A Red Leaf & Ten Orchids

**No demons or werewolves here. This is just a straight-ahead romance. Ok, it's a little odd since I wrote it. O_o

I may use this as a platform for other relationships among the people around the ones here, I don't know yet. I'd been planning to post a different story, but realized that this one has to precede it, so I may as well get this one said. I plant to post the chapters for this weekly if I can.

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PROLOGUE

Riding back to the compound, he felt more numb and empty than anything else. Two of the crew tried to engage him in small conversation to get his mind off everything, but he didn't have much desire to reciprocate and they gave up after a while. He imagined that he now knew how it felt to be a spent piece of ammunition and just wanted to be left alone. He knew that he was leaving a mess inside the armored personnel carrier, but didn't have enough concern left in him to feel badly about it.

He made enough of an appearance at HQ so that everyone could see that he was still moving air and then turned away, nodding in agreement that he seek medical aid. He really didn't give much of a damn about anything, and was only there to lock up his rifle. Asked why he wasn't at the compound hospital already and he replied that he wanted a cigarette, and they probably wouldn't allow that, and the way that he felt at the moment, the result would likely be unpleasant for all concerned, himself included.

He supposed that it was his small smile which put everyone off. He couldn't help it. They all thought that he must be in shock. The idea was what made him smile at the absurd irony of it. Two hours ago, he'd been in shock.

Now, he didn't give a flying fuck.

Insisting on the short walk, and ignoring the looks that he received, he headed for the hospital to let them do their business, but on the way, he reached into his shredded shirt pockets for his smokes.

And of course, they were completely sodden with blood and who knew what else, he remembered sourly. He tossed them into a bin and seeing a corporal smoking nearby, he bummed one and a light. The corporal stared, and his only comment after lighting the thing was, "I'm uh,... I'm having a bad day."

He shrugged. Well it was the best that he could come up with.

"No shit," the corporal replied.

Finally, he stepped inside.

They began to fuss over him. He provided his serial number, and they got to work. He couldn't believe the questions. They asked him why it had taken him this long to seek their help.

He shrugged, "I'm still walking, aren't I? I had to make sure my people were ok and that nobody else got hurt. The marketplace is a mess now and it took a while. You guys only see the results. It's a little different at the scene. I had a hell of a time just seeing everybody for the dust at first."

He grinned, "But I'm here now, so you can get started, unless there are forms that I have to fill out in triplicate or something."

The medics told him he'd lost some blood. He looked down at the blood and filth that he wore and replied, "Uh-huh."

They told him his wounds were not serious. He looked over and said, "I kind of figured that since I walked here, but you oughta look for shrapnel. I itch in a few places."

They told him that he'd need stitches. He sighed, "Yeah, I figured that too. Look, so far, the only reason that I ought to have gotten here sooner is because you seem to have to remark on all of the things that are really obvious. Can we just do this thing while I'm still young?"

Just after the time that he had the last of the stitches removed, his rotation time had come around.

Two weeks after that, he walked up the ramp into the cavern of the transport and sat down heavily. He still felt numb and empty. He'd started this deployment feeling lost over Sam's death and a few other things, but otherwise, he'd been up for it the same as at any other time. Now...

After the usual interminable, endless farting around, and the long taxi to the active runway, the fat bird clawed skyward with its engines howling. He normally liked to try to get at least a look out the window if he could. This time, he was asleep long before they'd reached cruising altitude.

Walking into his sparsely-furnished home days later, he set down his bags and looked around. "How is everybody?" he called.

Listening to the silence, he smiled, "That's what I thought. Glad I didn't miss anything."

He placed one long distance phone call, and after hearing pretty much what he expected, he promised to be on his way soon. He placed a second call, and made a hasty arrangement for noon the next day. He sighed heavily as he hung up.

Later that evening, he stared at a pair of photographs on his desktop monitor as he drank his second beer. He clicked the PRINT button and pulled his camera's memory card from the reader slot. Setting the prints aside carefully on the table near the door, he went to bed.

