Short Rides (Rough Riders #14.5)(4)

She nodded. Fiddled with the stem of her martini glass. “I can tell you that I recently found out Jeff suffered from PTSD.”


Cam’s gut clenched for the second time at the reminder he’d had no idea Jeff had served in the military, let alone in a combat unit. As Cam tried to think back to the past few years and whether he’d simply forgotten that piece of information, Bob Wingate’s accusations pushed front and center. You should have reached out to him.


“Angela came into the office last week for her annual checkup. She had bruises on her arms and legs. When I asked why, she said Jeff had been suffering from more combat nightmares than usual. He thrashed around a lot at night and she bore the brunt of it.”


Cam felt himself nodding. Those types of flashbacks were so real he woke covered in sweat, his throat raw from heat and sand, feeling like he’d been in the desert fighting for his life.


“Was Angela concerned for her safety?” the sheriff asked.


Doc Monroe shook her head. “She swore she knew how to handle it. Handle him. I had no reason not to believe her or I would’ve suggested she stay someplace safer.” She drained the vodka shot. “I see abused women in my practice far too often. I never would’ve put Angela in that category.”


“Can you back up?” Cam said. “Bob Wingate said something to me earlier, and you just confirmed it, but I had no idea Jeff was a combat vet.”


“Me neither,” Sheriff Shortbull added. “And I’ve bowled with Jeff the last few years.”


“My understanding is he was a supply clerk in the National Guard. His unit, based out of Laramie, where he joined during college, got called for Operation Iraqi Freedom. They saw the worst of the initial resistance. Jeff was stationed over there about… a year, I guess.” Doc Monroe looked at Cam. “You weren’t around then.”


“Because I was also in Iraq.”


“Angela said he wouldn’t speak of that time. Like it’d never happened. As soon as he’d fulfilled his enlistment requirements, he moved back to Sundance from Laramie. She knew he’d been diagnosed with PTSD, but his family had no idea. He refused counseling or medication. And ninety-nine percent of the time he was fine.”


But that unstable one percent was the unknown—and in this case, a real killer.


Cam ordered another round for himself. Much like Jeff, he didn’t talk to his family about being a combat survivor. If he hadn’t needed his prosthesis checked twice a year, he’d probably never step foot in the VA. After he’d lost his leg, part of his hand, and received an honorable medical discharge, he’d cut himself off from everyone in his former military life except for a couple guys from his unit.


“I don’t mean to be gross, but Jeff really… offed himself with a chainsaw?” Doc Monroe asked.


The sheriff nodded. “The modern day method of falling on his sword. Except he turned it on and…” He drained his beer. “Evidently, it was an older model with no safeguards. It stayed on and kept cutting through everything in its path until it ran out of gas.”


Both the sheriff and Cam shuddered at the gruesome mental image of the carnage left in the wake of a runaway chainsaw.


Doc Monroe polished off her second martini. “I’m not a detective, but do any of the pieces fit together yet?”


“More now than they did before you joined us. So thanks, Doc. I’ll have to add the supposition to my report.”


“The supposition being…” She paused and then said, “That Angela must’ve startled Jeff during one of his combat nightmares and he emptied his handgun into her. When he realized what he’d done, he killed himself in a manner which he knew he wouldn’t survive.”


“That’s probably as close to the truth as we’ll ever get,” Cam said. “No one will ever really know what went on.”


She looked at them, her brow furrowed, and Cam knew she’d gone back into doctor mode. “But it’s not like either of you can easily forget it. Since you have access to a top-notch counselor through the sheriff’s office, I recommend you both take advantage of it. This has the potential to haunt you and affect your job.”



“Thanks for that cheery reminder,” the sheriff said dryly. He grabbed his hat off a peg on the wall. “I’ll get someone to drive me home.” Once he stood by the end of the booth, he told Cam, “Take tomorrow off. But let me know how you’re doin’, okay?”


Cam nodded. His cell phone buzzed with a text message, which he ignored.


Doc Monroe signaled someone behind him and finished her last shot. “Will you be all right if I take off too?”


No. “Yeah.”


The pushy doc angled across the table, forcing his attention. “I know you, Deputy Cameron McKay. Don’t do this to yourself.”


“Do what? Wonder why I had no freakin’ clue about Jeff’s military service? Maybe I could have—”


“You couldn’t have done anything. He would’ve turned away your help if you’d offered.”


Probably true. But it didn’t diminish his feelings of guilt.