Home to Montana

by Charlotte Carter

  When the crowd had thinned, Alisa returned to the kitchen.

  “Things out front have slowed,” she said to Nick. “Is this a good time to talk? I promised I’d take Greg to see Mama this morning.”

  “Now is fine.” He spoke to Betsy about the unfilled orders, then shed his white jacket. “Let’s step outside.”

  He held the door for her and followed her down the steps he’d repaired. The morning air felt crisp after the overheated kitchen. She wrapped her arms around herself.

  Nick untied Rags, gave the dog a quick scratch behind his ears, then walked a few paces away from the building before stopping to take in a deep breath of fresh air. He turned toward her. The deep grooves lining his forehead were pulled into a frown.

  “I didn’t think it mattered when I was just doing handyman work around the place,” he said. “Now that I’m working inside...” He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

  An uneasy feeling crept down Alisa’s spine.

  He blew out a breath and glanced up at the cloudless sky. “I spent the past three years in prison in Louisiana. Assault and battery.”

  Unable to speak, she gaped at him.

  “I got into a barroom fight. Not the first time, either. I messed up the other guy pretty bad and sent him to the hospital, not that he hadn’t thrown a few good punches my way. But that’s no excuse for what I did.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “Yes. I’ve been clean and sober since that night when they locked me up. I don’t drink anymore. I thought you should know.”

  Should know? Her son idolized Nick. A drunk with a temper. She never should have let Greg get so close to Nick.

  She never should have shared a kiss with Nick.

  Or wished there could have been more.

  Unable to hold his gaze a moment longer, couldn’t look into the depth of his sky-blue eyes, she stepped away and turned her back on him.

  “I’ll understand if you want me to leave.” His voice was low and somehow filled with the same pain that blossomed in her chest.

  “If I’d known—”

  “You would have thrown me out. I understand. Now you’ve got a real problem with your mother out of commission for a while. I’ll leave if you want me to. Or stay until you can find someone else or Mama is able to come back to work. Either way, I promise not a drop of alcohol will cross my lips. I won’t do anything that will hurt you or your family or your business.”

  Alisa studied the ground around her feet. Pine needles and faded oak leaves lay scattered across the hard-packed dirt where feet had trampled the ground for decades. Machak feet. Their friends and customers.

  How could Nick promise he wouldn’t drink? How could she count on a few well-intentioned words to keep him sober? Keep him from losing his temper with the staff?

  Or worse, lose his temper with her own son? Nick wasn’t the sort of man a young, impressionable boy should have as a role model. Was he?

  The kitchen door opened. “Mom, I ate my breakfast. Can we go see Mama now?”

  Rags came running over to greet her son, who knelt to rough up the dog’s shaggy coat.

  Alisa swallowed hard. “In a minute, honey.”

  “Can I play with Rags ’til you’re ready to go?”

  “No!” The word came out too sharply. She glanced at Nick.

  “Go ahead. Visit your mother. You can decide what you want to do about me later.”

  How could she possibly tell him to leave when she needed his help? And a stubborn part of her, a part that had been lonely too long, desperately wanted him to stay?

  She didn’t want to judge him for his past actions. After all she wasn’t the same person she’d been when she got pregnant with Greg. With the help of the Lord, she’d changed. Surely Nick had too.

  It was true that Nick scared her, but not because he’d been in jail. He scared her by what he made her feel.

  * * *

  Nick put Rags back on the leash that was tied to the stair railing. “Sorry, fella. I’ll take a break this afternoon and let you run. Stay.”

  Rags lowered himself to the ground with an audible sigh.

  Leaving his dog, Nick went into the kitchen. He figured he’d be smarter to go pack his things and get out of town. Alisa was sure to tell him to leave when she returned to the diner.

  What woman wanted an ex-con working for her? Or hanging around her son? He’d seen the disbelief in her eyes turn to shock. And then a shadowed hint of fear before she looked away.

