Snowbound - Harlequin.com

156 SNOWBOUND
Stryker had roared back to recover them. Some kid had
thrown a rock; John remembered it banging off the
truck’s welded armor. He’d said quietly, “Easy,” to
Larson, maybe because of those restless fingers. But
that was it. They’d figured out what was wrong with the
truck and had driven off. Ninety percent of the scenes
that flashed into his head were like this one, nothing
he’d normally recall. Just pulled out of his memory
by something—a smell, a movement, a noise—and
suddenly there, as if he lived in two dimensions.
That disturbed him more than anything, the idea that
he just couldn’t seem to leave Iraq and was perpetually
re-enlisting without conscious volition.
But he shook this minor flashback off. They weren’t
coming as often anymore. “Healing” meant he was a
work in process, not cured.
For several minutes, he and the boys threw around
ideas, Troy seeming to have the most experience with
cars. Then they headed back down to the lodge. The
boys raced ahead, their shouts trailing in the thin, cold
air, while he took his time.
When he reported the news about the van to Fiona,
she nodded resignedly.
“I had a feeling backing out wasn’t going to be an
option.”
“The road crew might be able to wrap a chain around
the axle and pull it out.”
While they waited, she threw herself into a frenzy of
laundry and cleaning, driving the kids to help with the
first hint of sharpness he’d heard from her.
Unaware he was within earshot, she told three of