BB finished off the pizza slice, licked his fingers, and wiped them on a paper towel, all the while studying Dillon intently. He swallowed a gulp of Pepsi—he’d run the bar his whole life and never had so much as a taste of the product he sold—then belched. “You know Tina’s gone.”
Gone and buried. Dillon had gotten that news just before the start of his trial, when the district attorney had upgraded the charges against him to manslaughter. But for all practical purposes, she’d been gone the moment her head had cracked against the windshield. Brain-dead, and it had been his fault. He supposed the end had been a mercy for her family—no more vigils, no more prayers, no more hopes. It would have been damn easier for him if she’d continued to live, even in that state. Less guilt and sorrow and blame and hatred. But it hadn’t been about him, had it?
He forced his voice through tight vocal cords. “Her family used to live over in Granite. They moved a year or two back. Either no one knows where they went…”
“Or they’re just not telling you.”
Dillon took his first chug of beer, savoring the sharp flavor, the iciness sliding down his throat. “You ever hear where they went?”
BB took a long breath, then blew it out through his nose. “Heard it was to North Dakota. Some little town in the middle of nowhere.” His laugh scraped like sandpaper. “Also heard they went to stay with family in Wyoming. Nobody’s said nothing about them in a long time. I might could ask around for you. You got a phone number down there in Oklahoma where I could get in touch with you?”
Dillon heaved himself out of the chair and got a note pad and an ink pen, right in the same place they’d always been, and scrawled his name and number on the top sheet. He’d bet not a single thing in the entire bar had been rearranged since he’d left. If he wanted to tend bar tonight, he wouldn’t need even a glance to familiarize himself. Memory would guide him.
“You gonna spend the night?” BB asked.
He’d thought he would. He’d brought a couple changes of clothes, a toothbrush, the charger for his cell phone. He’d thought he might drive to a couple other towns in the area and ask around—the Hunter family had been pretty well known throughout the county—but now that he was here, he didn’t see the point. He’d figured out without BB’s help that people didn’t want to talk to him about Tina’s family. Even the ones who didn’t remember him hadn’t been willing to share information about one of their own with a stranger.
BB was a different story. He’d known Tina, her mother and father, her sister—hell, her aunts, uncles, and grandparents. No one would question his curiosity; no one would think twice about giving him answers. Unless they connected him with Dillon.
And South Dakota, with all its memories, was no damn place for him.
“Nah, I don’t think so. It’s a long drive.” He’d left hours before dawn, hit the interstate, and driven through Kansas, Nebraska, and half of South Dakota. It would be an even longer drive back because he was tired and just being here had stirred feelings he didn’t often let get stirred.
BB nodded. “Anybody that don’t come in tonight will be at church tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Thanks.” Dillon handed him the paper with his phone number, hesitated, then extended his hand. When the old man took it, the tension in Dillon’s gut uncoiled a little bit. “Thanks a lot, BB.”
* * *
Elliot couldn’t recall the last time it had taken him so long to buy groceries, and for one meal, no less. He’d wandered the aisles and wished for the days at home when he could walk into the garden out back to pick whatever produce he needed, open up the extra freezer in the pantry and take out whatever recently butchered meat he wanted, and make the rest from scratch. That was ten long years ago in a life that hadn’t turned out quite the way he’d envisioned.
But that was okay. Sure, he’d like to have more money; extra cash was always nice. He was more than ready for a steady job, to prove his worth to himself if no one else, but that would come someday, when the time and the place were right. He loved his nieces and nephew and envied Emily the whole family experience, but he had a lot of years left. Maybe. If there was one thing war had taught him, it was that life was fragile. Scott Thomas was proof of that.
He arrived at Fia’s house a few minutes before six, wearing jeans, boots, and a white button-down. He’d shaved before coming, and his hair was pulled back with an elastic band. For good measure, he was wearing the straw Stetson he kept handy in the backseat of the truck with a nicer dark brown felt one, and a championship bull-riding buckle he’d won when he was in high school. Hey, if ladies loved a cowboy, he was more than happy to take advantage of it.
