Sweet Courage
Book Ten of the Honeysuckle Texas Series
Chapter One
"Clear the area!"
Shrill voices. Screaming. Hanson running at a full gallop. Get away. Move. Clear the area, get everyone out.
"Clear the area!" The words tore out of him. His legs — tree stumps, both of them, heavy and wrong and not moving fast enough. Move. Had to move. Had to save everyone. Heat. Lord, so much heat pressed in from every side. Dust so thick he couldn't pull air through it. Lungs burning. Keep moving. Water. Suddenly water everywhere. Swim. Had to swim. Arms like lead, gravity yanking at his boots, pulling him down. Ripples of water overhead. The sky dark and fiery gray and wrong.
"They're attacking!" A voice, muffled, overhead somewhere.
Bursts of red and orange and yellow exploded above him like the Fourth of July. The air stank of fuel and ash and something worse. A dark shape spun between the fire and the water. Growing. Closer. Bigger. A truck. How was there a…
Kick. Move. He had to get away. Screams everywhere. The convoy, where was everyone, where had they… ? The pressure built in his chest. Breathe. Long deep breaths but nothing came. No air. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't find… "Aiden!" His voice swallowed by water. Still in the water. Where? How? "Gideon!"
Groans. His buddies. Somewhere. He kicked out, pulled his arms through the water, the light hit his face and then the water was gone and he was running, burned grass under his boots, black smoldering holes in the earth, smoke burning his throat. Move. Stay safe. Find them.
Screams again. One louder than the others. He locked onto it and ran harder, harder than his legs should have been able to carry him, toward the sound coming from under a pile of burned wood. A structure. Had it been a house? A cabin?
The cry came again and with both hands he grabbed at splintered wood and charred beams, throwing them aside with the ease of tossing bags of feathers. He had to move faster. The screams were getting louder. One more board. Gripping the corner, he flipped it out of the way. A final scream pierced straight through him. Not Gideon. Not Aiden. Not his sergeant—a baby!
"No!"
Sucking in a deep breath, Hanson Taylor sat up straight. Surrounded by dark, he blinked. Silence embraced him. He blinked again, looking down. Soaked. His shirt was soaked. Tangled around his legs, sheets were drenched with sweat. His sweat. Swinging his legs around, he braced himself on the edge of the mattress. Where the hell was he?
His eyes squeezed shut, he tried to remember. Tried to understand. As if someone had drilled a hole in his brain and let all his memories pour out, he could not remember where he was.
A light tap on the door. “Hanson, honey, are you all right?”
Honey?
The hinges squeaked as the door inched open. “Can I get you something?”
He blinked. A woman, older but not old, concern etched on her face. But who? And then, like a light bulb in the dark, he remembered. Mrs. Sweet. Alice. He was at his sergeant’s ranch. Relief washed over him. The nightmare was just that, a senseless dream. “Sorry, yes. I’m fine, and, no. I don’t need anything.”
“You may not need anything, but how about a mug of warm honey milk? That will help you sleep.”
Sleep. At this moment the last thing he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep—or dream. Then again, the worry in the woman’s eyes made him reconsider. “That sounds…nice.”
Her frown flipped to a smile. “Good. I’ll have that ready for you in just a few minutes.” Mrs. Sweet turned on her heel.
Hanson glanced at the old fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Three in the morning. Had he woken the poor woman out of a deep sleep? Damn. Shaking his head, he pushed to his feet, at least that was now stable. One thing they’d managed to re-teach him at the hospital. It had taken months, but now, finally, he could at least stand steady on his feet, move one foot in front of the other. They were no longer heavy like tree stumps and did what his mind told them to do. One thing in his upside down life that was normal. If only his mind could do the same.
Under any other circumstance, this room would be a nice place for a vacation. Simple décor, not too girly, not too manly, mostly—welcoming. The attached bath made it easy for him to wash up his face, brush his hair and teeth, and put on dry clothes. Staring at himself in the mirror, at least now he looked more presentable. Enough not to scare small children. Taking another second, he let his mind run through what little he remembered. The Sweet ranch, Ms. Alice. His sergeant had already returned to base. His wife, whose name escaped him, lived here with his brother. Cooper? No. Carter. That seemed right, yet wrong. Carson! That was it. His brother Carson and his family.
