Charlotte Carter - Home to Montana

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 frown etched Alisa’s forehead, matching her mother’s. “Guess we’ll just have to make-do somehow.”

Helplessly, Mama threw up her hands. “It must be God’s will.”

“I 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?”