  The last thing he’d ever do was hurt her or her son. But she couldn’t rely on the word of an ex-con and former drunk.

  Prison had changed him. Mostly for the better because of Chaplain McDuff, who with the patience of Job had led him to the Lord.

  But living with a bunch of hard-core inmates, some of them lifers, had changed Nick, too. He had an edge now, a wariness that made him keep others at arms’ length. Between that and PTSD, he wasn’t a prime candidate for any job. Or a relationship with a woman as caring and compassionate as Alisa.

  Keeping his eyes averted from the reflections in the stainless steel prep tables and appliances, he grabbed a menu and sat down at a table in a back room set up for employees taking a break. He wanted to be sure he was familiar with the dinner choices and check to be sure nothing should be pulled from the menu because of lack of supplies.

  Or lack of a cook who knew how to prepare the dish.

  With his fingertips, he rubbed his temples against a threatening headache. By dinnertime he could be gone.

  * * *

  Alisa stopped at the door of Mama’s hospital room, surprised to find Dr. Royce McCandless, Greg’s pediatrician, at her mother’s bedside.

  Greg pushed right past Alisa. “Hey, Mama. How come Dr. McCandless is here? You’re not a kid.”

  Mama smiled at her grandson, and the doctor drew Greg closer to the bed. A large bouquet of flowers stood on the nearby bed table.

  “I’m visiting your grandmother as a friend, young man. Not as her doctor.”

  That seemed to satisfy Greg, who shifted his attention to Mama’s bandaged arms. “Does it still hurt?” he asked her.

  “A little bit.” Mama lifted her gaze to Dr. McCandless. “Thank you for coming by.”

  In a casual gesture, the doctor stroked a loose strand of hair away from Mama’s cheek. “I’ll drop by later to see how you’re doing.”

  Alisa told him goodbye, then moved to her mother’s bedside opposite Greg. An IV dripped medication into Mama’s arm. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “A little punchy. The medicine, it makes me not hurt but my head is swimming.”

  “Has Dr. Johansen been in to see you?”

  Her nearly white eyebrows pulled together. “Earlier, I think. He said I was lucky. I won’t have to have surgery.”

  That was a relief. But her mother still looked paler than usual and her eyes were unnaturally dilated. A reaction to the meds, Alisa assumed.

  Turning to Greg, Mama said, “Why you’re not in school this morning?”

  “Mom said I could come see you first.” His smooth forehead scrunched into a worried frown. “I was afraid you might die like grandpa did.”

  “Not me, my little vnuk,” she said, using the Czech word for grandson. “Your grandmama is too stubborn to die from such a little thing.”

  Greg climbed up the bed rail far enough to kiss her cheek. “I’m glad, Mama. I’d miss you a lot.”

  Her throat thickening with tears, Alisa saw a sheen form her in mother’s eyes. “I would miss you, too, my little one.” Mama’s voice was laced with love.

  “Greg, honey.” Alisa cleared her throat. “Could you go downstairs and wait for me? I have some business I want to talk to Mama about for a minute. Then I’ll tak
e you to school.”

  “Okay.” With an easy shrug, he hopped down and ambled out into the hallway.

  “What is it? Did something go wrong? Someone else hurt themselves?”

  “No, Mama, nothing like that.” Taking a deep breath, Alisa forced herself to continue. “Last night, after we saw you, Nick told me something I didn’t expect. He’s an experienced, trained chef.”

  “Ah, that is a good thing, yes? He can help you until I get better.”

  “He could, yes.” Alisa hesitated. She didn’t want to worry her mother. But she was so conflicted about Nick, her feelings for him and her fears about him, that she needed Mama’s advice. “This morning he told me he is an ex-convict. He spent three years in prison for hurting another man.”

  Mama’s pale eyes widened. “That does not sound like the Nick I know.”

  “It’s true. He was drunk and got into a fight.”

