3. Reeves

three

It's funny how getting blasted by a landmine leaves a metallic taste in your mouth. Yanking on my always-stuck kitchen drawer until it flew opened, I easily spotted a pack of breath mints, grabbed it, and popped one in my mouth. Rolling my tongue over it, I tried to dull the metallic sensation. Even after weeks of healing, the taste still lingered. The doctors said it was metal toxicity, and it would go away. I was starting to think that I was going crazy. Strong coffee was the only thing that muted it, but with the main water pipe busted, that meant no coffee at my house.

It'd only been a month since the official discharge from the army, with a prosthetic hand and a pat on the back. It had cost me five years of dedication—and almost my life—now it already felt like a dream.

Except at night.

That was a nightmare.

Nobody warned me about that.

I had hellacious night terrors. I tried switching my diet, and going to bed early but that didn't help. The only thing that stopped them was dropping to my knees, begging for the angels to surround me with their protection. Not the chubby little cherubs you see in gift stores. These days, I go straight to the archangels with swords. The ones I had met on the battlefield. Those are the guys you want on your side.

I chuckled, not because it was funny. It was the kind of thing that if you didn't learn to laugh about it, you'd cry. Crying wasn't going to solve anything. I sought solutions.

That's my motto, and why I was still alive, with civilian freedom. All that was left to do was test out this whole pursuit of happiness thing I had almost died defending.

For me at least, pursuing happiness was a piece of land out in the middle of nowhere.

A fresh start.

Even if it meant repairing this run-down shack from the ground up, I'd get it done. This little house had been vacant for years. A decade ago, it had housed a family who worked for the king on his farms. It wasn't much compared to the huge plots of land the modern industrial farms managed. It also wasn't enough land to make a living on. I was working on acquiring more land. For right now, this was home.

With the busted pipe in my hand, I slipped on my boots, and headed out the side door, doubting this small-town hardware store had the pipe I needed. I took long strides, rounding the side of the house, and instantly spotted something off in the distance.

Or rather someone.

She wasn't trying to hide her whereabouts either because she was wearing a banana-yellow dress that could have been seen from Mars. That woman is sleeping in my field again!

It"s not that I had anything against neighbors, or naps. I rather loved naps and sometimes felt neighborly. However, I came here to isolate myself. I didn't want this woman—or anybody for that matter—becoming too neighborly. I had a fence for a reason. This isn't public picnic land!

"Hey lady," I called out, pacing toward her. I didn't want to frighten her, but I needed to warn her sternly. "I told you this is private land."

She had something in her where she didn't cower. She scampered to her feet and stared at me. Now that I was close, I could see her eyes were colored like the midnight sky. They had just enough spark in them, that I didn't feel sorry for her.

"Didn't you notice I was sleeping!" she hollered with audacity as if I was the one in the wrong. Her fists balled at her sides, and she retorted, "I was literally having the best dream, and you wrecked it with your big-bear voice."

I"d been called many names before, but never had anyone insulted my voice. Before I checked my attitude, I called back, "Big Bird called. He wants his drip back."

"Pardon me?" Her hand perched on her hip, and her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before finally saying, "Are you seriously calling me fat?"

"No!" I spurted back, as she was so delusional, she didn't get the comparison. "I was calling you yellow."

"Oh." She regarded her dress and sealed her lips. Her barefoot feet still didn't budge. A sense of entitlement showed through her elevated posture when she stared back at me. "I'm going to have to ask you to run along, so I can get back to my nap."

"Me run along?" I jerked my thumb toward my chest. "You need to run along." I wiggled two fingers like legs in front of her face as if they were running. "This is my land, and if I have to call the sheriff and report you for trespassing, I will."

"Your land?" She checked behind her shoulders as if she expected someone to support her. "Do you know who my father is?"

"I don't care if your father is the king, because even he doesn't own this land." I bit my lip, doing my best to tame the grin I was brewing as I destroyed her lofty superiority.

"Wait." She held a hand to her temple and blinked several times. "What did you say?"

"I said—" I made a sweeping gesture out toward the field, but she cut me off.

"—No, I heard what you said, but you're wrong. My father is the king, and this is his land." She stared at me as if she had laid the trump card.

I would imagine if my father were king, I'd have gotten used to throwing his name around, but not this time. I had almost died defending this country for the tyrant king, and used the measly little active duty pay I'd received to buy this scrap of land. I earned it. "Correction." I held up an imposing finger. "It was his land. He sold it to me last week."

Her head sprang back, and a bewildered look flashed on her face. Apparently, her dear old dad didn't tell her what he was up to. Daddy's little princess was about to learn some hard truths. "Now, what were you saying?" Leaning toward her, I tacked on, "Why don't you run along and ask your daddy whose land this is."

Her brows angled down sharply while her lips parted, but no words fell out. Instead, she spun on her heel, running toward the forest.

She was gone. Satisfied, I brushed my hands together and turned back to my Dodge Ram.

Problem solved.