Finding Purpose (Colorado Veterans Book 1) Read online

  I woke later that morning to find myself on an unfamiliar bed completely clothed and covered with a navy blue comforter. I rolled to my back to see if anyone was beside me and encountered Judson resting quietly. He was close enough I could have counted his eyelashes if I’d wanted, but he wasn’t touching me. A warmth spread through my chest as I realized how respectful and sweet the gesture was. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my intent was to sneak out, but he was obviously resting lightly because his eyes popped open and his gruff voice filled the room, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I… I…am going back to my dorm room to get a shower and get ready for class.”

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  “I...”

  “That wasn’t a question. Sit, better yet, lie back down and let’s have a little talk. Then I’ll drive you back to the dorm.” He shocked me enough with his tone of voice that I lay back down. He turned on his side to face me as I faced him. His sleepy blue eyes melted me a little with his evident concern.

  His palm wrapped around my jaw and held my face in place so I could look at nothing but his eyes, which burned bright with anger and remorse for me in such a powerful way.

  “Quince, I’m sorry for what you’ve lost, but it’s time to come out of this hole. No more bullshit. I’m going to hang by your side until you’re strong again. I’m sure Denise means well, but it’s impossible to do this stuff alone and she obviously doesn’t have a clue how to handle it.

  “Marcus is a total douchebag, not worth ruining your life over. I’m sure you wanted kids eventually and I want to rip that fucker limb from limb for taking that away from you, but you can always adopt if you want them when it’s time. Right now though it’s time to get tough.

  “I’ve got class and a few calls to make to get things lined up for you so I’ll be over to pick you up at 4:30 this afternoon. You’d better be there and ready or I won’t hesitate to throw you over my shoulder and take you in whatever you’re wearing or hunt you down wherever you might be. I’m not kidding.”

  The whole time he was talking, tear drops trickled down my face, falling off to the pillow steadily. His thumb slid softly under my eyes as he wiped the remaining moisture away.

  “I don’t know if I can do it. When I drink I don’t think about what an idiot I was when I fell for him and gave him the opportunity to take everything from me,” I admitted. “If I’d shown some self-control instead of acting like the hormone-crazed college girl I was, I wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

  “You can do it, Quincy, and I’ll help you every step of the way. Time to let go of the past and move on.”

  “Why? It doesn’t make any sense for you to spend your time worrying about me.”

  “Because you’re a good person who was treated badly and left to suffer alone. You don’t deserve that. You’re my friend and teammate. I want you to know there are still men out there who’ll treat you with the respect you deserve. I’m not doing this to get in your pants so don’t even go there. Friends only.”

  I lay there quiet for a while before I said, “Okay.”

  “Now, let me get up and into my medicine cabinet so I can get you some anti-nausea medicine. I keep it on hand for nights I drink too much. It helps. After you take it I’ll drive you to the dorm. I don’t care what you do between now and 4:30, but you’d better be showered, teeth brushed and ready to go.”

  Judson stuck to his word from that day forward. He was by my side every step of the way. Taking me to counseling appointments and AA meetings. He worked out with me and helped me study. During that time, we built a friendship that not only changed my life, but also changed my heart. It taught me how to trust and to love again. He helped give me back the power over my life that an asshole and shitty circumstances took from me. He taught me how to not only survive but to live again. Now I’d like the chance to do the same for him, if he makes it through this.

  Chapter Two

  Judson

  Eleven Months Later…

  I hate cemeteries. I hate funerals. I hate caskets and I really hate my life right now. I’ve been back stateside for almost a year and I’m still a fucked-up mess. Every day I feel like I’m drowning and there’s no lifeline to grab onto and to make it worse it’s going so slowly that I have to watch every second of my downward descent into hell happen with no option of closing my eyes. Depressing, I know.

  Right now I’m attempting to climb the hill to the plot where the Colonel will be laid to rest. My leg isn’t cooperating on this uneven ground and I’m wishing I would’ve taken my time with the physical therapist a little more seriously. My arms are as strong as they’ve ever been but I haven’t learned to navigate all terrains with the leg yet and my legs aren’t nearly as strong as I’d like.

  Ms. Polly, the Colonel’s widow, called me last week to tell me he was at the end. I’ve stayed in touch with them so I knew his health was failing, but I didn’t realize it would be this soon. I should’ve come to see him when she called, but I was too big of a coward. I knew he’d be disappointed and kick my ass for the way I’ve been living, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be respectful to him when he did. I haven’t seen him since I was in the hospital in Germany following the explosion, and I barely remember that. The morphine and the extreme pain kept things pretty fuzzy for me.

  He’s the only person other than my mother and brother that I kept in touch with once I entered the Navy. I sent one letter to Quinn, I promised her one, letting her know that I did in fact survive BUD/S and become a SEAL. The experience was hard as hell, but the training and preparation are what kept me alive, only now I can’t quite figure out why I’m still alive. What did I save myself for?

