Several years ago, in response to increased wine-related tourism, Matt’s family had added a long, low building containing ten guest suites. Finished in adobe, it curved into the hillside, blending in beautifully with the other public buildings. Each suite had its own patio overlooking the vineyards and Osoyoos Lake in the distance. According to Matt, it was booked almost solidly from May to October.

  Bradley stopped on the highway and gazed across the valley. He could see Raptor Ridge on the far side, but it wasn’t a blight on the landscape. Rather, it blended into the hillside and Bradley found himself admiring the restraint with which it had been built.

  He crossed the lush valley in a matter of minutes and drove slowly up the paved road to the winery where he ignored the arrow pointing to the parking lot and followed a dirt road to the service area. He dismounted and stretched, taking in the precisely planted rows of vines.

  “Bradley!” Matt exploded out of the workshop. “It’s great to see you.” He stuck out his hand and Matt took it, pulling him into a quick embrace. They parted, and Matt gestured toward the Norton. “So, the old beast made it, huh?”

  Bradley nodded.

  “I’m glad to see you, man. Candy got involved with an organization that finds positions for people who’ve been in rehab.” He rolled his eyes. “Her brother had a problem a few years back, and when he got out of rehab nobody would hire him. Ever since then, she’s been on my case to do something to ‘give back’ as she calls it.” He glanced around, as though afraid he’d be overheard. “So this year I agreed to hire people from a couple of the rehab centres who are part of the programme, and trust me, it hasn’t been good.”

  Bradley raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, no kidding. They’re okay for the first couple of weeks. I suppose it’s the novelty of it all, but then they realize that it’s not the glamorous situation they imagined when they first heard about it.”

  Bradley got out his BlackBerry. Addicts? He typed. At a winery? He added several more question marks.

  Matt nodded. “I hear you. But so far that hasn’t been a problem. We don’t take alcoholics. It just wouldn’t be fair...to them or to us. The ones we’ve had are mostly crack addicts. That stuff is deadly. I mean I feel sorry for them and all, but they can’t seem to keep their focus. I’ve had to send back three of them already and now I’m short staffed.” He clapped Bradley on the back. “So I hope you don’t mind working.”

  Looking forward to it.

  Matt gestured toward Bradley’s throat. “How’s that business coming? Any improvement?”

  Bradley shook his head and shrugged. Keeps things simple, he typed.

  “Yeah, I suppose it does. Well, let me show you where you’ll be bunking. It’s not much. Thank goodness Dad got permission to build some picker’s cabins. I’ve got you in with Massimo. He’s our wine maker.”

  Does he know? Bradley pointed to his mouth.

  “Yeah, he’s cool with it. You won’t see much of him anyway. He’s either in the fermentation rooms or out with his girlfriend. A couple of Italian families moved into the valley a few years ago and he’s taken up with one of the daughters.”

  Why does Massimo live here? He typed.

  Matt shrugged. “He started living here when he first arrived, and somehow he’s never bothered to find his own place. Between you and me, I think he likes not having to cook for himself.”

  Bradley gave him a thumbs up.

  Matt showed him the accommodations. They were clean and functional, but Spartan. A small television in the corner might come in handy in the evenings. Outside the cabin, a couple of chairs offered the same view as the tourist accommodations...the vineyards. He was glad he’d come.

  “Okay, you get settled, then come back to the workshop. We’ll take a couple of the four wheelers and do a tour of the vineyards.”

  The scope of the vineyards was impressive. Laid out to take advantage of the sun, they flowed over the undulating landscape until they ran up against the rocky hills. Matt roared over the trails between sections, proudly pointing out the different varieties, the irrigation system, and the specific area that had been chosen for ice wine.

  “We’ll be putting up the netting in a week or so,” he shouted, speaking over the rumble of the four wheeler.

  Bradley frowned.

  “The nets keep the birds away from the fruit,” Matt explained. “Sometimes we don’t pick until December because we need a few nights of minus ten. By then the grapes are sweet and the birds are hungry.” He grinned and gunned the motor. “They can strip an acre in no time, but we intend to win that battle.”

  Bradley smiled his understanding then got out his BlackBerry. What first job? He typed.

  “We need to check that the water to each vine is flowing properly.” Matt turned off his machine, walked between two rows and pointed to the black irrigation tubing that ran down each row of vines. “We filter the water of course, but sometimes particles get into the system and block the flow. At this time of year, it’s critical that the vines are watered. I can show you the watering schedule.” He looked out over the vineyard, face glowing with pride. “It’s a big job, but I thought it would be perfect for you, since you don’t really need to communicate with anyone.” He paused. “Do you have any experience with irrigation systems?”

  Bradley shook his head.

  “No matter. It’s easy. I’ll give you a crash course.”

  * * *

  The work was physical, but mentally undemanding. For an entire week, Bradley patrolled up and down the rows, checking for the telltale patch of damp earth at the base of each vine. By mid-afternoon of the first day he’d removed his shirt and by the end of the second week his back was bronzed from the sun and his disused muscles became defined once again.

