or doctor within hearing, she’d caught herself huddling into a chair or sinking back into her bed. She’d fought it all the time around her mother and aunt as a child and teen. Buck up, Sarge. You’ve dealt with worse than she can throw at you. Ha. Sergeant? Yesakes. No longer a Staff Sergeant. She’d received her Army Medical Separation papers two days before getting on a jet headed for Chicago’s O’Hare Airport.

With a sigh, Tori recalled how she’d been applauded through the Texas airport concourse, along with some other soldiers taking leave. They’d traveled her direction as far as Chicago, where the reception had changed for a single soldier. Her flight between Chicago and Kalamazoo had been in a small commuter, branded by her friends as a puddle jumper. It’d been some different, not having Dad there to meet her return home at the smaller airport. The last time had been on her leave after her third deployment. The leave of upheaval. The leave that’d changed everything for her.

She straightened her shoulders. No need to rehash that situation. Tori followed Aunt Deana to a shiny black Cadillac CTS sedan. Nice wheels, Aunt Deana. It’s new since I was last… home.

"Yes, well, I need dependable transportation. I will not drive around in one of those boxy SVU things you kids prefer." Aunt Deana pressed a tab on her key fob, and the trunk opened.

Don’t correct her, Tori. It won’t end well, but give me an SUV any time over trying to sink into and push up out of one of these sedans. She’d give a lot not to have sold her Jeep.

Tori slid the duffle down her arm into the spacious storage compartment before she moved to the passenger side of the car. She glanced toward the darkening sky, opened the door, and got in.

Watching Aunt Deana from the side mirror, Tori closed her door and settled into the seat.

The trunk lid closed with a decided thump, and her five-foot, eight-inch, bleached-blonde, never-a-hair-out-of-place aunt strode to the driver’s door.

Deep breath… okay… maybe a second… or… o…kay… a third. I’ve got to deal with this since I’m staying with her for however long it takes until I can make it on my own again. This is a bump in the road, Tori. You’ve stumbled over bigger pot holes than this one. Most definitely. Suck it up, soldier, and drive on. She tried to paste a smile on as Aunt Deana opened the driver’s-side door.

~ ~ ~ ~

Rex Archer checked his phone for the third time in less than ten minutes. Where is she? Surely, she’s gotten into Kalamazoo ahead of the storm they’re calling for. If not, she may be stranded in Chicago. Deana never promised to tell me if she arrived or not. That woman! He turned to the counter next to the sink behind him, set his iPhone down to grab his mug, and poured himself a cup of coffee… his second that morning. He hadn’t done that in years.

Glancing out toward the heavy, lead-colored sky and back to the phone, he took a sip. He closed his eyes and shook his head. No, Deana won’t bother to call to update me.

He should be grateful she’d let him know Tori was headed home… well… to Michigan, anyway. He’d been unable to get much of anything from his sister-in-law after he’d left the two in Germany. Deana had been determined to keep his daughter company at the United States Army Medical Command at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany.

Had the Army not informed him of Torrent’s move to the U.S., he probably wouldn’t have found that out. For some reason Deana had gone to be with Tori again, though he’d stated he’d wanted to be the one there for her. His sister-in-law had spewed several earfuls at him. It was another one of those times when it’d been easier to give in, since he’d understood Torrent would be uncomfortable with his presence, anyway.

Rex put his mug on the counter next to his phone and placed his hands palms down on either side of it, ducking his head. I should have been there for Torrent, regardless. Should have made it a point to meet her today, too. How do I undo this? I’ve let it go too long.

He never should have listened to Denise either. Her cancer had blind-sided him. Deana should have kept out of that situation, too. Ha. Not once had she butted out of his relationship with her sister in the thirty-two years they’d been married. He might have been able to persuade Denise to let him get a hold of Torrent, if her sister hadn’t been there nearly twenty-four-seven.

Quit making excuses. You didn’t want to face the truth. What kind of father are you, to have left your daughter out of the loop? If that was the only thing you’d done… how stupid can a grown man be, Archer? He dropped his head, his entire frame shaking with emotion.

A knock at the back door startled Rex, bringing his thoughts to an unexpected end. He pulled himself up and walked through the laundry room to the enclosed breezeway and over to the back door. Recognizing his neighbor Martin Douglas on the other side of the glass, he smiled slowly and opened the door. Hey, Marty, come on in. What’s got you out here with a storm brewing?

