Page 23 of Tattered and Torn

I look down at myself and scowl. I’m dressed like I always am—in blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, boots, and a battered old cowboy hat. Still, her comment makes me smile. “All right, let’s go visit the farmers.”

She laughs at that, and I find my grin widening. She’s easy to talk to, easy to be with. Easy to amuse.

Once we’re on the road, I ask, “So, you’re from Chicago? Were you born there?”

She turns to face me. “Yep. Born and raised.”

“Got any siblings?”

“No, It’s just me. I’m an only child.”

“What about your parents?” I ask.

“They’re from Chicago, too. They’re both retired now and living in Naperville—it’s a suburb west of Chicago. Not too far away. My dad was a pediatrician, and my mom was a math professor at the University of Chicago.”

I like hearing her talk, so I keep the questions coming. “Medicine and math, huh? And you became a chef? How did that happen?”

“My parents were so busy with their careers that they’d get home late each evening. My maternal grandmother, Mary, lived with us then. Honestly, she helped raise me. She let me help her cook dinner every evening. Eventually, I begged her to teach me how to cook, and in the process I fell in love with it. I loved knowing I was helping provide something important for the people I loved.”

She beams, clearly proud of herself. “When I graduated from high school, I went to culinary school. After that, I worked in a couple of small restaurants before I landed a coveted sous-chef position at Renaldo’s.”

“That’s your fancy five-star restaurant?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

“How long did you work there?”

“Six years.”

“Why’d you leave?” I want to keep the conversation going. I love how her eyes light up when she talks about cooking.

Her smile falls. “I loved working there. My boss, Peter, was fantastic. But I could read the writing on the wall. There were too many chefs ahead of me in the hierarchy. I didn’t see much of a path to rise up in the ranks. It’s always been my dream to run my own kitchen, so when Hannah offered me the job, I couldn’t turn it down.”

“Makes sense,” I say. “Lucky for us.”

“What about you?” she asks. “What’s your story?”

“Not much to say really. I spent twelve years in the Army, as a Ranger. Then, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was discharged—honorably, mind you.” I raise my left hand. “Medical discharge. After doing rehab at Walter Reed Hospital, I came back here to Bryce. It’s where I grew up. I returned to my first love—horses. My mother raises horses. I stayed with my folks for a good while, working with the animals again.

When Hannah and Killian decided to open the lodge, they offered me the job of managing the stables and taking guests out on trail rides. I jumped at the chance.”

“Can I ask why you were discharged?” Her voice has softened.

My heart starts hammering, and I hear a ringing in my ears. This is not something I like to talk about—ever. Not with anyone. When I don’t answer, she just sits there patiently, alternately watching the scenery and me. She’s waiting for an answer. It seems rude not to give her one. “I was injured.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I shrug. “It was a long time ago. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“I take it you were burned?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. I try so damn hard to forget. “Yeah. You saw my face and my hand in the barn.”

“Yes.”

“It was an IED—an improvised explosive device. I was driving a supply truck when we hit it. I didn’t even see it. Between the burns and the shrapnel in my leg, I needed lots of rehab, and I could no longer do my job.”

She sits there quietly, still facing me. There’s so much sadness in her eyes, and I can almost feel the waves of sympathy rolling off her. Pity.

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