  Although he didn’t tell Matt, after a while he looked forward to finding a malfunctioning tube. Not only was there the simple satisfaction of ensuring that the vine was watered, but it broke the monotony. Although he hadn’t been asked to, he made careful notes of the areas where problems occurred, reasoning that between himself and Matt, they might discover a pattern.

  The few employees who lived on-site took their meals in a small but pleasant room one floor beneath the restaurant. The two recent arrivals from the rehab facility had formed a bond and sat together during meals, which suited Bradley just fine. He and Massimo were comfortable with each other and communicated easily, Massimo in a thick accent and Bradley with his BlackBerry. The cooks in charge of food prep for lunch and dinner never seemed to mind producing a meal for them, and at dinner they were offered either the special of the day, or a salad with cold meat. The rest of the employees were locals, who came into the staff room for coffee and not much more.

  It was a pleasant, satisfying existence and for the first time since he’d lost his voice, some of Bradley’s former confidence returned. He even went back to the vocal exercises he’d abandoned in frustration after he was released from the government’s medical facility. Out among the endless rows of vines there was no one to hear when the only sound he could produce was a low, hoarse grunt that to his ears sounded more like a wild boar than a human.

  * * *

  Bradley managed to hide a smile as Massimo slapped after-shave on his cheeks and checked his appearance in the mirror. The man was pleasant and easy to get along with, but Bradley cherished his evenings alone. Especially this time of night, when the light turned golden and cast long shadows over the surrounding hills.

  He acknowledged Massimo’s departure with a wave of his hand and settled down on the outside patio, turning his chair toward the west so that he could watch the vivid colours of the oncoming sunset. The surrounding hills here couldn’t really be called mountains...at least not when compared with the stunning vista that surrounded the air base at Bagram. And yet there was a haunting similarity between the dry, dun-coloured landscape of Afghanistan and the hills of the Okanagan.

  He sensed it first, rather than heard it. For a split second he wondered if his imagination was playing tricks on him; a phantom sound triggered by memory. But no, the noise made by a fighter jet was indelibly seared into his brain. He still loved that sound, and he got up abruptly and stepped out from under cover, scanning the sky, searching for the contrail.

  There it was; it had traversed the sky in a north-westerly direction. He hadn’t expected to see the aircraft, knowing that by the time he got a fix on it, it would be out of sight. His entire body vibrated with a combined rush of excitement and stark, mind-numbing terror. He stood, hand shading his eyes, looking into the distance until the last vestiges of sound had disappeared and his pulse returned to normal. For a moment he wondered where the aircraft had come from, then recalled that the vineyard was only a few miles from the American border; he knew that the Americans often flew in Canadian airspace.

  He dropped his hand and sat down, lost in memories of another time, another country.

  * * *

  “Hey, man. I thought I’d find you here.” Matt clapped him on the back and looked over his shoulder. Bradley was inspecting the hodgepodge of goods on sale in the commercial area that had grown up on the Bagram Airbase. The nights were insanely cold here, and he was hoping to find something made from polar fleece. A pullover, a jacket...he didn’t care. He just wanted something different to wear, and to feel normal in the small amount of free time allotted to him. Normal and warm.

  The selection was limited and Bradley turned away, disappointed. “So. We’re flying air support tonight.”

  “Yeah, should be fairly easy.”

  The two Canadians had been deployed to Afghanistan as part of the NATO mission. There were plenty of women around, and Bradley had dated a few, but the last thing he wanted was a romantic entanglement. Matt was safer company, and Bradley encouraged his new friend to talk about home...his wife, and his plans for the future. He contributed little to that line of conversation, having no idea what he was going to do once he was discharged.

  “There’s some insurgent activity to the east,” the ground commander told them during their pre-flight briefing. The last bit of colour had been fading from the sky when they walked into the hut; by the time they were ready to take off, it would be dark. “We’ll update your target pod as information changes.” Bradley was constantly amazed at the quality of the on-board optics package. Even since his training, technology had advanced dramatically, giving them pinpoint accuracy for their airstrikes. Not only did the advances afford them the best use of the expensive Hellfire missiles, but the possibility of civilian casualties was greatly minimized.

  Bradley climbed into his G-suit and walked onto the apron. Matt was moments behind. Bradley walked around his aircraft, part of his pre-flight check. His hand lingered for a moment on one of the deadly missiles and a frisson of apprehension crept up his spine. He paused and checked it again; everything was as it should be. He looked over at Matt, who was walking around his own F-18, and was re-assured by the familiar thumbs-up from his friend.

  Pre-flight check completed, Bradley was cleared for take-off. “Striker One, proceed to target.” The calm, detached voice of the JTAC held a distinct southern twang. Bradley guessed that the man was from Texas.

  “Roger, base.” He gained altitude and headed toward the target on the screen. In his headset, he heard Matt being given directions to another area, slightly to the south. He settled in and checked his instrumentation. He was four minutes out from the target.

