Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter

can try to fix it.” Nick didn’t know why he’d spoken. Maybe it was the mention of God. Or the thought that the Lord had brought him here for a reason. To fix a dishwasher? He nearly choked on how ridiculous that sounded.

      Mother and daughter both gaped at him.

      “You know how to fix a dishwasher?” Doubt deepened the grooves in Alisa’s forehead.

      “I’ve fixed a few. No guarantees.”

      “Come on inside, young man.” Mama opened the door wider. “Give it a try. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

      He signaled Rags to stay. Using every ounce of courage he had, Nick crossed the threshold into the shining bright world of a commercial kitchen.

      Blackness oozed in around the corners of his mind. The scream of bullets and crying men assaulted his ears. He fought to keep them at bay.

      This was the world that had once been his to command. A place where he’d felt at home as the top chef.

      After Afghanistan, would that ever be true again?

      Chapter Two

      Nick gritted his teeth.

      He could do this. All he had to do was keep focused on the present. The mission. Find the dishwasher. Figure out what was wrong. And fix it. Plus keep his eyes averted from shiny surfaces that inevitably awakened horrific memories.

      He forced himself to remember his mother’s kitchen. The smell of oregano and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. The laughter they’d shared when she taught him how to make fresh pasta. The good times before she got sick.

      Alisa’s mother marched ahead of him. He watched her feet, her black leather granny shoes treading on the spotless, blue-gray, antiskid tile floor. A well-kept kitchen. A-rated and ready to pass muster with the toughest health inspector.

      She stopped so abruptly, Nick almost ran into her.

      “This is the creature that has decided to plague me.” She slapped her palm on the side of the upright stainless steel dishwasher. Clearly an older model, probably prone to problems.

      Nick used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the sweat from his brow and squinted to minimize reflections. “What’s wrong with it?”

      “She won’t start. Hector, he pushes the button. Nothing happens.” She thumbed toward the fry cook working at his station, a small guy who looked young enough to be a new enlistee. “I push the button. Nothing happens.” The rhythm of her voice spoke of foreign roots.

      The washer not starting meant the problem could be anything from being unplugged to a motor that had burned out.

      Frowning, he looked along the back of the machine. “Do you have a flashlight?”

      Almost instantly, Alisa thrust a heavy-duty flashlight toward him. “Here. I thought you might need one. We lose power pretty often in the winter so we’ve got these positioned all around the diner. Summer lightning storms can knock out the power too.”

      Their eyes met as he took the flashlight from her hand. The depth of her blue eyes and her furrowed frown told him she was dubious he could fix anything. He wasn’t all that confident either.

      He checked behind the machine, handed her back the flashlight and grabbed hold of the dishwasher. “I need to move it out from the wall a few inches so I can get a better look.”

      “It’s heavy,” she warned.

      “Yeah, I figured that.” Rocking it side-to-side, he inched the dishwasher far enough forward to get a better look but not so far that he’d mess with the drain or water hoses.

      He took the flashlight again and squeezed up against the wall. The machine was plugged into a power strip along with neighboring equipment. While he couldn’t reach the plug, he had no reason to think it wasn’t providing power. Everything else was working.

      He fussed with the connection at the back of the machine. It seemed solid.

      “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” Alisa asked.

      He glanced over his shoulder. With her blond hair pulled back, she looked younger than she had outside. No blemish marred her fair complexion. “I’ve eliminated the two most obvious reasons it won’t work. Your mother’s electrician would’ve charged her a hundred bucks for doing that. I’m saving her money.”

      “Very thoughtful of you.”

      “I’m that kind of guy.”

      “Glad to hear it.” Her overly friendly smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

      He sensed her distrust and turned back to the machine, opening the door. Racks of dirty dishes were stacked inside. He pressed the latch on the door.

      “Try starting it now,” he requested.

      “The door has to be closed before it will start.”

      “Unless the latch is the problem.”

      “Okay,” she said, still dubious. She punched the start button. The motor hummed and water spewed onto the dirty dishes.

      Nick shut the door and the action came to a stop. He grinned. Good guess, Carbini!

      “How did you do that?” Alisa asked, her eyes wide with surprise.

      Mama scurried across the kitchen. “You got it fixed already?”

      “Not yet, ma’am.” He opened the door again. “Looks like I’m going to need a screwdriver.” Fortunately, the only problem was that the latch had loosened and didn’t make a solid electrical contact. Thus the machine wouldn’t work. It wasn’t the first time Nick had seen that particular problem. The heavy use of equipment in a 24-7 military kitchen meant lots of parts broke. He’d had to learn to keep things going with whatever he could find.

      From somewhere Alisa produced a screwdriver. With a few twists, Nick tightened down the latch.

      He closed the door and stepped back. “Okay, try it again.”

      The motor hummed. The water whooshed.

      Mrs. Machak threw her arms around Nick and kissed both of his cheeks. “You’re a genius! Thank you! Thank you!” She patted his face, which was now hot with embarrassment.

      “It wasn’t that hard to do, ma’am.”

      “You call me Mama. Everyone does. I’m going to bring you a big plate of my special chicken and dumplings. Alisa will show you a nice place to sit out front—”

      “I really can’t—” He figured he looked a mess, his face streaked with sweat from fighting the memories that were reflected in the stainless steel. Even without that, he was pretty dirty from chopping wood and being on the road so long. “My dog’s outside. I was hoping he’d get some table scraps.” He glanced at Alisa.

      She nodded. “I’ll fix Rags a dish.”

      “Thanks. And if you don’t mind, Mama. I appreciate your offer of supper, but I’d just as soon eat on the porch with my dog. Looking the way I do, I think I’d scare off your customers if I ate out front.” Being outside would also get him away from the reflections. Give him some space to breathe again.

      Mama narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “Trust me, we’ve seen worse. But if that’s what you’d like, it’s fine with me.”

      He made his way out the back door and walked halfway into the yard, his leg more painful than usual, before he could draw a comfortable breath of cool, fresh air. He supposed the prison chaplain who counseled him about his post-traumatic stress disorder would say it was a good thing he’d done. He’d gone into a kitchen without having a full panic attack like the one he’d had when they’d assigned him to prison kitchen duty. They’d transferred his work detail to the prison laundry in a hurry.

      Good