Page 2 of The Way Back Home
He studied her face. Saw the sincerity in her bright eyes. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I do.”
Instead of being offended, she smiled back at him and said with absolute confidence, “That’s okay. You will.”
As Noah passed through the doors and back into the public area, he couldn’t help but shake his head. Hewished he shared her faith, even if she was a few bricks shy of a load.
Several hours later, Noah stood just outside the baggage claim area of the Blue Grass Airport in Lexington, Kentucky, waiting for his ride. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Noah Ziegler. I’ve been expecting you.”
Noah turned to the woman who had spoken his name. The first word that popped into his mind wasmotherly, followed bytoughandkind. He guessed her to be in her mid-sixties, with silvery-white streaks in her dark brown hair. Deeply etched lines around her eyes and mouth suggested a woman who smiled often. Her practical, comfortable clothes and sturdy, healthy frame told him she wasn’t the kind of person who sat behind a desk all day.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” the woman said with a warm smile, sticking out her hand. “I’m Mona Baker.”
He accepted her hand. “Mrs. Baker.”
“Mona,” she corrected. “We’re a small operation, and everyone’s on a first-name basis. Best you get used to it from the get-go.” She eyed his duffel. “Waiting on more luggage?”
“No.”
“Well, come on then. No sense in dillydallying.”
She led him out to a pickup truck. Old, but in good shape. Kind of like her. He threw his bag in the back and climbed in.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Mona said with agrin a little while later. “Your mom said you were a man of few words. That’s all right. I’ll talk enough for the both of us.”
“Tell me about the ranch,” he said.
He probably should have researched the place before signing on. All he knew was, Mona and his mother had been friends since their college days, and Mona needed someone to cover the ranch while her usual doc was out of commission. More importantly, the job provided the perfect excuse not to move back home and gave him the extra time he needed to try to get his shit together.
As the tires ate up the miles, Mona filled him in. “Like I said, we’re a small outfit. Eight horses, two stablehands, me, and now you. Most of our regulars are working their way back from some sort of debilitating or traumatic injury, but we do have a few with congenital physical and mental challenges. Nothing an orthopedic specialist like you can’t handle,” she assured him.
She’d be surprised at what he could and couldn’t handle.
“What exactly is my role?” he asked.
“To review our programs and analyze care on a case-by-case basis. Fair warning: Doc Benner isn’t a big believer in documenting his methods, so it might be a bit of a challenge.”
Yeah, probably not for someone with his triage and battlefield experience. Then again, that was one of the draws—small client base, regular schedules, minimal chance of getting too involved or working thirty-six-hour shifts. Bonus: not a lot of life-or-death situations.
What he said was, “Not a problem.”
“Since you’ll be living on the property, you’ll be expected to provide on-site care as necessary. We take every precaution, but we do have the occasional sprains and strains, muscle spasms, seizures, panic attacks, that sort of thing. Having you around will provide peace of mind, both for us and those who trust us with their care and the care of their loved ones.”
It sounded like a walk in the park compared to what he was used to, and he was ready for it.
When they arrived at the ranch, Mona continued past the big house and stables, along fenced-in paddocks, and stopped at a cabin at the edge of the woods.
“This is where you’ll be bunking,” Mona explained. “It’s nothing fancy, but it should have everything you need. If not, you know how to use the phone.”
She handed him a key. Noah was pleasantly surprised. He knew he’d be living on-site, but he’d assumed that meant a room at the main house or an apartment over the barn or something. Having a place to himself was ideal. He wouldn’t have to pretend twenty-four/seven.
“Go on and get yourself settled. There’s a casserole in the fridge and fresh towels in the bathroom. When you’re ready, come up to the big house. I’ll give you the ten-dollar tour.”
“Thanks,” he said.