  “Have you seen him drink since he’s been here? Or smelled alcohol on his breath?”

  Her heart squeezed as she remember the sweet taste of his kiss. “No,” she whispered. “He says he doesn’t drink anymore.”

  Mama nodded. “Good for him. If that is true, why do you look so worried?”

  “Didn’t you say his father was a heavy drinker?”

  “That doesn’t mean Nick will be the same.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, what if he starts drinking again? I can’t have him around Greg. Or the staff.” Nor did she want to be around him if he started drinking again. “I know with you unable to work, we need help in the kitchen. But maybe I could hire someone. There has to be—”

  “Alisa! What do they say about not buying trouble?” Mama touched her bandaged hand to Alisa’s, which was wrapped tightly around the bed rail. “Is it not possible that God has led Nick to us for a reason?”

  “We don’t know that, Mama.”

  “Give the man a chance, Alisova. Men can change, you know. I believe Nick already has.”

  Alisa wanted to believe that. But did she dare?

  Chapter Nine

  Since Nick had told Alisa two days ago that he was an ex-con, she’d been avoiding him. Sure she’d helped out in the kitchen when they got rushed. Checked with him about what to order from the wholesaler. But she hadn’t spoken a word about anything that wasn’t work-related.

  And she’d kept Greg away from him and Rags.

  But she hadn’t told him to get lost.

  He glanced up at the wall clock. Almost seven. Based on the number of orders he and Hector had plated, the Wednesday night crowd must be light. This might be a good time to check on the veterans that met at the barbershop.

  Taking off his white jacket, he hung it on a hook and went in search of Alisa.

  Jolene was working the front tables. Only a couple were occupied. Two guys were eating at the counter.

  “Is Alisa around?” he asked as Jolene returned to the coffee station.

  “We aren’t very busy, so she went upstairs to be with Greg. Go on up. Just knock on the door. It isn’t Greg’s bedtime yet.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced up the stairs wondering what kind of a reception he’d get by invading her privacy. Whatever, he thought with a shrug. He couldn’t leave without telling her. Besides, he’d been curious about where she lived and wanted to picture her there at the end of the day.

  He climbed the stairs and rapped his knuckles on the door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  He ran his fingers through his hair to tame the natural waves that had their own mind, opened the door and stepped inside.

  Greg was sprawled on the floor in front of a forty-inch TV screen in the living room, which was comfortably furnished with a couch, swivel rocker and a recliner. Alisa sat at a small maple kitchen table working a jigsaw puzzle. He smiled, remembering their challenge.

  “Hi. It’s me.”

  Alisa’s head snapped up. She shoved her chair back, toppling it over as she stood. “Oh. I thought you were Jolene.” Her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders in a shimmer of molten honey.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Hey, Nick,” Greg called. “I’m watching a good show. You wanna watch with me?”

  “Maybe another time, sport.”

  Her face flushed, Alisa straightened the chair she’d knocked over. She gripped the back of it as if she expected the chair to throw itself to the ground again. Or she was using the chair as a shield. “Is there something you wanted?”

  “Yeah. Business is pretty light. There’s someplace I want to go. I think Hector can handle things ’til closing.”

  “Oh. All right.” She relaxed her grip enough to let the blood flow back to her knuckles. “I was going to come down in a bit to talk to you. Mama insists she’s coming home tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Did that mean Alisa wanted him gone by then? He glanced toward the large window in the living room, which had a clear view of the motel. The outside security lights illuminated the geraniums in the flower box.

  “I’m not sure the doctor will actually release her. But if I know Mama, she’ll walk out on her own if she has to.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute.” He’d grown fond of Mama. She had a warrior’s spirit that would never give up. He suspected Alisa had inherited the same determination.

  “She won’t be able to do any work. Her hands are still bandaged. But she wants to teach you how to make her chicken and dumplings Czech style.”