  I shake those thoughts away as I labor to get up the hill. That’s a damn joke in itself. Up until a year ago I was a superior fighting machine, in the best shape of my life and trained for elite tactical maneuvers others could only dream of. Today, I can barely walk myself up a little hill to pay my respects to my mentor and father figure. It’s a sad damn day.

  As I reach the top, I realize there are a bunch of people here. Men and women in uniform and civilian clothes. Old, young, black, white, Hispanic, you name it they’re here. I’ve never been very outgoing, but after I lost my leg I like being around people even less.

  I excuse myself awkwardly maneuvering around people to get to the Colonel’s wife where she told me she wanted me. When I finally reach her, she wraps her frail old arms around my middle and holds on tight. Soft sobbing sounds drift up from between us so I rub her back and wait patiently for her to settle down. This is a sweet but tough old woman and I hate to see her hurting like this. She pulls back and looks up at me, patting my cheek affectionately.

  “You’re sitting with me. You might as well have been our son and I need one right now.”

  I give her a gentle smile and say, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

  She gestures to the chair next to her so I sit down and pull her tiny hand into mine. Her head rests against my shoulder and the pungent aroma of old lady perfume and aerosol hairspray wafts up into my nose as she settles in.

  A chaplain steps up to the podium and clears his throat, drawing our attention and she sits up straight, pulling her hands back to her lap and folding them demurely.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve come together to pay our respects to Colonel Gene A. Banks. The man is a legend. It seems everywhere I go, someone knows him. He was famous for speaking his mind and telling it like it is. Those who knew him well would also call him an old softie. I wouldn’t be able to get away with saying that if he were still here, but he’s not, so I will.” A light chuckle spreads through the crowd. “He is preceded in death by his sister, Anna Dickerson, and his son, Colin Banks. He’s survived by his lovely wife, Polly, of 60 years and his brother, Norton, who was too ill to travel here today. He’s also survived by his son, Chief Petty Officer Judson Rivers, and daughter, Officer Quincy Hannigan, who he said may not hav
e been theirs by blood, but are loved by himself and Polly just the same.”

  The sentiment of that statement hits me with a force I can’t explain and tears strain at the back of my eyes. I don’t cry, especially when I’m in uniform and never in front of people. However, right now I’m having a hard time controlling my emotions. This whole last year has been an exercise in fighting the onslaught of emotion.

  In the same second that I’m bowled over with sorrow I register that the chaplain said, “Officer Quincy Hannigan.” I search the crowd, wondering if she’s here. I knew she was close to them but didn’t realize she was that close. She was with him at the hospital in Germany after I lost my leg, but I never figured out why. In the middle of my own personal hell and only half conscious during that time, I didn’t think to ask. I did ask about her in my letters over the years, but never got much of a response from him. A few words here or there to let me know he knew what she was up to, but he never said anything that led me to believe they were this close.

  Officer Quincy Hannigan. Officer? Wow, I didn’t realize she’d gone into law enforcement. It shouldn’t surprise me considering how impressive her marksmanship skills were. I wondered what she was doing after her time with the National Pistol team. If I wasn’t so self-consumed, I would’ve looked her up on the Internet.

  The chaplain continues, “Usually, I give the eulogy, but when I met with him last week, the Colonel asked if Officer Hannigan could do it; Of course the answer was yes, who am I to deny a dying man his request?”

  My palms sweat, so I wipe them on my pants and hope Ms. Polly doesn’t grab my hand again right now. I continue to scan the crowd for Quinn. She’s obviously here. My uninjured leg bounces nervously until Ms. Polly rests her hand on it to settle me. Finally, I see the raven-haired beauty step up to the podium and unfold a piece of paper.

  She’s in a black pencil skirt that hugs her curves perfectly, a white button-down blouse and a black jacket. Her black heels accentuate the muscles in her calves. She’s always been athletic, lean and muscular with a hint of womanly curves, time has not changed this fact. I’d love to pull the pins that hold her hair in the elaborate twist-thing at the back of her head and watch as all her silky hair tumbles over her shoulders. The hairstyle makes her appear more adult, more put together than I last remember her, but I always had a thing for the dark, shiny, silky hair she was blessed with. Her eyes lift to the crowd and connect automatically with mine. A small smile plays at her lips before she glances around and begins.

  “As you all know by now, I’ve been close to the Colonel and his wife for many years. He was my coach on the pistol team at Ohio State University, he was my mentor, but he was also a friend and second father to me.

  “He scolded me when I did wrong like I was his own child and wiped my tears when I was sad. He cheered me on when I competed and encouraged me to do more, be more and live a full life. The man was a rock, the strongest man I’ve ever known and I’ve known some pretty strong men. He was a tough old bird with a soft, beautiful soul and was a man I’ll never forget.

  “During these last months I was privileged enough to help care for him, and although it pissed him off that he needed caring for, I could tell he still appreciated it. I took the night shift so Ms. Polly could keep a normal schedule, and because he had a hard time sleeping we spent a lot of those hours talking. The man was a wealth of knowledge and experience, but something I took away from those moments was the importance of fighting for who and what you love. Also, making the most out of every moment you have in this life, and the biggest, most life-changing lesson for me, seeing the potential in other people.

