Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter

the ointment would be the increased employee salaries they would have to pay. The profit margin for a restaurant was slim under the best of circumstances. These days the increasing price of food from the wholesaler kept the diner on a financial razor’s edge.

      The second-floor living quarters had three bedrooms, a cozy sitting room with a television rarely watched by anyone except Greg, a small kitchen and eating area. Considering they had a huge kitchen downstairs and ate most of their meals there, the upstairs kitchen didn’t get used much. Greg’s cereal for breakfast or a popcorn treat at night were about the limit of its use.

      In the early days, before they’d bought the motel next door, Mama had rented out the rooms on the third floor. Now it was mostly unused except for storage.

      She found Greg sprawled on the floor watching the Disney Channel. The arrival of satellite TV had been both a blessing and bane. She tried hard to limit Greg’s TV time and the programs he saw. She wasn’t always successful.

      “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

      Without looking away from the TV screen, he said, “Fine.”

      Little boys were often inarticulate and very adept at ignoring their mothers. “So I’m planning a trip to Africa. I’m leaving in the morning. Want to come along?”

      A pair of matching frown lines formed above his eyebrows. Belatedly he glanced up at Alisa. “Uh? Where are you going?”

      She chuckled, sat down beside him on the floor and ruffled his curly hair. “Nowhere. But you’re going to go get your pajamas on and get ready for bed.”

      “Ah, Mom. Can’t I watch the end of this? It’s almost over.”

      “How about you get your pajamas and change in here? When the show’s over you can brush your teeth.”

      “Can I wait until the next commercial?”

      Alisa rolled her eyes. Her son was going to grow up to be a big-time negotiator, maybe even someone who negotiated treaties with foreign countries. He always wanted to get a little more of whatever was being discussed. He usually got his way, too.

      Of course, that was her fault. She hated to deny him anything.

      She wondered if it would be different if he had a father who set the rules. Not that Ben, the drifter who had deserted her, would have provided much of a role model or been a disciplinarian. She’d had word a few years ago that he’d been killed in a rodeo accident. Although she felt bad that he had died so young, he never would have been a factor in Greg’s life anyway. His loss.

      The commercial started. Good to his word, Greg hopped up and dashed into his room.

      Alisa stood as well. She strolled over to the window to close the curtains. Lighted windows in the Pine Tree Inn across the parking lot indicated they had nearly full occupancy. Idly she wondered which room was Nick’s. And how long he’d stick around.

      Not long, she imagined, giving the curtains a hard tug.

      No way was she going to build a fantasy of happily-ever-after with another drifter.

      The curtains hung up on something. She was about to give them another jerk when she saw the figure of a man standing behind the motel.

      Squinting, she realized two things. First, despite the shadows she recognized the man was Nick. Second, he had balanced a stick or bar between two trees and was doing chin-ups one after another. His dog sat nearby watching Nick’s every move.

      A moment later, he dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups. One, two, three...

      No wonder Nick seemed so strong, his arms so muscular. He was seriously into physical fitness.

      Shaking her head, she finished closing the curtains. What was it, she wondered, that drove a drifter to push himself so hard physically?

      * * *

      Nick finished his workout. Despite the cool air, he was sweating from every pour. His muscles screamed from the exertion. He barely had enough energy to get to his feet.

      Physically exhausted, he’d take a shower and hit the sack. Maybe with a firm mattress beneath him and clean Montana air to breathe, he’d sleep through until morning. Assuming the titanium rod and screws in his left leg didn’t put up a battle.

      “Come on, Rags. Let’s call it a night.”

      They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Nick let the dog into the room and threw the deadbolt on the door.

      It didn’t take him long to shower and get into bed. He smiled at the feel of the crisp sheets, the stack of pillows beneath his head and the silence outside the sliding glass door. You’re coming up in the world, Carbini.

      After making a few revolutions in order to pick exactly the right spot, Rags settled down on the floor next to the bed.

      Not much time had passed when the dream started. Distant explosions. Small arms fire. Men shouting orders.

      Running feet. Bullets coming closer. Fear burning in his gut. Screams of pain.

      Nick turned restlessly on the bed. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t leave his men. They were injured. Dying. He had to help.

      He bolted upright, fully awake, covered with sweat. Rags with his paws on the bed, whining pitifully.

      He wrapped his arms around the dog. “Good dog,” he whispered, his voice husky with residual fear. Rags had awakened him before the worst of the dream could overwhelm him. The memory of his cowardice.

      Lying back down, he stared up at the ceiling as his breathing slowed. Idly, he tangled his fingers in Rags’s fur. He’d be all right now. The worst was over. Until tomorrow night.

      * * *

      The following morning, Nick got up at dawn to run with his dog, the air clear, the temperature autumn-crisp. Invigorating.

      He showered and walked into town. He found the barbershop easily. Waiting for the shop to open, he tied Rags’s leash to a streetlamp. “Sorry, buddy. You have to stay outside.”

      At that moment, Ned Turner arrived to unlock the door. “You coming in for a haircut, sergeant?”

      “That’s the plan.”

      “Bring your dog inside. No need for him to stay out here all by himself.” A tall, slender man with graying hair, Ned opened the door wide. “Welcome to Bear Lake.”

      “Thank you.” It wasn’t often Nick had been called sergeant in the past few years, although the insignia of his former rank was obvious on his jacket.

      When Nick saw the military insignias plastered all over the barbershop walls and photos of army platoons, plus a shelf full of coffee mugs with unit insignias, including one mug with the chaplain’s cross, he realized why. Ned was former military himself and easily recognized the staff sergeant stripes on his army jacket.

      Nick looped Rags’s leash over the arm of one of the chairs that lined the wall. “Stay.”

      Rags sat. His eyes remained alert, riveted on Nick.

      “What was your unit?” Ned flipped on the lights.

      Nick shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a coatrack. “Fifth Infantry. Stationed at Kandahar.” Until the army decided to send him to an outlying camp to feed the troops. When al Qaeda overran the camp, Nick got an unplanned flight out to the U.S. hospital in Germany. He was luckier than most of the guys he worked with who went home in a box. Including his best buddy, Hank.

      He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily to banish the image of smeared blood across stainless steel kitchen appliances where so many had died.

      Ned gestured toward the barber chair. “I’m First Infantry. Served in ’Nam from ’68 to ’70.”

      “That was a tough war.”

      “They all are.” He placed a cape around Nick’s