Juggling shopping bags, he climbed the steps and rang the doorbell with his elbow. At his feet, Mouse tilted her head back to sniff the bag containing the meat. She licked her lips with anticipation.
Elliot could have done the same when Fia opened the door if his mama hadn’t taught him better. She stood there in cutoffs that might have started at a modest length but now reached high on her long, lean thighs and nestled an inch or two beneath her belly button. Her shirt was like his if he only looked at them in broad strokes: both white, both long-sleeved, both buttoned. But where his was utilitarian and provided full coverage, hers was thin and light and shifted when she did, following the natural curves of her waist, her breasts, her biceps and triceps. She wore a little makeup, no shoes, and the only fragrance he smelled was bath soap or shampoo, and damn, it was enough to make his gut tie itself into knots.
“I like a man on time.”
“I like a barefoot woman.” He stepped inside and turned toward the kitchen before stopping. “I forgot to ask if Mouse could come. I didn’t want to leave her alone in a strange place.” Not that he had any place besides the truck to leave her. Like the last four or five nights, he’d slept in the truck, parked in the dark corner of a quiet parking lot. It had actually been pretty peaceful, with Mouse curled in the front seat snoring and the rain hitting the roof most of the night. This morning he’d driven to a truck stop on the west side of town for breakfast and a shower. He’d had worse accommodations, even before he’d joined the Army.
Fia slid the leash off his wrist, then bent to unhook it. “Of course she’s welcome. I don’t have any pets who might say otherwise.” She scratched Mouse’s ears and under her chin, and Elliot watched. Well, more accurately, he watched the way the faded denim stretched over her butt and how the muscles in the backs of her thighs and calves flexed. He’d said it before, and he would say it again: Lord, he loved women.
When she cleared her throat, he started, his face warming at being caught staring. He grinned big for her, then carried the bags to the kitchen counter. As he began unpacking them, she pulled a stool to the bar and slid onto it, her fingers moving to the stem of a half-filled wineglass. “Would you like something to drink? I have tea”—she raised the glass, clinking the ice cubes in it—“and there’s milk and a couple cans of pop in there somewhere.” Her thin shoulders shrugged. “Sorry, no booze.”
She started to rise, and he waved her back. “I’ll get it in a minute.” That was the second time she’d apologized about alcohol. He appreciated a cold beer in the right setting and, of course, a good wine paired with the right food, but he’d never seen the point in criticizing anyone for their beverage choices unless they were overdoing it. Fia not drinking beer was no more important, and no more his business, than him not eating cauliflower.
“I decided to start out simple with hamburgers,” he said before wadding the second plastic bag inside the other and pushing them aside. “Even though we had them last night, I like to think mine are better than the average fast-food place. If you don’t have a grill, I can pan-fry them.”
“I do have one. It’s been so long since I’ve used it, though, that we might have to clean out small rodents and such.”
He grinned again. “Hey, rodents don’t scare me. I’m tough.” He did his best Hulk impres
sion, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, drawing a laugh from her, then washed his hands before turning his attention to the kitchen. “Glass?”
She gestured toward the cabinet nearest the sink, where he found coffee mugs, tall insulated cups, and on the top shelf, a wineglass that matched the one she held. They were fine-quality crystal, edged with gold, the sort of glasses a couple might get as a wedding gift, maybe even drink their first toast from.
Feeling suddenly clumsy, he picked up an insulated cup decorated with sunglasses instead. “This okay?”
“Whatever you want.”
After filling his glass from a jug of sweet tea in the refrigerator, he found a large bowl and dumped the ground beef into it, added salt and pepper, then pulled out a cutting board.
“You appear to know my kitchen better than I do,” Fia remarked.
“Nah, we just think alike. Everything’s in its logical location. Do you cook much?”