The next day, his usual artist couldn't help him, but introduced him to the new girl. He looked at her portfolio and nodded, explaining what he wanted, and produced the photographs, insisting that if at all possible, he needed her help right then. The woman looked at his arm and agreed, but asked him if he had a tendency to pass out. He nodded with a small smile, "Every damn time."

"Ok," she said, "You know that's just your endorphins going crazy. It happens more to men than women, it's no big deal. I just wanted to make sure you're aware of the possibility."

He was already taking off his shirt. She stood ready with the razor to shave his arm. He chuckled quietly, "If I've got any endorphins left, they were crazy long before this."

As his shirt came off, the woman stared, "Holy shit!"

"Uh-huh," he sighed, "I passed out when I got these too, but I hit my head that time."

That evening, he carefully applied the Vitamin E cream after waiting the proscribed period of time to remove the wrapping from his arm. Like every other time, he felt as though he had a very local sunburn, and there had been some blood. And like every other time, he'd passed out once. He looked at the spot, both directly and in the mirror.

"Damned endorphins," he muttered.

Finally he went out back to light the fire in the pit out back. He'd dug it for the very occasional time that he had his friends over. Tonight, there was no one waiting there for him but his ghosts. It still being spring, it was too cool and early to stay out long, but the mosquitoes kept him company and he didn't care much either way.

Sometime during the first beer, he carefully burned the photographs along with the memory card and stirred the ashes with a stick that he tossed in afterward. Sometime after the second beer, he heard the word again in his mind, the last thing she'd ever said as she smiled up at him just before she died in the arms of a soldier from the other side of the world. He heard that one word ring through his mind in the voice of the small child that he'd never forget.

Fereshteh.

He knew what it meant now. If he could have had his wish, he'd have been what the word meant, because then he'd have been able to save her.

He hung his head and now weeks afterward, he finally began to weep for her.

The house was locked up the third day, and he looked at his bike, wishing.

Not this time, he thought.

He climbed into his big Ford and began the long drive south. When he arrived a few days later, he had it together as the woman that he considered his mother hugged him tightly in welcome.

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CHAPTER 1

Kayla Fraser found herself paying more and more attention to the engine temperature gauge as this trip wore on. It had been doing its imitation of a slow motion metronome since they'd left Phoenix. Overall, it averaged just above the center, but there were excursions above and below that point depending on how hard the engine was working, she supposed. She had noticed that the air conditioning kept cutting out going up inclines, or when she pulled out to pass, which was often. She wasn't sure, but it seemed to her that lately it was spending far more time on the high side of center.

She cursed that fool of an ex-boyfriend for selling her this car the year before. The fact that she had almost hounded Frank into it against his better judgment was beside the point. She should have known better than to take the word of a man, and a weak one at that. They were all weak if it came right down to it.

Frank himself had some misgivings about Kayla's planned move from Phoenix to Santa Fe, and wasn't sure the sedan would hold up to her abuse for the duration of the trip. Especially once she'd told him that she'd be pulling a rental trailer. She never maintained it, and only brought it to him when something was wrong.

Kayla abused everything and everybody equally as far as he could tell and she expected things to last forever. He'd faced her frequent wrath as she pointed out his many failings as she saw them. She kept calling him for help and he dreaded picking up the phone when her number showed up on the display. He still wished her a safe trip. Hell, anything to get her out of his life. He figured it was a small price to pay just to see the back of her. And he'd been over looking at the back of her for two years now.

Kayla Fraser was a handful in many ways. 33 years old, and just over 5' 4", she was lithe, but not bony or sinewy, with a smallish bust, and a wasp waist. Her green eyes were set above high cheekbones and seemed almost to flash if she was annoyed or angered, a not uncommon occurrence. She had very thick auburn hair that compounded the effect. The dark red mane hung far down her back, but the longish bangs out front gave those eyes a jungle to peer out of when she was pissed at something or someone. You could say that the girl had a temper.

She was capable of amazing things when that fire was lit.