For now, he'd done enough tug of war with his mind and his memory. Straightening to his full height, he sucked in a calming breath and moved toward the kitchen. At the doorway he paused, looking, studying, trying to paint a memory. A single light over the stove, the quiet sounds of Alice moving with purpose in the early dark, a massive table that had seen years of family meals. Set on the same table was a large steaming mug. Knowing he wouldn’t remember, he walked in and took a seat.
“When my Charlie couldn’t sleep, worrying about some problem or other, I’d make him warm honey milk. Honey has lots of healthy properties and warm milk, well.” She smiled and shrugged.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” She shook her head. “I always get up at this hour to start breakfast. Unlike chickens who rise and rest with the sun, a rancher’s work starts in the pitch of dark.”
“I didn’t know that.” He curled his hands around the warm mug, before lifting it to his lips. The warmth more soothing than he’d expected. “This is delicious. Thank you.”
Her head bobbed as she tied an apron around her waist. Slowly, signs of a morning routine emerged. Clint, Alice’s husband was first to the table. Carson, who was apparently going to work the ranch this morning instead of his normal day job, followed shortly after. The conversation was minimal, but smiles were abundant. Happiness draped every corner of the room with a goodly dose of love and family.
It had been explained to him more than once, that for him to make any kind of additional progress, he needed to be in a relaxed stress-free environment. An environment that matched the Sweet family ranch. Too bad the only thing all this normalcy succeeded at was reminding him how his new world was anything but normal.
* * * *
"You did great, Emma." Katherine Sutton gathered the papers on her desk.
The bright-eyed girl flashed a toothy grin. "What color do I get?"
“Green.” Kat retrieved a small laminated card from her desk drawer.
The young child studied it with great seriousness. "So I’m visual."
"That's exactly right. You can learn a lot of ways, but written words are your favorite.”
Somehow that smile widened. “I love reading. My brother says it’s silly but I know it’s not.”
Truth was that Emma was one of those children who would excel no matter how she was taught, but her strengths were visual and it pleased Kat to no end seeing that the child’s self-confidence was strong and secure. The girl took the card with both hands, the way children accepted things they considered important, and trotted back toward the hall door without looking where she was going. Katherine watched Emma disappear around the corner, card held out in front of her like a small torch.
Taking a moment, she scanned her new learning lab, a sense of pride filling her chest like a proud peacock. Technically, the space had been little more than an oversized storage closet. All the transformation had taken was a few coats of paint, a lot of elbow grease and a little imagination. Now, the learning-styles project she’d won a state grant for was moving forward and finally making tangible progress.
Before filing Emma’s results away, she reviewed the contents. Visual primary. Auditory secondary. No dominance conflicts. Clean profile. She wished every child’s file could be this straightforward.
A light rap on the door had her looking up, Jess Sweet popped her head in the slightly open doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.” Kat knew exactly why Jess, a teacher’s aide at the elementary school, was here. Jess had told Kat of her concerns with Mason’s grades and the struggles with homework and tests, so Kat had tested him earlier in the week even though there were two more classes to be tested before his class. She’d left Jess a note in her box that Mason’s results were in.
Kat waved an arm toward the one corner of the small room and a comfortable loveseat she’d pilfered from a garage sale along with a low-light reading lamp. The room was set up for different styles. In one area comfortable seating and low lights for those who preferred comfort. In the opposite corner, a desk and chair with bright barrister lamp for those who needed structure. She even had multiple classical music tapes for the students who needed noise to learn. “Let’s sit where it’s more comfortable.”
Following the direction of Kat’s finger, Jess sat at the loveseat.
“Due to your concerns about his falling behind in his class work, I went ahead and tested him before his grade is scheduled for testing.”
The woman who had married Carson Sweet nodded.
Kat had grown up with all the Sweet kids and felt a connection with Jess even if she’d only come to live in Honeysuckle about a year ago. “I think I may have some news for you.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Jess remained quiet. Her entwined fingers, neatly folded in her lap, the only sign of nervous anticipation.
“Mason’s preferred learning style is visual. His secondary is kinesthetic.”
Jess’ mouth twisted and her gaze narrowed.
“Something wrong?”
“I was remembering in kindergarten. I was told he couldn’t count past twelve. Thought that was insane. He counted to one hundred all the time. Then his teacher explained that he never remembered thirteen so they couldn’t consider him able to count to one hundred.”
“Interesting,” Kat nodded. She’d seen small signs like this many times.
“Since he loved playing with balls, I grabbed a basketball and we started bouncing it back and forth to each other, counting every bounce. I started out so that I said thirteen, then after that he started so he’d have to shout thirteen. We did this for about twenty minutes and after that he never forgot to say thirteen again.”