“It depends. My friends are incredible cooks who keep my freezer well stocked. And sometimes a peanut butter sandwich is the only thing I need.”
He wondered if that was because cooking for one was a lot more effort than seemed logical. No matter how hard he tried, it just wasn’t possible to make a bunch of his favorite recipes without having leftovers. “Peanut butter is one of my major food groups. I like it best with sliced banana and a drizzle of syrup or caramel sauce.”
“Oh, no. Just plain smooth Jif. On a slice of white bread. Folded in half.” She made a yum noise, then smiled. “Pure comfort in a sandwich.”
She looked like she’d needed that comfort more in recent months than anyone should. He respected the sacrifices Scott had made, but Fia had had to make them, too. That was the reason Elliot had never looked for a serious relationship in the Army, not when he’d spent all his time in Afghanistan, getting ready to go there, or just coming back. He’d chosen that life for himself. It wouldn’t have been right to choose it for someone else.
At least, that was one of the reasons. Mostly he’d been unattached because he hadn’t met the right woman. For her, he would have given up a lot. Just as Fia had given up a lot for Scott.
“You like onion?” Elliot tossed a sweet yellow onion into the air, catching it easily. “I noticed last night you didn’t want it.”
“Close quarters and onion breath?” She shuddered. “Besides, I knew I’d be sharing with Mouse if you didn’t mind, and my friend Jessy says dogs shouldn’t eat onions. But tonight, Mouse will have to look elsewhere.”
He laid the onion on the cutting board, and then reached for the knife roll he’d carried in with the groceries. Fia’s gaze sharpened, then widened. “Oh my gosh, you travel with your own knives? I buy mine at Walmart, and then throw them away after I’ve sharpened them down to a nub. You are a serious cook, aren’t you?”
He removed a six-inch utility knife, and sliced the ends from the onion. “I considered going to culinary school when I got out of the Army. Seriously. I thought it would be nice to be in a field where the only danger is an occasional cut or burn or a fallen soufflé.”
“Okay, I am officially impressed. I can’t remember the last time a man cooked for me”—the flash of emotion in her dark eyes suggested that, to the contrary, she knew to the day the last time Scott had cooked for her—“and I’ve never known a man who had his own knives. I mean, cooking knives. Every guy I’ve known has pocket knives or switch blades or hunting knives.”
“It’s hard to chop an onion with any of those.” He let his gaze shift for a moment around the living room. The furnishings were a little sparse for his tastes, but the clean lines and lack of clutter worked. The colors and patterns were subdued, with only the textures varying, except when it came to the wall that held the television. The bright-colored, energetic photos there were the only personal touch in the room: portraits and snapshots of Scott, in and out of uniform, smiling, somber, weary. Almost all of the pictures of him in the desert were taken with the sun setting in the background. It was the same in the one photo that included Fia—their wedding portrait, gazing at each other with the sun sinking behind them.
She was beautiful. Scott was sharp in his dress uniform. They were both incredibly happy.
Life isn’t fair. But Elliot knew it never had been and never would be. Horrible people lived and prospered; good people failed and died. Man’s cruelty to others had reached historic highs, with the weaker, the younger, and the innocent bearing the brunt of it. People believed they were special and everyone else was expendable. Soldiers died, and brides became widows.
But that was the big picture. There were good, kind people who did the best they could, who protected what they could, who loved and laughed and honored those in their lives. His own parents were a fine example. His sister and brother-in-law, aunts and uncles, grandparents. Most of the people he’d known growing up and in the Army.
He’d met bad people. He’d met truly evil people. They had their power, but in numbers, they were a vastly smaller group than the good guys. And he was proud to be a good guy.