She'd almost killed a 19-year-old break-in artist when she'd come home unexpectedly as he was ripping her apartment up in his search for something fence-able. He had pulled a knife, but since she was already angry, her response was not the fearful one that he had expected. She'd used her telephone to beat the tar out of him.

He hadn't pressed charges.

Kayla was used to having to fight for what was hers. She had little use for men of any kind. In her experience, they were all after one thing anyway, and were only useful to a small degree while they wound themselves through all sorts of devious knots to get there. She in turn used them along the way, but had always enjoyed slamming that door on them in the end.

That was her favorite part. If they didn't like her treatment of them, they should have just left well enough alone in the first place. She was never the one who initiated the conversations that led to their pathetic games anyway.

She'd been on her own since dropping out of college in order to get into modeling and dancing, though that had begun a slow trip into another entertainment industry altogether. She couldn't stand the work, but the money was alright. Kayla had finally recognized that her childhood dream hadn't led her to any castles, and wasn't about to, She'd done her best to bank as much of the money as she could against the day that she'd try to salvage her education.

That plan had been overtaken by events, as it turned out. When life had handed her a completely unexpected reason, her interpretation was that it was the reason that she'd been waiting for.

In a complete about-face, she'd gotten out of her slide by sheer force of will, and was now in a line of government work after completing college the hard way. It had forced her to lighten up some, since now her work demanded that she could function in a team environment. But the rough edges that she'd picked up along the way had kept trying to surface, and her coworkers sometimes found her hard to deal with.

She'd been estranged from almost all of her family for a long time now as a result mostly of the type of establishment where she'd danced. As time went by, the numbers dwindled, not that she cared anyway. There had been few that had given much of a damn about her. Fifty percent of what family that she had left on earth was in the car with her now. Well, those who were worth a thought, anyway.

Kayla's niece Jillian sat strapped in on the passenger side and listened as her aunt complained to the steering wheel about the car. Kayla stopped abruptly when she noticed it. The thought came to her that if they had lived a hundred years ago in the same circumstances the car would then have been a horse and she'd have long ago whipped it to death. She smirked ruefully at the thought, and was thankful that Jilly always had the effect of softening her outlook.

Kayla exhaled and resolved for the billionth time to quit fussing about things and enjoy life when she could. She was moving them away from the place where there seemed to be no hope for them, and nothing but bad memories. The job transfer had been hell on earth to arrange, but had finally come through – there was even a month's leave before she had to start.

She just wished they were already at the old ranch where she and her sister had spent a few summers when they were Jilly's age. Her aunt and uncle were the strongest people she'd ever met, between them they could take whatever the world threw at them - especially her uncle, Sam. He could manage any catastrophe with a wink and a smile.

Kayla's kid sister Marcia had been killed in a rollover in Tennessee on a business trip together with her husband two years before. The highway patrol had attributed the cause to be a high rate of speed in less than ideal conditions; the fog, slick road surface, and an unexpected turn on an unfamiliar road being contributing factors. It all added up to a tragedy. In truth, Kayla realized, the tragedy had begun when Marcia and Bob were dating. Jillian was the result, and they both felt obligated to marry for that reason. They had liked each other a lot, but other than a moment of passion (or weakness if you listened to Marcia), there was no "head-over-heels" to it as far as Kayla could tell.

Little Jillian was a payoff in her own way. A cute and lively seven year old who swelled Kayla's heart sixteen times a day, even though she could sometimes be a handful herself. Kayla had promised her sister's memory that she would raise Jillian to be someone that Marcia would have been proud of. She would do it without thought for herself. Jillian's arrival had been the catalyst that Kayla had needed to remake her life. She would do anything for this little girl, and God help anyone who hurt her.

Jillian was so full of life that sometimes the deep reddish mop on her head looked like it was only along for the ride because it was attached. Once she stopped, her hair regained some composure, but in motion, it looked like it was hanging on for life itself. Jillian was listening now as her aunt explained the old "I SPY" game to her. Kayla looked over at her niece and smiled. She knew that she'd regret this game once they started, but Jillian had grown tired of her coloring books right then.