  “Striker One. Be advised we have eyes on a group of insurgents closing in on our ground forces.” The urgency in the voice was unmistakable. Perhaps the man wasn’t as unflappable as Bradley had previously thought.

  “Roger, base.” The screen flickered and changed. From high overhead, a drone was looking down on the scene being played out below. Four armed men...no, five, were moving at a fast pace through a wadi. Infrared showed that their weapons had recently been fired.

  “Do you have them?”

  “Roger, target acquired.” The men had bunched up and were stopped; they appeared to be looking over the top of the wadi. Bradley was aware that his heart rate had accelerated, but he kept his voice neutral.

  “They’re getting dangerously close to our people. Confirm there are no civilians in the area.”

  Bradley had been watching for any signs of civilian life. There were none. He watched the scene unfolding below him, placed the TD indicator over the target and his thumb over the launch button. “Affirmative. No civilians.”

  “Striker One, take them out. You are clear and hot.”

  As he depressed the missile launch button the JTAC’s panicked voice shouted into his headset. “Abort, abort. Striker One, abort. Those are friendlies down there.”

  Horror was a new emotion for Bradley, but it gripped him now. The trail of propellant under the left wing of his aircraft confirmed what he already knew...it was too late.

  Those few seconds were the longest of his life and in that fleeting instant he knew his life had been changed forever. Blood pounded in his ears as he watched the missile strike. For a few moments a black cloud obscured the scene below. When it cleared, the grisly results were clearly visible on the screen in his cockpit. “Noooooo,” he howled, a hoarse primal scream torn from his soul in a voice he scarcely recognized.

  He didn’t remember flying back to Bagram. This couldn’t be happening...but it had. Numb from shock, he pulled the F-18 onto the apron, opened the canopy and ripped off his headset. He couldn’t seem to get any oxygen into his lungs and he sat there, still strapped into his seat, gasping for air. He closed his eyes, but was immediately confronted with the sight of the missile streaking toward earth.

  Unaware of the approach of the ground crew, he was startled when a head appeared beside the cockpit.

  “Sir, are you all right? Do you need some help?” Bradley raised his head. It was evident from the young man’s tone of voice that news of the incident had already travelled. His expression was of pity mixed with horror. He was only the first of many people to look at Bradley in that way. The best equipment in the world would not prevent a human error...that fact had been drilled into him long before the first time he stepped into a cockpit, but it did little to help him now.

  Bradley shook his head and unbuckled. He could barely move his arms and legs...every ounce of energy had been drained from his body. Moments later he found himself on the tarmac, being addressed by someone requesting that he report to the Ground Commander’s office for an immediate de-briefing. There was an empty space under the left wing of his aircraft where the missile had been. He gave his head a shake. Everything was moving in slow motion and voices seemed to come at him from a distance, drawn out and distorted.

  “Sit down, Captain.” The Commander’s voice cut through the fog swirling around in his brain and Bradley opened his mouth to respond. No sound came out. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them and tried again. Still nothing. Was he deaf? No, he’d heard the Commander clearly. He tried again, terrified, and yet knowing that the results would be the same.

  * * *

  The investigation into the incident was thankfully brief. Bradley’s participation was minimal. The hardest part was sitting through the review and hearing the recording of the exchange between himself and the JTAC, culminating in what he was told was his own voice howling in despair.

  Five NATO forces had been killed; three Canadians and two Brits. Bradley was cleared of any wrongdoing, but that counted for little. In his mind, it would always be his fault and repeated assurances that he had been blameless did nothing to ease his conscience.

  During this time he was examined by base medical personnel, including a mental health expert who, judging by his bookshelves, specialised in PTSD. When it became evident that his inability to speak was more than temporary, he was shipped home for further evaluation.

  In the month that followed, Bradley learned more about anxiety disorders that he’d ever thought possible. The worst part was accepting that he had a disorder at all, and yet he had to admit that he exhibited some of the milder symptoms, such as emotional withdrawal and insomnia. What he failed to share with his counsellors was his growing mistrust of others, and his reluctance to make decisions. There were times when he despaired of ever living a normal life again. Matt’s invitation to come to the vineyard had come at exactly the right time.

  * * *

  A door slammed next door, bringing him back to the present. The two young “rehab” men had arrived home and were arguing. One of them, it seemed, had obtained some crack and was loudly exhorting his friend to ‘chill out’. Matt would undoubtedly be looking for more help by the end of the day tomorrow. This was the second such incident since Bradley’s arrival, and he wondered idly how long Matt’s wife’s social experiment could last.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you expecting any visitors?” Faith checked her appearance in the mirror. Laura wondered what she saw...if the young woman realized how frail she looked.

  “No.” Laura answered quickly, and then paused. “At least none that I know of.”

  “Lucky you.” Faith’s face betrayed no emotion. “I’ll have to sit through an hour of listening to my mother telling me how much better I look.” She gave her hair one last, vicious swipe with the hairbrush. “As if I can’t see for myself.”

  “Where does your mother live?”