  “Yeah?” He grinned. A new recipe, particularly one that tasted as great as Mama’s chicken and dumplings, was always a treat to try. “That’d be great. I figured out some of the spices when I ate the dish. But the proportions are always tricky.”

  “Mama was afraid we’d have to scratch the special if she wasn’t around. It’s always a big night for us.”

  “I know. I saw the crowd last week.” Had it only been a week since he arrived in Bear Lake? It felt longer. Almost as if his staying was a permanent thing. He wasn’t counting on that. His nightmares may have ebbed, but that could be temporary.

  “So, ah, have a good time tonight,” Alisa said.

  “Just out with the guys at the barbershop.”

  She tensed again. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Right.” Hating the look of distrust in her eyes, he took a step backward. Did she think he was going out to get drunk and take a swing at someone?

  “See ya, Nick.” Greg waved but didn’t look away from the TV.

  “’Night, Greg.” He nodded to Alisa. “See you tomorrow.”

  Descending the stairs, he muttered to himself. “What’d you think she’d do after you told her you were an ex-con? Jump into your arms? Tell you it didn’t matter? Kiss you again?”

  Not gonna happen, Carbini. She’s scared to death that you’ll fall off the wagon. Or do something else crazy. Like when your old man knocked you and your mother around when he got drunk. Which was pretty much all the time.

  Nick untied Rags and started for the barbershop.

  Please, God, don’t let me be like my dad. Not ever.

  * * *

  “Hey, Carbini!” At the barbershop, Ned Turner greeted Nick with an extended hand and a slap on the back. “Come on in the back room. Mac’s wife made us chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Great. Can my dog come?”

  “Sure. Bring him in.”

  A half dozen guys were sitting around in a circle drinking coffee. The plate of cookies on the table was almost empty.

  Nick recognized Ward and Mitchell from the day he had his hair cut, and was introduced to the others. Tony, who had the build of a Special Ops guy, had been back in town for less than a week. The way his dark eyes darted around the room, Nick was pretty sure he hadn’t settled into civilian life
yet. He was due for another tour in less than a month.

  Nick poured himself a mug of coffee and grabbed one of the last cookies.

  He sat in one of the folding chairs and glanced around the room. A couple of posters of Glacier National Park hung on the wall and two fishing poles were mounted above a stuffed trout that had to have weighed twenty pounds.

  The guys were telling tales of their military exploits. Most of them pretty hairy and probably exaggerated like when a fisherman claims to have caught the biggest fish on record—except it got away. Even so, beneath their laughter was a layer of truth that they all recognized. Things happened in a war that could never be forgotten.

  Ward turned to Nick. “How’d you earn your sergeant stripes?”

  “By cooking up the best mess of spaghetti and meatballs ever eaten in Afghanistan.” That was the pat answer he usually gave anyone who asked. They laughed, as expected.

  “Sounds like tough duty,” Mac commented, chuckling.

  Nick sipped his coffee. “Yeah, it was. I still get flashbacks.”

  “You mean indigestion?” Mac barked another laugh.

  “Yeah, pretty much the same thing, isn’t it?” Nick had discovered most veterans couldn’t grasp the possibility that a cook, a noncombatant, could suffer from PTSD. One VA counselor had all but scoffed at him. Civilians didn’t get it at all. He’d pretty much given up trying to convince anyone he had a problem. He’d deal with it himself.

  The group quieted. Ned walked over to Nick and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve all been there, son. It gets better with time.”

  Nick sure hoped so. This past week hadn’t been too bad. Rags had woken him a couple of times in the middle of a dream before the nightmare could rip him screaming from his sleep. The rest of the time he’d slept through the night. Practically a record for him.

  Ward leaned toward Nick. “There’s help for you if you need it.”

  Shrugging, Nick shook his head. “I’m doing better,” he lied.

  The attention moved away from him, shifting to good-natured insults among the guys. Nick began to relax until he remembered the distrustful look in Alisa’s eyes when he’d said he’d see her in the morning.