Gotta show you what I’ve got. Thought you’d want to be told… your soldier made it to Kalamazoo. I shook her hand myself and got a salute to boot. She had no idea of our connection, so I hung around, and when she was greeting your sister-in-law, I snapped some pictures of her with my phone. Take a gander there at your girl, my friend.

Tears welled and escaped as Rex reached out to grasp his neighbor’s cell phone. He palmed them away and took the phone in a trembling hand. She’s walking without a cane or crutches, then?

Yes. Straightened into her Army-stance as though she’d never been hurt. Marty chuckled. She wore that uniform with pride.

I wonder how she’s going to handle taking it off permanently. Rex peered more closely at the phone. She’s still got some scarring, doesn’t she? Did she seem self-conscious to you?

Not in the least. She gave me a genuine smile and her salute… well, it was as good as any my fellow officers ever delivered.

Rex stood aside and motioned the other man inside. Get in here out of that wet snow coming down. Can I pour you a cup of coffee?

No, thanks. Pam’s got lunch going, and I promised I wouldn’t stick around here. I’ll download and print off the pictures this afternoon and get copies over here this evening or tomorrow.

"You… I’ve got to ask. What took you to the airport this morning instead of your usual midweek trip to greet those not met by family or thanked for their service?"

I knew you were expecting your Tori to be here this week, and the only female soldier I learned was coming into Kalamazoo from Chicago was to arrive this morning. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to welcome her home for you and get you a souvenir in the process. She’s a spunky gal.

Always has been. Rex smiled. Gazing at the picture one last time, he continued, Most people think my girl uses the name Tori because her formal name is Victoria. Don’t think I’ve shared her real reason with you. He glanced up.

Marty shook his head.

"She said she’d learned to live as though she was in a perpetual and torrential downpour in executing her duties. Hard and fast. She used to sign her emails to me, ‘I’m still Torrentially yours, Dad.’ He hated that his voice quavered. As a child she never learned how to sit still, and once she hit the military, she pushed herself to all possible limits."

You can be proud of her. Although she’s wounded, she held her own facing me.

I’m not surprised… It’s me I’m not so proud of.

I understand, but tearing yourself apart over past choices won’t help the situation.

Unsure how to respond, Rex chose to ignore Marty’s statement. Thanks for taking the time to welcome her home and for getting those pictures of her, Marty.

No problem. Rex’s best friend stepped back and turned to walk across the wide lawn where the path cut into the shrubs between the two yards. Not quite a third of the way there, he swung back. Pam and I pray for you and Tori every day. I’m not aware of her spiritual condition, but you said she’d accepted Christ before your wife died. If she’s still close to the Lord, she’s going to be sensing His nudging to heal the breach between you two. Marty swallowed. I’d love to see you have the peace the Lord gives that’d help you deal with the issues you have in the meantime, my friend.

Rex’s neck heated. He cleared his throat. I haven’t forgotten those things you and Pam have told me, and I think about them now and then. Not… convinced… I’m not ready to take that leap.

Marty raised his hand in a half-wave. Never know how much time any one of us has here, but I’m not going to push you to make a decision. It’s between you and God now.

Rex nodded in response as his neighbor turned around to walk the rest of his way across the side yard, through the hedge, and home.

Peace? Marty and Pam unquestionably exemplified what living under pressure with a sense of that nebulous calm was all about. Losing their son, Phillip, to cancer shortly before his Denise’s death—also from cancer—had to have been huge, but the couple seemed to have weathered it pretty well. Then, having their daughter-in-law move across the country, uprooting their young grandson, Dustin, was nearly as big a loss, since she rarely responded to their emails or phone calls. Multiple times in their own pain, they’d called often to check on Rex and Denise until her death, and then later, on him.

If it hadn’t been for those two, he probably wouldn’t have found the place he’d eventually called home.

Shortly after Denise’s funeral, Marty learned the house next to them was going up for sale. Aware that Rex had been shopping for a smaller property with less acreage, he’d called to tell him about it. That same week, Rex had the offer on his farm from a former neighbor’s oldest boy. Marty called it a God-incidence. Maybe… maybe not… it had worked out well… for Rex, and he couldn’t have