“That’s an excellent example of kinesthetic learning. Easier to remember when you’re in motion. It’s why boys’ schools tend to have more hands-on learning and less lectures because most boys have a tendency toward kinesthetic at some level. You’ll also find that if you tested most Emergency Room physicians and nurses, they’d most likely be kinesthetic primary learners. The ones in research would probably be visual.”
Jess nodded, clearly processing the information.
“Mason has what we call mixed dominance. In his case, he’s right handed, but he’s left eye dominant. Ever notice when he’s trying to see something more clearly he might close his right eye?”
“Sort of. He has a play telescope and always puts his left eye to it. I noticed, but didn’t give it any thought.”
“Exactly. Mixed dominance is a red flag of sorts. I took a look at his grades compared to his IQ scores. The gap of where he is and where he should be tell me there’s a potential problem.”
Jess remained very still. The kind of still that meant she was doing mental inventory — running back through years of homework and reading time and parent teacher conferences. “Carson and I discussed that possibility, but Mason’s teacher seems to think that he’s just young and needs time to grow. He’s so good at drawing and sports and doesn’t need time to grow with those, but reading? He loves when we read to him, but reading on his own… he avoids it like the plague.”
“I’m not surprised. Mason has a fantastic memory. What little he does read, isn’t really reading, it’s repeating what he’s memorized.”
“I don’t understand.” Jess’ gaze narrowed again.
“Mason is dyslexic.”
Now confusion gave way to wide-eyed surprise. Her grip on her own hands tightened. Her jaw dropped slightly open, then snapped shut again before she finally found words. “I should have known.”
“No. Do not blame yourself. Even qualified teachers confuse early signs of dyslexia with ordinary alphabet challenges. Every kid confuses b and d or m and n. When a kid like Mason flips the last letters and writes Lost instead of Lots, a specialist in neurodivergence will pick up on that as a potential sign of dyslexia, but the average kindergarten or first-grade teacher will not. Do not blame yourself.”
Jess pressed her lips together. One breath. Then: "So what do we do?"
Delighted that Jess didn’t go into denial like some parents who consider a learning difference a sign of genetic failure, but was ready to take action, Kat slapped her hands together and leaned forward. “Now, we give him the tools for success!”
"Clear the area!"
Shrill voices. Screaming. Hanson running at a full gallop. Get away. Move. Clear the area, get everyone out.
"Clear the area!" The words tore out of him. His legs — tree stumps, both of them, heavy and wrong and not moving fast enough. Move. Had to move. Had to save everyone. Heat. Lord, so much heat pressed in from every side. Dust so thick he couldn't pull air through it. Lungs burning. Keep moving. Water. Suddenly water everywhere. Swim. Had to swim. Arms like lead, gravity yanking at his boots, pulling him down. Ripples of water overhead. The sky dark and fiery gray and wrong.
"They're attacking!" A voice, muffled, overhead somewhere.
Bursts of red and orange and yellow exploded above him like the Fourth of July. The air stank of fuel and ash and something worse. A dark shape spun between the fire and the water. Growing. Closer. Bigger. A truck. How was there a…
Kick. Move. He had to get away. Screams everywhere. The convoy, where was everyone, where had they… ? The pressure built in his chest. Breathe. Long deep breaths but nothing came. No air. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't find… "Aiden!" His voice swallowed by water. Still in the water. Where? How? "Gideon!"
Groans. His buddies. Somewhere. He kicked out, pulled his arms through the water, the light hit his face and then the water was gone and he was running, burned grass under his boots, black smoldering holes in the earth, smoke burning his throat. Move. Stay safe. Find them.
Screams again. One louder than the others. He locked onto it and ran harder, harder than his legs should have been able to carry him, toward the sound coming from under a pile of burned wood. A structure. Had it been a house? A cabin?
The cry came again and with both hands he grabbed at splintered wood and charred beams, throwing them aside with the ease of tossing bags of feathers. He had to move faster. The screams were getting louder. One more board. Gripping the corner, he flipped it out of the way. A final scream pierced straight through him. Not Gideon. Not Aiden. Not his sergeant—a baby!
"No!"
Sucking in a deep breath, Hanson Taylor sat up straight. Surrounded by dark, he blinked. Silence embraced him. He blinked again, looking down. Soaked. His shirt was soaked. Tangled around his legs, sheets were drenched with sweat. His sweat. Swinging his legs around, he braced himself on the edge of the mattress. Where the hell was he?
