Charlotte Carter - Home to Montana

Yet she also saw a hint of sadness in those clear eyes. A shadow of loneliness she sometimes saw in her own mirror and had learned to ignore.

She forced down her curiosity about where he had come from and why he had no place to go. That was none of her business either. From her perspective, he was simply another tourist passing through town.

“When you’re done, stack the kindling under the lean-to by the kitchen. There’s a wheelbarrow you can use.” She gestured vaguely toward the woodpile.

“No problem. I’ve got it covered.”

Based on his over six-foot height and the breadth of his shoulders, he’d be able to turn a whole cord of wood into kindling without breaking a sweat. At least that would save her from developing calluses on her palms for one day.

She turned, her steps light as she walked back to the kitchen entrance, her senses vividly aware of the chunk, chunk of the ax on a pine log. Aware of the stranger’s strength. The power of his arms. His tempting smile.

And determined not to acknowledge how thoroughly he’d stirred memories she’d rather forget.

In the kitchen, three big pots of water steamed on the stove ready for Mama to drop in the loaves of bread dumplings for tonight’s paprika chicken house special. A recipe Mama had learned from her own mother in Czechoslovakia.

Meanwhile, Hector Gomez, their short-order cook and kitchen helper was serving up buffalo burgers and fries and cold sandwiches for the midafternoon crowd.

The scent of baking bread, grilled meat and aromatic spices were as familiar to Alisa as a mother’s perfume. She’d grown up here in the kitchen. First in a playpen safely away from spattering grease and well out from under the hurrying feet of the waitstaff. Later, standing on a chair so she could reach the prep tables, she’d rolled dough for biscuits and grated potatoes for potato pancakes, another Czech specialty. Served with apple sauce or sour cream, they had been a staple in Alisa’s life.

Her father had done most of the cooking when Alisa was young while Mama worked the front of the diner. But he had passed away ten years ago, leaving Mama and Alisa to manage the diner.

This was her home, the place that held her heart and consumed the vast majority of her waking hours. The regular customers she served were her extended family. Old-timers who had lived here most of their lives. New folks who had more recently found a home under the wide Montana sky.

Mama turned and smiled. Her once blond hair was dulled now by streaks of gray. Her perpetual smile had formed permanent parentheses around her mouth.

“You finished making kindling already?”

Alisa shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on a coatrack near the door. “Nope. A drifter came by and offered to do it for me. All he asked in return was some scraps for his rather shaggy-looking dog.”

“What? You didn’t offer him a few dollars? A little supper?”

“He didn’t ask.” Everyone in town knew Mama was a soft touch, although the locals rarely took advantage of her. Drifters weren’t always so thoughtful. “I imagine he’ll be hungry by the time he’s through.”

She washed up in a nearby sink, tied her hair back and went out front to see that they were ready for the evening rush.

* * *

Nick split another log, gratified by the growing pile of kindling by the stump. It felt good to use his muscles. He’d been cooped up in his pickup for too long. Driving and sleeping under the camper shell whenever and wherever he stopped.

Maybe he’d stay a few days in Bear Lake, camp somewhere nearby, hike the trails through the forest, check out the house where he’d been born. The house where his mother had died some twenty years ago.

His throat tightened on the memory of his mother so sick she couldn’t get out of bed. So pale it was like all of the blood had been sucked out of her. He’d only been ten years old when the ambulance came to take her away forever.

Not long after that his dad had piled their few possessions in his old, beat-up truck. They’d gone east and south, moving a dozen times whenever his dad lost his job or got restless. Finally, when Nick had managed to get a high school diploma he’d bailed on his father and joined the army.

He’d been out now for nearly four years.

A couple of weeks ago he’d tried to reconnect with his dad. His father had tossed him out of his house in Baton Rouge, or more accurately his dad’s current girlfriend had insisted he leave. She didn’t want an ex-con living in her house. Nick’s old man hadn’t ever been much of a father so he sided with the girlfriend, who doubled as his drinking buddy and sometimes, Nick suspected, his punching bag.

Nick hadn’t had a destination in mind when he left Baton Rouge. He’d simply gotten in his truck and headed north.

But the farther north he drove, the more the thought of Bear Lake drew him. He couldn’t tell if it was God who was leading him or his own childhood memories of home. Maybe both.

He swung the ax again. Two pieces of kindling jumped from the stump onto the ground. He paused long enough to take off his jacket and look around. Sweat edged down his spine.

Nice layout Ms. Alisa Machak had here. A good business. Even in the middle of the afternoon there were a fair number of cars parked out front. He hadn’t lied about her being a pretty lady, either. Hair a honey blond that skimmed her shoulders. Shoulders much too slender to wield an ax with so much strength. Or maybe she was working on a heap of determination more than sheer muscle power.

Nice eyes, too. A dark blue like the deepest part of a lake. But she hadn’t smiled much, not at him. He didn’t blame her for that. He must look pretty rough after a couple of weeks on the road.

Rags came trotting back from wherever he’d been with a stick in his mouth.

“You’d better stay close by, buddy. If you hang around, you’re gonna get some really tasty scraps. That pretty lady promised you’d get the best in the county.”

Tilting his head, Rags looked up at Nick with his big, brown eyes and whined. Trying to sucker Nick into throwing the stick.

“No, I can’t play now. Gotta turn all this split wood into kindling. Maybe later, huh?”

Nick hung his jacket over a tree limb and got back to work. Three more whacks, and another split log became 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.