  “He told me often that sometimes the brightest light shines from the darkest place and I believe he’s right about that. Without someone believing that of me at one point in my life I wouldn’t be standing here now. I can’t say the Colonel was loved because the truth is he’s still loved. I can say with absolute certainty that he will be missed by many.

  “The Colonel was highly decorated during his 30-year Air Force career, with three tours in Vietnam, and one in Kuwait. When he retired, he coached the pistol team at the Air Force Academy for 10 years and then at Ohio State University for another 10. In his retirement, he spent a generous amount of time and money on both children’s and veterans’ charities, while encouraging others to do the same.

  “I could go on for hours about the Colonel and all of his achievements but I know it would just make him mad. He even made me promise to keep this short and sweet. Ms. Polly and I agreed that instead of drawing this out, we’d love for everyone to come by their house following the service, for lunch and to share your own thoughts and memories of the Colonel with us. I’m certain everyone here has something we’d love to hear. He was a good man, an honorable man worthy of the sentiment. May he rest in peace. Thank you all for coming.”

  She steps away from the podium and back off to the side. The chaplain returns and finishes the funeral, but all I can think about is Quincy and what a gorgeous woman she’s grown up to be. She was pretty before, but she’s apparently one of those women who grows more stunning as each year passes. I noticed she doesn’t have a ring on her finger and she still goes by Hannigan, making me more curious than I should be.

  Why isn’t a woman as beautiful and well-spoken as she is not tied down? It doesn’t make any sense. Now I wish I’d have pushed to get answers from the Colonel over the years. I just assumed she was living back in Ohio near her family and married by now.

  As the service concludes, I escort Ms. Polly, awkward limp and all, back to her limo and follow her home. When we arrive at her house I sneak off to the bathroom where I splash some water on my face and take a few minutes to collect myself.

  A few pain pills would be helpful right now. Too bad I don’t have any with me. I’m sore and don’t want to deal with the pain or the mass of people I’ll encounter over the next couple of hours. Thoughts like that piss me off because they demonstrate my weakness. I’ve spent the last 10 years proving I’m anything but weak and had all of that taken away in one split second—a split second I can’t change no matter how hard I wish for it.

  Once I feel like I’m pulled together, I step out of the bathroom and head down the hallway to a room full of people who must have just arrived. My muscles are stiff, making my limp more pronounced, drawing more attention to my condition and I hate it. I mentally slap myself and work at walking without the gimpy gait.

  Ms. Polly is seated on the couch talking with another older woman as I approach and offer to get her a drink. She declines and introduces me. I wish I could tell you her friend’s name, but at the same time as the introduction happens I glimpse the black-haired beauty alone on the back porch. Smiling politely, I shake hands with the woman and excuse myself.

  As I step out the back door her gaze shifts from the quiet forest behind the house to me, and for a brief second I see a light in her eyes that I’ve missed for the last 10 years. She gives me a small smile and stands up. I make my way to her, doing my best to stay steady and fluid. Of all the people in this house, it’s her I don’t want to see my limp. When I’m about two steps away I can’t fight the pull of her anymore. I should play it cool and act unaffected, but I know it’s just not possible so I move straight in for a hug, praying she doesn’t push me away. She doesn’t and I breathe a sigh of relief while she rests her head on my chest holding tight around my waist.

  I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, enjoying the sweet scent of her hair, wishing I could carry that smell with me always. God, I’ve missed her. Without thought I press my lips to the top of her head and let the tears I’ve been hiding all day fall. It seems like too much is happening and I’m losing ground fast. I never in a million years thought I’d see her again and here we are sharing the same sorrow for the death of a dear friend and almost-father. Life works in the most mysterious ways.

  Her lithe, yet curvy body fits perfectly pressed into mine. I’ve been without the warmth and conne
ction of another human being for so long that it’s insanely comforting with her. If she allowed it, I’d stay like this for hours.

  Sadly, she pulls away and wipes at her face like she was crying too. Then she takes my hand and tows me to the swing and I wipe the lingering tears on my cheeks away as discreetly as possible. Once we’re seated we both rest in silence for a little bit before she comments, “He really loved you, Judson. He lived for your letters.”

  I turn to face her, my brow furrowed.

  She continues, “It’s one of the things he wanted you to have. There are other things too. Ms. Polly will explain when everyone leaves, if she’s up for it, but he saved every one of your letters and the last couple of months I spent reading all of them to him again. Nine years of letters is a lot of reading.” A smirk crosses her lips, but I can see a tinge of sadness too.

  I was sure he read them when I sent them, but I didn’t realize they really meant anything beyond a source of information for him. Sometimes writing those letters was the only link I had to the outside world, to people other than my team. I wrote to my mom on occasion, but my correspondence to her was pretty superficial because I didn’t want her to worry. I was more open with the Colonel, at least as much as I could be considering the nature of my job. I knew he’d understand with his military history.