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Rose Marriott was on her way home. It had been a long day – well, a long week come to think of it. But now that she was on her vacation, she felt she had something to look forward to. The second real bright spot on the horizon since she'd been widowed. The first bright spot had been Joshua's arrival for an extended stay to help out. God, she loved that man. He was the son she'd never had, and never knew she'd needed until he showed up. She'd loved him since the day that Sam came back from town on that old motorcycle of his telling her that a young man might drop by for dinner, someone he'd met on the road.

"He's just passing through Rosie, but he looked like he could use a proper meal. There's something about him that seems kind of lost to me, though he's polite and all and he looks like his head's screwed on straight. Not lost, really. More like he's searchin' for somethin', only he don't know it yet."

That had been a mouthful for Sam, Rose thought back to that time. She knew that she was lucky if he said that many words to her in a whole day. There is a drawback to loving the strong silent type. She'd realized that too late, she knew.

Right after she'd fallen for him years before. She'd known that she wouldn't get much more out of him on the subject, so she'd set about dinner.

A couple of hours later she heard a strange-sounding motorcycle come howling down the long drive. Sam went out to welcome Josh, and then he dragged him in to meet her. Sam was right – Joshua Taylor was as handsome a young man as she'd ever met with no airs or pretentiousness to him. He had intelligent, thoughtful, and Lord, such blue eyes, and a quick, honest smile. But there was something about him, something dark, though not in a bad way necessarily. During dinner, she fussed over their guest to the point of making him feel slightly uncomfortable, but carefully not beyond it. Then she had a part of the puzzle – she could see that Joshua was slightly shy, but there was more to it, she was certain.

He insisted on helping clean up afterward. Rose was having none of it until she'd let him persist to the point of having the dishrag in his hand. As they washed the dishes together, Sam remained at the table, with that small smirk of his that she loved so. He'd known what she was doing, the old rat!

Rose asked, in ever-tightening circles, the questions that would tell her what she wanted to know. The line of her questions had the logic of a butterfly's flight path, but each one fell imperceptibly closer to the mark: Yes Ma'am, he was traveling alone. No Ma'am, there was no girlfriend at the moment. Yes, he used to have someone special, but that had come apart. No, there was no chance to repair it, Ma'am.

Sam interjected at that point in his own inimitable style, "Sounds to me like he wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire." He winked at them.

Rose rolled her eyes skyward. "Yes, honey. I kind of arrived at the same conclusion, thank you for that" she said, cuffing him with the dishtowel.

Joshua had smiled, "Well, I wouldn't put it that way, Rosie. We just made some mistakes is all, and she's moved on."

His hand kept catching her eye. At first she couldn't place it. It wasn't until afterward when they all went out to the porch for a beer that she thought she had her answer. His left hand looked to her (and if asked, she couldn't say why, she just knew) like there had once been a ring there. There was no tan line or indentation; he'd taken it off years before.

"Joshua, I don't mean to pry. It's certainly none of my business, but I can tell you that Sam likes you since you're here. And I like you too, Dear. But you have a look about you that tells me that you're hurting someplace inside, and I'm certain it's got a lot to do with what you told me couldn't be 'repaired', as you put it. Was she your wife?"

Josh froze. Sam later told him he had a real "deer in the headlights" look at that moment. He considered excusing himself to leave right then, but instead just nodded and quietly said, "Yes, that was 6 years ago."

At that instant, Rose saw the full depth of his pain in his eyes. She was amazed at the intensity of what she'd seen given the passage of time involved. It was only there for half a second, and then he had it hand again. What she saw was inexplicably enough to hurt her too, a heart that was turning into a bleak and barren place. She didn't mention it again; he'd talk about it if he wanted to, whenever he wanted to.

Josh never knew how it happened, but between the two of them they got him to stay with them for a week, putting him up in the small bunkhouse. He just puttered around with them, helped out where he could, and enjoyed himself. When he finally left to ride home, he felt better than he'd felt in a long time, and he was truly thankful for that. He'd promised to write them when he got back home. He'd been coming back ever since. That had been a long time ago.