His eyes squeezed shut, he tried to remember. Tried to understand. As if someone had drilled a hole in his brain and let all his memories pour out, he could not remember where he was.
A light tap on the door. “Hanson, honey, are you all right?”
Honey?
The hinges squeaked as the door inched open. “Can I get you something?”
He blinked. A woman, older but not old, concern etched on her face. But who? And then, like a light bulb in the dark, he remembered. Mrs. Sweet. Alice. He was at his sergeant’s ranch. Relief washed over him. The nightmare was just that, a senseless dream. “Sorry, yes. I’m fine, and, no. I don’t need anything.”
“You may not need anything, but how about a mug of warm honey milk? That will help you sleep.”
Sleep. At this moment the last thing he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep—or dream. Then again, the worry in the woman’s eyes made him reconsider. “That sounds…nice.”
Her frown flipped to a smile. “Good. I’ll have that ready for you in just a few minutes.” Mrs. Sweet turned on her heel.
Hanson glanced at the old fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Three in the morning. Had he woken the poor woman out of a deep sleep? Damn. Shaking his head, he pushed to his feet, at least that was now stable. One thing they’d managed to re-teach him at the hospital. It had taken months, but now, finally, he could at least stand steady on his feet, move one foot in front of the other. They were no longer heavy like tree stumps and did what his mind told them to do. One thing in his upside down life that was normal. If only his mind could do the same.
Under any other circumstance, this room would be a nice place for a vacation. Simple décor, not too girly, not too manly, mostly—welcoming. The attached bath made it easy for him to wash up his face, brush his hair and teeth, and put on dry clothes. Staring at himself in the mirror, at least now he looked more presentable. Enough not to scare small children. Taking another second, he let his mind run through what little he remembered. The Sweet ranch, Ms. Alice. His sergeant had already returned to base. His wife, whose name escaped him, lived here with his brother. Cooper? No. Carter. That seemed right, yet wrong. Carson! That was it. His brother Carson and his family.
For now, he'd done enough tug of war with his mind and his memory. Straightening to his full height, he sucked in a calming breath and moved toward the kitchen. At the doorway he paused, looking, studying, trying to paint a memory. A single light over the stove, the quiet sounds of Alice moving with purpose in the early dark, a massive table that had seen years of family meals. Set on the same table was a large steaming mug. Knowing he wouldn’t remember, he walked in and took a seat.
“When my Charlie couldn’t sleep, worrying about some problem or other, I’d make him warm honey milk. Honey has lots of healthy properties and warm milk, well.” She smiled and shrugged.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” She shook her head. “I always get up at this hour to start breakfast. Unlike chickens who rise and rest with the sun, a rancher’s work starts in the pitch of dark.”
“I didn’t know that.” He curled his hands around the warm mug, before lifting it to his lips. The warmth more soothing than he’d expected. “This is delicious. Thank you.”
Her head bobbed as she tied an apron around her waist. Slowly, signs of a morning routine emerged. Clint, Alice’s husband was first to the table. Carson, who was apparently going to work the ranch this morning instead of his normal day job, followed shortly after. The conversation was minimal, but smiles were abundant. Happiness draped every corner of the room with a goodly dose of love and family.
It had been explained to him more than once, that for him to make any kind of additional progress, he needed to be in a relaxed stress-free environment. An environment that matched the Sweet family ranch. Too bad the only thing all this normalcy succeeded at was reminding him how his new world was anything but normal.
* * * *
"You did great, Emma." Katherine Sutton gathered the papers on her desk.
The bright-eyed girl flashed a toothy grin. "What color do I get?"
“Green.” Kat retrieved a small laminated card from her desk drawer.
The young child studied it with great seriousness. "So I’m visual."
"That's exactly right. You can learn a lot of ways, but written words are your favorite.”
Somehow that smile widened. “I love reading. My brother says it’s silly but I know it’s not.”
Truth was that Emma was one of those children who would excel no matter how she was taught, but her strengths were visual and it pleased Kat to no end seeing that the child’s self-confidence was strong and secure. The girl took the card with both hands, the way children accepted things they considered important, and trotted back toward the hall door without looking where she was going. Katherine watched Emma disappear around the corner, card held out in front of her like a small torch.
Taking a moment, she scanned her new learning lab, a sense of pride filling her chest like a proud peacock. Technically, the space had been little more than an oversized storage closet. All the transformation had taken was a few coats of paint, a lot of elbow grease and a little imagination. Now, the learning-styles project she’d won a state grant for was moving forward and finally making tangible progress.
