Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter

kindling.

      “Hey, mister. Is that your dog?”

      Rags stood and stretched, the branch still in his mouth.

      Nick rested the ax head on the stump. A blond kid with a head full of cowlicks and a backpack slung over his shoulder stood a few feet from him. He looked to be about nine or ten.

      “Mine ’til he decides otherwise,” Nick said.

      “Is he friendly?”

      “Friendly enough. You want to pet him?”

      The boy ditched his backpack on the ground and rushed forward, dropping to his knees. “Does he have a name?”

      “I call him Rags.”

      “Hiya, Rags.” Cautiously, he petted the dog’s neck and back.

      Rags’s tail began an upbeat tempo that wobbled his whole rear end.

      “Does he like to play fetch?”

      “Give it try. See what happens.” Nick knew from experience that Rags could wear out a man’s arm before he’d quit fetching any old stick.

      He watched with amusement as the boy gently took the branch from Rags. Alert, Rags was already into the game when the boy tossed the stick a few feet away. Rags had it back to the youngster in milliseconds and lay down waiting for the next go around. His tail semaphored his readiness.

      “You might want to toss it a little farther,” Nick suggested mildly.

      The youngster shot it toward a wooded area, and soon boy and dog were running around full blast. Laughter and barking filled the clearing where Nick wrestled split logs onto the stump.

      In that moment, an emotion so powerful he almost dropped the ax rose up in Nick. A sensation of loneliness so stark and desperate he had to close his eyes. He wanted to run away. To forget the past. Start over.

      But that wasn’t possible.

      * * *

      Alisa heard the ruckus outside and stepped to the kitchen door. Her breath caught in her lungs when she saw her son playing with the stranger’s dog.

      No! Don’t get attached to the dog. The drifter will take him away. That’s what drifters do. They leave.

      “Greg! It’s time to come in.” Panic raised her voice to a shrill note.

      “But Mom, I’m playing with Rags now.”

      “Now, Greg. Come get a snack and start your homework.”

      “Just two more minutes.”

      Alisa took a step out onto the porch toward her son, planted her fists on her hips. “One, two...”

      Greg’s shoulders slumped. He tossed the stick he’d been playing with aside and trudged toward the house while the dog looked on with the stick once again in his mouth.

      Her heart broke for her little boy, but in this case she knew she was right. She had to protect her son from smooth talking men who broke promises and left plenty of heartache behind.

      She only wished she’d known that ten years ago.

      After Greg washed up, Alisa shooed him over to the last stool at the counter out front in the diner. She brought him a bowl of fresh-picked wild blackberries and a slice of toast spread with peanut butter.

      “How was school today?”

      “Okay, I guess.”

      “Anything exciting happen?”

      “Pete Muldoon had to go to the principal’s office again.”

      “Why this time?” Poor little Pete seemed to be perpetually in trouble.

      Greg took a big bite of toast, chewing while he spoke. “We were playing tag at recess. He was it and followed Tammy into the girls bathroom to catch her.”

      Alisa suppressed a grin. “Oh, dear.”

      “Tammy wasn’t mad or anything. I think she likes Pete.”

      But maybe not so much in the restroom. “You do your homework after you finish your snack. If you need help, let me know.”

      “’Kay.” He spooned a blackberry into his mouth. Juice dribbled out around the corners. “Mom, could we maybe have a dog someday?”

      She and her son had had this conversation any number of times. “I can’t have a dog inside the diner, honey. You know that. And there are too many wild animals around to leave a dog outside all the time.”

      “We could keep him upstairs with us.”

      Reaching across the table, she pulled her son’s head toward her, kissing him on the crown. “Sorry, munchkin. No dogs for us.”

      Dogs were for families with a mother and father and two-point-five children who lived in houses with white picket fences. Not for single moms who worked double shifts and often smelled like grilled hamburger meat at the end of the day.

      * * *

      Nick stacked the last of the kindling under the lean-to and grabbed his jacket.

      “Come on, Rags. Let’s see what kind of table scraps Ms. Alisa has come up with.” Maybe there’d be a few scraps suitable for a hungry man too, he mused, his stomach growling.

      He knocked once on the kitchen door but stopped when he heard a woman inside yelling. Not Alisa’s voice. Someone older. And far angrier.

      “What you mean, you can’t come ’til tomorrow? We got two hundred people coming tonight. I’m not going to—” After a moment of silence, the woman ran off a string of words that Nick couldn’t understand but guessed were an expression of her frustration.

      He took a step back from the kitchen door. “I think we ought to wait a while for those scraps, buddy.” But before he could get away, the door flew open.

      An older woman, her cheeks flushed with anger appeared, her eyes burning with fury. “What do you want?”

      “It’s okay, ma’am. Just wanted you to know the kindling—”

      “You know anything about fixing a dishwasher?”

      The abrupt question stopped him. He blinked. Beyond the woman he could see the shine of stainless steel prep tables and refrigerators. He caught the scent of garlic, onions and paprika. Heard the clatter of pans and sizzle of meat on a grill.

      Sweat formed on his brow and dripped down his neck. His breathing became labored.

      Automatically, he dug his hand into his pocket and began to rhythmically squeeze the rubber ball the prison chaplain had given him. It was supposed to relax and distract him. Don’t lose it. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Think of something else. They’re only memories. It isn’t happening now.

      “Mister, I’ve got a busted dishwasher that’s full of dirty dishes. If I don’t get it fixed in a hurry, we’re going to be hand washing every single dish in the place. Now...” She put her fist on her hip in much the same way as Alisa had earlier. “You know anything about fixing machines or don’t you?”

      “I, ah...” He did have some idea. And he sympathized with the woman’s problem. But fixing the dishwasher would mean going inside the kitchen. Being surrounded by reflections that flashed and sparked off the stainless steel equipment, bringing back memories he struggled to forget. Images he couldn’t ignore. Afghanistan. An attack on his outpost. A shiny kitchen turned into a bloodbath. His crew dead or dying.

      He clenched his teeth. Squeezed the ball harder. Don’t think about it.

      Alisa, the blonde who’d been chopping kindling slipped up behind the older woman. “What’s going on, Mama?”

      “The dishwasher is busted. I called Samson. He can’t come ’til tomorrow.”

      A