The Baby And The Cowboy Seal. Laura Marie Altom

confused by your question, since it’s okay—even perfectly natural—if you’re still crushing on Wiley.”

      “I know, but it’s complicated,” Macy said. “He’s not the same person anymore. Sure, he was always cocky and had a sarcastic edge to his humor, but now something about him is so dark, and that scares me. But at the same time, I’m more attracted to him than ever. I’d about given up on him when he confessed he didn’t want me to see him with his bad leg, and...” Pain for him—for what he must have gone through—radiated through her. “Mom, I was lost. At that moment, I wanted to do whatever I could to help him. But then I noticed how dead he looked in his eyes—it was as if he hadn’t just lost full use of his leg, but his humanity. Maybe this time Dad was right, and I should stay away?”

      “Is that what you want?” Her mom had a way of cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Because the way I see it, aside from those few rocky years with Rex, you’ve pretty much pined for Wiley since you were a little girl. Now, he’s back, and yes, he might be broken, but when have you ever turned away from anyone or anything in need of extra comfort? You were always bringing in strays, and you treat Clem’s nasty old llamas like family.”

      “They are family.”

      Her mom grinned, but also shuddered. “Last time that big one spit at me, I wasn’t exactly thinking of giving him a nice hug. Anyway, what I’m trying to get at is this is Wiley we’re talking about. Up until he left for the Navy, you thought he hung the moon, stars and every rainbow in between. Clearly, he’s in need of a friend, so why would you even think of turning your back on him?”

      “Because I’m scared.” Macy crossed her arms. “Mom, Wiley’s not just a little sad, but fundamentally changed. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think something happened to him on that last mission of his that he’s not talking about—and honestly, maybe I’m not strong enough to hear.”

      * * *

      “AGAIN?”

      Monday morning, after an endless weekend spent either drunk or sleeping or working his way to each respective state, Wiley stared down Macy’s llama who contentedly munched his newly planted green beans.

      The animal spit at him. What was his name? Charlie?

      Wiley spit back. “You might act all badass, but that sissy bell Macy’s got you wearing doesn’t do much for your manhood.”

      The llama ignored Wiley’s speech in favor of taking another big bite. This time, the beast tugged hard enough that the whole plant—roots and all—came flying out of the ground. The shock of the dirt and dust in his face spooked the llama, and he took off running—only not toward his pasture, but Wiley’s cabin.

      Upon discovering that was a dead end, the llama bolted into the side yard. This portion of land was close to the property line, and mostly consisted of a weed-choked, forgotten rust pile where his grandfather had dumped busted fridges, cars and washing machines for decades. Also in the mix was barbed wire, and when Charlie reached it before Wiley could stop him, the animal let out a sound signaling he was in pain.

      “Damn it,” Wiley said under his breath, limping to the rescue as fast as his bum leg allowed. Seeing any creature hurting was awful, but knowing this big lug was a favorite of Macy’s made the situation all the worse.

      “Calm down...” The rusty wire had looped around the right fetlock and knee. The more Charlie struggled, the more his heartbreaking moans dragged Wiley back to another time, another attempt to avert injury that had ultimately failed.

      But not this time.

      Wiley clenched his jaw, working the wire loose while somehow not getting his head stomped by one of Charlie’s angry kicks.

      “Hang tight, Crow, I’ll have you out of here in no time.”

      “I’m already gone,” his SEAL teammate said from between gritted teeth. “Get out of here—save yourself.”

      “No way, man. Let me—” BOOM!

      The final bomb’s concussive force killed his buddy, Michael Young—called Crow by his friends—and threw Wiley backward a good fifteen feet. The blast rendered him deaf for days—although he still had some ringing in his ears that sometimes kept him up nights. His protective gear saved him from extensive burns—at least everywhere except his leg. He had a few faint scars on his chin and left cheek, but that was nothing a few day’s beard growth didn’t cover.

      The internal wounds hurt most. The mental images of the countless other lives taken. In the dark of night, those were the souls haunting him, clawing at his heart and mind until he damn near felt dead himself.

      “There you go,” Wiley said to Charlie, stroking the animal’s back while taking gentle hold of his bell collar to lead him from danger. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get the vet up here to clean you and give you a couple shots and you’ll be right as rain.”

      Wiley’s soothing words earned him a grunt.

      When it came to horses, Wiley would have understood this noise, but llama-speak might as well have been Martian.

      Wiley led Charlie to the barn, then found a lead rope to loop around his neck, only Charlie wasn’t having it. Even with his leg scratched, he dug in to the barn’s dirt floor, refusing to budge.

      “Looks like we’ll play this your way.”

      He slipped the rope off the creature’s stubborn head, then limped back into the sun, closing the barn door behind him. He’d long since given up on his cell having a reliable signal, so he made it to the cabin and dialed the vet’s number on his grandfather’s old-fashioned black rotary-dial phone. Affixed to the wall with yellowed tape was a sheet filled with numbers written in Buster’s familiar scrawl. The vet’s office was just one of the numbers his grandfather had jotted down for eight-year-old Wiley to use in case of emergency. The next number happened to be for Clem and Dot’s—only the voice on the other end of the line was the last he wanted to hear.

      “Macy...” Wiley said. “Don’t get upset, but Charlie’s been hurt.”

      * * *

      WILEY COULD TELL MACY all he wanted not to be upset about Charlie, but that didn’t mean she’d listen. After hanging up the phone, she bundled Henry into his car seat, then drove Clem’s more-rust-than-red pickup the short way to Wiley’s grandfather’s cabin.

      The dust from her fishtailed parking job hadn’t yet settled when she leapt from the truck to pluck Henry from his seat and into her arms, then met Wiley where he stood glowering in front of the barn.

      “I told you this wasn’t an emergency.” He tugged the brim of his straw cowboy hat. “There was no need to drive over—let alone, drive all crazy.”

      “Where is he?”

      “In the barn, but—”

      “Thanks. That’s all I need to know.” She wasn’t in the mood to decipher what Wiley may or may not deem a serious injury. When it came to her grandfather’s llamas, Macy considered them family, just like she’d told her mom.

      She tugged open the heavy barn door, then paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the shadowy light.

      Thankfully, the first thing she saw was Charlie, contentedly munching feed from a tin bucket. His leg was scratched from his tussle with the barbed wire, but as long as it was treated to ward off possible infection, he’d no doubt live to escape another day.

      “You scared me,” she said to the infuriating, yet lovable creature. She tried hugging his furry neck, but he wrestled free before returning to his meal.

      “Told you he’ll be fine,” Wiley said from behind her. “The vet’s on his way.”

      “Thank you.”

      “I’m just sorry it happened. Charlie got into Gramp’s old junk pile. I’ll get someone over here to haul all of it off. In the meantime,