Before filing Emma’s results away, she reviewed the contents. Visual primary. Auditory secondary. No dominance conflicts. Clean profile. She wished every child’s file could be this straightforward.
A light rap on the door had her looking up, Jess Sweet popped her head in the slightly open doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Of course.” Kat knew exactly why Jess, a teacher’s aide at the elementary school, was here. Jess had told Kat of her concerns with Mason’s grades and the struggles with homework and tests, so Kat had tested him earlier in the week even though there were two more classes to be tested before his class. She’d left Jess a note in her box that Mason’s results were in.
Kat waved an arm toward the one corner of the small room and a comfortable loveseat she’d pilfered from a garage sale along with a low-light reading lamp. The room was set up for different styles. In one area comfortable seating and low lights for those who preferred comfort. In the opposite corner, a desk and chair with bright barrister lamp for those who needed structure. She even had multiple classical music tapes for the students who needed noise to learn. “Let’s sit where it’s more comfortable.”
Following the direction of Kat’s finger, Jess sat at the loveseat.
“Due to your concerns about his falling behind in his class work, I went ahead and tested him before his grade is scheduled for testing.”
The woman who had married Carson Sweet nodded.
Kat had grown up with all the Sweet kids and felt a connection with Jess even if she’d only come to live in Honeysuckle about a year ago. “I think I may have some news for you.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Jess remained quiet. Her entwined fingers, neatly folded in her lap, the only sign of nervous anticipation.
“Mason’s preferred learning style is visual. His secondary is kinesthetic.”
Jess’ mouth twisted and her gaze narrowed.
“Something wrong?”
“I was remembering in kindergarten. I was told he couldn’t count past twelve. Thought that was insane. He counted to one hundred all the time. Then his teacher explained that he never remembered thirteen so they couldn’t consider him able to count to one hundred.”
“Interesting,” Kat nodded. She’d seen small signs like this many times.
“Since he loved playing with balls, I grabbed a basketball and we started bouncing it back and forth to each other, counting every bounce. I started out so that I said thirteen, then after that he started so he’d have to shout thirteen. We did this for about twenty minutes and after that he never forgot to say thirteen again.”
“That’s an excellent example of kinesthetic learning. Easier to remember when you’re in motion. It’s why boys’ schools tend to have more hands-on learning and less lectures because most boys have a tendency toward kinesthetic at some level. You’ll also find that if you tested most Emergency Room physicians and nurses, they’d most likely be kinesthetic primary learners. The ones in research would probably be visual.”
Jess nodded, clearly processing the information.
“Mason has what we call mixed dominance. In his case, he’s right handed, but he’s left eye dominant. Ever notice when he’s trying to see something more clearly he might close his right eye?”
“Sort of. He has a play telescope and always puts his left eye to it. I noticed, but didn’t give it any thought.”
“Exactly. Mixed dominance is a red flag of sorts. I took a look at his grades compared to his IQ scores. The gap of where he is and where he should be tell me there’s a potential problem.”
Jess remained very still. The kind of still that meant she was doing mental inventory — running back through years of homework and reading time and parent teacher conferences. “Carson and I discussed that possibility, but Mason’s teacher seems to think that he’s just young and needs time to grow. He’s so good at drawing and sports and doesn’t need time to grow with those, but reading? He loves when we read to him, but reading on his own… he avoids it like the plague.”
“I’m not surprised. Mason has a fantastic memory. What little he does read, isn’t really reading, it’s repeating what he’s memorized.”
“I don’t understand.” Jess’ gaze narrowed again.
“Mason is dyslexic.”
Now confusion gave way to wide-eyed surprise. Her grip on her own hands tightened. Her jaw dropped slightly open, then snapped shut again before she finally found words. “I should have known.”
“No. Do not blame yourself. Even qualified teachers confuse early signs of dyslexia with ordinary alphabet challenges. Every kid confuses b and d or m and n. When a kid like Mason flips the last letters and writes Lost instead of Lots, a specialist in neurodivergence will pick up on that as a potential sign of dyslexia, but the average kindergarten or first-grade teacher will not. Do not blame yourself.”
Jess pressed her lips together. One breath. Then: "So what do we do?"
Delighted that Jess didn’t go into denial like some parents who consider a learning difference a sign of genetic failure, but was ready to take action, Kat slapped her hands together and leaned forward. “Now, we give him the tools for success!”
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