Free Her Cowboy Soldier by Cindi Myers Page A

out.”
    “Maybe. I’m not making any decisions right now.”
    “Well, you’re going to have to make one decision—you have to choose a dress. What about this one?” Charla held out a long-sleeved wrap dress in a slinky fabric. The gown was a bright tomato-red.
    “Oh, no.” Amy shook her head. “I couldn’t.”
    “Why not? With your dark hair and eyes the color is perfect.”
    “It’s too bold.”
    “It is not. It’ll look great. Come on, try it on.” Charla urged her toward the dressing room.
    Five minutes later, Amy stood in front of a bank of mirrors, staring at her reflection. The red dress skimmed her curves, the full skirt swirling around her calves. The bright color made her skin glow and brought out reddish highlights in her brown hair.
    “You look amazing,” Charla said.
    “It does look good.” She turned and looked over her shoulder at the back view. “I’m just not used to standing out.”
    “Then maybe you should get used to it. Honestly, it’s gorgeous.”
    “You’re sure I won’t be out of place?”
    “You’ll look great. After all, red and gold are the school colors. You’ll fit right in.”
    “If you say so.”
    “I do. Now hurry up and change, and we’ll look for shoes. Something you can dance in.”
    “Oh, I’m not going to dance.”
    “You might change your mind once you’re there.”
    “Charla, I’m not there to dance, I—”
    “I know, I know. You’re working. But you still need shoes to go with this dress. So come on.”
    They paid for their purchases and headed across the mall toward a discount shoe retailer. As they passed the food court, Charla made a sharp left turn. “We can’t shop on an empty stomach,” she said.
    They settled on Thai food from a stand and carried their trays to an empty table in the center of the food court. Amy had just pulled out her chair to sit when a man called out her name. “Amy Marshall, is that you?”
    She looked up to see a slender young man with close-cropped hair approaching. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a blue polo shirt, but his erect bearing, as well as the severe haircut, told her he was a soldier. A black Lab with a blue-and-red service dog vest walked at his side.
    “You don’t remember me, do you?” the man asked.
    Amy shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
    “No reason you should. I weighed about thirty pounds more the one time we met. I’m Gary Prescott.” He offered his hand and she shook it. “I served with Brent in the Fourth Brigade. I met you the day we all shipped out to Iraq.”
    Amy’s memory of that day featured a crowd of young men in desert camo, along with wives, children and parents filling the Quonset hut at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs. She’d clung to Brent’s side, but the two of them had scarcely spoken, anger building a wall between them that mere words couldn’t breach. “I guess that day was kind of a fog for me.”
    “I understand.” He offered a crooked grin. “I remember you because I was jealous that Brent had such a pretty wife to see him off. I’d just broken up with my girlfriend.” He waved the words aside. “But that’s old news. I’m really sorry about Brent.”
    “Were you there, the day...the day he was killed?” She didn’t want to know the answer, but she couldn’t keep back the question.
    “I was injured in the same attack.” He pointed to his head. “TBI. It’s the reason I have Custer here.” At his name, the dog stood up and wagged his tail, his gaze fixed on Gary.
    Amy recalled reading something in the paper about service dogs helping veterans who suffered from traumatic brain injuries and post-traumatic stress disorder. “How does that work, with the dog?” she asked.
    “He keeps me calm in crowds. I know he’s got my back. If he senses I’m getting agitated or frustrated, he licks my hand, kind of brings me back down.” He shrugged. “Hard to explain, but he makes it easier to talk to other people, too. Gives us all