Page 74 of High Intensity

I nudge my horse toward a trail that runs behind the barn and up into the mountains. Jackson follows close behind.

“I don’t need company.”

“Just pretend I’m not here,” the asshole persists.

Whatever. If he wants to follow me around, I can’t stop him.

To his credit, he doesn’t say anything until I stop to take a break at the highest point on the trail. It’s at the top of a rock face overlooking the ranch and the Fisher River beyond. From this vantage point I can even make out the roof of Dan and Sloane’s place, which was only finished the fall of last year.

I loop Judge’s reins around a low branch and find a rock to sit on. Stretching my legs out in front of me, I settle back to take in the view in peace. Jackson has a different idea as he joins me and hands me a can.

“Seriously? Beer?”

He shrugs. “Found them in the bar fridge in the tack room. Call it lunch.”

It’s still cold, and a sharp hiss escapes when I crack the tab. The beer goes down smoothly.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome.”

He cracks his own beer, takes a good drink, and belches when it goes down too fast.

“Charming.”

He darts a glance my way. “Nobody here but us.”

I know what he’s suggesting but choose not to bite. Instead, I take another drink, but Jackson is ready to make a point.

“Most people think I attempted suicide because of this.” He raps his knuckles on his prosthesis.

I’m surprised he brings up his attempt, it’s not something he’s talked to me about before.

“It isn’t?”

I guess I’m “most people.” I figured it was the trauma of the ambush that lost him his friends and his leg that had him swallow a cocktail of medications last year.

“No, that wasn’t it. Do you know what I did in service of our fine country?”

I shake my head. I know—like the original High Mountain Trackers team—Jackson was special ops, which means what he or any of the others did, isn’t exactly common knowledge.

“I was a sniper. A sanctioned killer.”

I must’ve made a face, because he calls me out.

“What? Too harsh? It’s what I was called in to do; eliminate targets. At some point you stop counting, after all, they’re no more than a speck through your scope. Something abstract. And all of it is justified. Enemies to our country.”

He takes another drink from his beer, and I wait him out, unsure what to say at this point anyway.

“Then one day your unit becomes the target, and you become the speck in someone else’s viewfinder. Someone who believes wholeheartedly in their cause, whose actions were justified in their defense of their existence. Then by some stroke of luck, you wake up in a hospital and realize your leg is missing but at least you still have your life.” He nods and glances over at me. “Suddenly those specks you saw through your scope become as real as you are.”

He rubs a hand over his face and turns back to the view, taking another drink before he continues.

“For months after, you’re encouraged to talk about the loss of your limb, of your friends, about what was done to you. Yet,no one asks about whatyouhave done, and that is what has you waking up in the middle of the night, screaming. And keeping it in, not sharing what is really eating at you, can do a lot of damage.”

It takes me a few moments to process all that information. I’ve got to admit, his story stirs something in me. As much as I don’t think our experiences are necessarily the same, I can’t deny I’ve been shoving down the news I caused another man’s death.

“He wasn’t my first,” I confess. “But you’re right, I don’t like talking about it. What’s there to talk about? I had no choice.”

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