Charlotte Carter - Home to Montana

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 shoulders and ran a comb through his hair. “So what’ll it be? Trim?”

“The whole shebang, shave and a haircut. I’m helping Mama out at the diner for a week or so as handyman. Figure I ought to at least look respectable when I’m working around the place.” He smiled slightly. Alisa might appreciate a cleaned-up handyman, too, though she was unlikely to admit it.

“If you’re working for Mama Machak, you better toe the line,” Ned commented. “She’s a pretty special lady around Bear Lake. Her daughter, too.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Nick didn’t doubt for a moment that the townspeople would take Mama’s side if a stranger tried to cross her. Maybe that’s what made Bear Lake a good place to live.

Except he wasn’t looking for a place to settle down.

As Ned began working on him, a couple of fellows came into the shop. One began making a pot of coffee without asking. The other gave Rags a couple of pats then picked up the morning newspaper.

“Mitchell there behind the newspaper served in Iraq,” Ned said, snipping at Nick’s hair with his scissors. “The guy with the coffee habit is Ward. He’s a marine, but we let him hang out with us army types anyway.”

Ward shot a look over his shoulder. “Only ’cause you know I could take you out with my hands tied behind my back.”

Mitchell and Ned laughed.

“We got ourselves our own veterans group.” Ned brushed loose hair off Nick’s shoulders. “Nothing formal, you understand. We meet every Wednesday night in my back room. Half a dozen or so, some who are still shaking off the memories of whatever war they were fighting. ’Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan, it’s all the same for us grunts when we come home. If you’re around next Wednesday, come on by.”

Surprised by the invitation, Nick said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He wasn’t sure he’d be in Bear Lake that long, or whether he’d want to sit in with a bunch of vets who probably spent their time complaining about the government.

But the chaplain at the Louisiana State Prison where he’d spent three years for assault in a barroom brawl had put together a cadre of vets. They were like him—still having flashbacks. It had helped to know he wasn’t the only one. But it hadn’t changed anything.

Still, he hadn’t figured out what God’s plan was for him. Or if it had anything to do with coming back to Bear Lake.

A half hour later, Nick left the barbershop. His face felt naked, and he was ready for one of Mama’s hearty breakfasts.

He hated to do it, but knew he had to tie Rags up this time. Mama’s orders. So he secured the leash to a post at the side of the diner and told the dog to stay.

* * *

Alisa grabbed a menu as a stranger walked into the diner. She greeted him with her usual smile. “Good morning. Would you like a table? Or would you rather sit at the counter?” Men alone often wanted to eat at the counter so they could visit with the waitress as she passed by.

“The counter will do.”

Alisa’s mouth dropped open. She knew that voice but not the face. “Nick?” Her voice caught.

He flashed her a set of white teeth. “Early morning visit to the barber.”