Paradise Valley. Робин Карр

      Jack hesitated a moment before he put his hand out and shook Dan’s. “Jack Sheridan.”

      “Yeah, I know. Now, can we move on? No reason we have to go head to head every time we see each other. I’m hoping to live here. At least for a while.”

      “Why here?” Jack asked suspiciously.

      “I’m not likely to run into any old business associates in here.” He grinned. “The bartender won’t take stinky money.”

      “You saying we understand each other?” Jack asked.

      “I never had a problem understanding you, pal. Fact is, if this were my bar, I wouldn’t have taken my money either. But that’s all in the past. And I need some information, if you have it.”

      “We’ll see,” Jack said.

      “First of all, I’m bedding down in a camper shell and it’s fine, but I thought you might know of something to rent around here.”

      Jack knew of a number of possibilities. Luke Riordan had six cabins on the river, recently updated. There was a couple in town who let out a room over their garage from time to time. And Jack had his cabin in the woods. But there was a vast difference between giving the man a job and watching him work and inviting him to spend the night. “Sorry,” Jack said. “That’s the thing about these mountain towns. Rentals and property sales come up so seldom, Paul’s company is doing well. People have to build from scratch or remodel.”

      Dan watched Jack’s eyes as he said this and he knew he wasn’t getting the whole truth. He didn’t blame the guy. It was going to take a while to prove he wasn’t a low-life criminal. He knew there’d be a price when he made the decision to enter the marijuana trade. Right now he could probably get assistance from someone still growing, but Dan didn’t want to go that route. He meant it when he said that was in the past.

      “Okay,” Dan said, “I get that. And like I said, I’m not uncomfortable. I park at a rest stop at night. There’s hot water and facilities. What are your hours of operation? I’m looking for an occasional hot meal and a packed lunch to take on the job.”

      “We can handle that for you. I’m usually here by six-thirty and Preacher lives on the property. He has the coffee on by six. We stay open till about nine at night, later if someone asks us to stay open. If you let Preacher know in advance, he can have a packed lunch ready for you in the early morning. If you need any—” The phone rang in the kitchen. “Give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

      “Take your time,” Dan said.

      While Jack was gone, Dan wondered, just curiously, if the till was locked. Would Jack Sheridan leave him alone in the bar with a money drawer open? Did he trust him a little bit, or not at all? He wouldn’t blame Jack if it took him some time to warm up to Dan—after all, this was the first hour of the first day they had a legitimate relationship. But Dan and Jack had history. Lots of history. And it wasn’t all so good.

      The first time they’d crossed paths, Dan had to get the local midwife to help him with a birth gone bad at an illegal grow site. That midwife was Jack’s woman, and that whole episode went over like a turd in a punch bowl. The next time they came into contact, Dan had actually rear-ended that same midwife, and she was nine months pregnant. Again, not an auspicious beginning for their friendship.

      But then he’d redeemed himself. Dan was in the area when some local men were searching for Preacher’s wife, who’d been abducted by her homicidal ex-husband. It hadn’t been Dan’s plan to save the day, but the rest of these louts couldn’t hack it and someone had to act. So Dan whopped the ex-husband on the head with his flashlight, knocked him cold and facilitated rescue.

      Then there was the forest fire last summer. By the sheerest coincidence, Jack was sitting by the side of the road, hurt and dehydrated, as Dan was making his escape from a couple of lunatic growers. He picked Jack up and got him to safety.

      Jack had apparently forgotten the good parts. Or decided they weren’t good enough.

      Shortly after that fire, there had been a warrant for Dan’s arrest and that’s when he’d turned himself in. By virtue of being highly cooperative, he’d only served six months of a three-year sentence. But still, he was now and forever an ex-con.

      His beer was long gone. Whoever was on the phone must be important or Jack Sheridan wouldn’t leave someone he didn’t trust alone in his bar. Hell, he wouldn’t even take his money if it smelled like—

      His thought was cut off as Jack wandered back into the bar, his face white and his eyes unfocused. He clutched a piece of paper in his hand and he didn’t look at Dan. He didn’t go behind the bar, but stood just outside the kitchen door and stared blankly at nothing.

      “Hey, man,” Dan said. “Hey, Sheridan.”

      Jack didn’t respond. He was a million miles away.

      Dan got up and approached him warily. He looked weird, and weird could sometimes mean unstable. Unstable could mean anything.

      “Sheridan? What’s up, man?”

      Jack’s unfocused eyes slowly pivoted toward Dan. He licked his dry lips, blinked a couple of times. “My boy, Rick,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

      “What?” Dan asked a little frantically. He’d had a boy of his own once. He’d probably worn those same eyes at the time. “What about your boy Rick?”

      “Rick,” he said, and lifted the piece of paper on which he’d scrawled notes. Haditha, Al Anbar, hostile, critical, grenade, Landstuhl Medical Center, Germany.

      “Shit,” Dan said. “Hey! Snap out of it! What happened?” He gave Jack a couple of pats on the cheeks, carefully. He didn’t slap him; Jack might be reactive enough to coldcock him. “Whoa, buddy.” He grabbed a bottle off the glass shelf behind the bar and tipped a shot over a glass. “Hey,” he said, lifting the glass to Jack’s lips. “Come on, burn it down, buddy. Get a grip.”

      Jack’s shaking hand came up to grab the glass. He closed his eyes, threw back the shot and kept his eyes closed for a long moment. When he opened them, they were burning with a feral gleam.

      “Something happen to your son, Jack?” Dan asked.

      He shook his head. “Rick is like a son. He’s in the Corps in Iraq.”

      “Yeah, I got that,” Dan said, looking down at the paper. “Haditha, in Iraq. Landstuhl Medical. Been there.”

      “He’s wounded. He might not make it.” He shook his head. “I gotta think straight,” he said to himself.

      “Jesus,” Dan said. He shot into the kitchen. “Anybody back here? Hey! Anybody back here?”

      In a second a woman came through a door into the kitchen. He recognized her. She was the woman who’d been abducted—Paige. The last time he’d seen her, she was pregnant. “What is it?” she asked, confused.

      “Gimme a hand out here, huh?”

      She followed him into the bar. Jack was leaning against the cupboard behind the bar and a little sanity had crept back into his eyes.

      “Somebody named Rick is hurt in Iraq,” Dan said. “Can you find Jack’s wife? Call her or something?”

      “I’m all right,” Jack said. But Paige bolted to the kitchen. “I just have to think. I was in his file as next of kin, probably because his grandmother is old and sick. Lance Corporal Sudder, they said. Took a grenade in Haditha. They got him out of surgery in Iraq and transported him to Germany, but he’s not in good shape. They had to resuscitate twice and there will be more surgery,” he said. “I have to think.”

      “Whew, have another one. Slow down the brain a little,” Dan said, pouring a half a shot of something, he wasn’t even sure what.

      He handed it to Jack, and Jack threw it back. He shut his eyes hard. A