Movement across the counter brought his gaze around. Fia had slid off the stool to pick up Mouse, and now they were sliding back on, Mouse sitting like a lady in Fia’s lap. Rubbing the pup’s shoulders, keeping her gaze down, Fia said, “We were married four years ago. I never expected anyone to really want me because my mom and my dad sure didn’t. I was kind of wild back then, but then I met Scott, and it was so strange. He adored me right from the start.” Her gaze darted up, barely making contact, then away again. “Crazy, huh.”
While listening, Elliot had diced a pile of onion into little more than mush without noticing it. “I don’t think so,” he said as he scraped them to one side, then carefully cut the rest of the onion into the proper-size dice for the burgers. “I thought you were pretty damn adorable, too, right from the start. And while I may be many things, take my word: Crazy ain’t one of them.”
* * *
While the fat hamburger patties stuffed with balls of mozzarella cheese and onions came to room temperature on the counter, Fia took her guests on a guided tour, pointing out the bathroom, the door that led from the laundry room to the back patio, and down the steps to the small square of concrete. Elliot reattached Mouse’s leash, then looped it over the doorknob to keep her from wandering too far.
The propane grill at the far edge of the patio had been her gift to Scott for the last birthday they’d spent together. No matter how cold, they’d huddled together on the tiny balcony of their apartment through that whole winter, grilling burgers and brats, chicken and steaks, ribs and zucchini and bread. Come spring, he’d deployed, and she had never seen him alive again.
Her heart squeezed, and her hands shook, making her wonder if one of her episodes was coming on. Please, God, not right now, she prayed, and in a moment she realized it was just the usual heartache. All day she’d worried whether she would be able to keep this date with Elliot. All day she’d rested and prayed and thought happy thoughts, and it was working so far. She was strong and confident she would stay that way at least until the evening was over.
Looking, acting, and feeling normal had never been as important to her as it was tonight. Hope was pretty damn important tonight, too.
Elliot carefully removed the vinyl cover from the grill, shook it out to dislodge spiders, then lifted the lid of the grill. “Aw, no rodents, no birds, not even a nest. Darn.”
“What would you have done if there had been? Make friends and persuade them to let you move their nest? Take them in the way you did Mouse? Maybe whistle and get the mama mouse and all her babies to follow you?”
“My whistle is pathetic, but I have other charms to soothe the savage beast.” He checked the gas line connections, turned on the propane, then pressed the igniter. With a whoosh, gas came on beneath both burners, glowing yellow through the slits, heat immediately drifting into the air. “We’ll let it warm up, then I’ll scrub it.” He brought out a wire brush that had hung next to the tank.
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“You want to sit?” There weren’t any chairs to use. Those were in storage in the tiny shed across the yard. But the concrete steps were sturdy and narrow, barely room for the two of them, which made them just about perfect.
At his nod, she sat on the top step, still warm from an afternoon in the sun, and Elliot took the spot beside her. His hip bumped hers, and her shoulder brushed his as she settled her feet flat on the lowest step. His boots, with their worn heels and scuffed leather, made her feet look small and delicate and—and womanly. She hadn’t felt that in a long time.
“Nice night.” His voice was quiet, only a few inches from her ear. He smelled fresh and fruity and intoxicating, and his brown skin appeared even darker against the contrast of his white shirt. His lashes were long, his blue gaze directed across the yard, and a sense of contentment radiated from him that was at once distantly familiar and curiously alien to her.
When his gaze shifted minimally and the corner of his mouth tilted, she knew he knew she was studying him. Leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, she ducked her head so that what he saw was mostly hair and asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ever been married?”
“Nope. I intend to do it only once, so I’m waiting for the right woman.”
It was his turn now to study her. She could feel his gaze as surely as she felt the evening air against her skin, warm and sweet and with the promise of cooling breezes. As he’d done, she stared out across the grass. The duplexes were part of the apartment complex where she and Scott had lived in their tiny two-bedroom apartment. There were eight small houses with small yards, carports, and sheds. They looked like a lot of base housing she’d seen over the years, not fancy but clean and well maintained and sturdy. The duplex’s eight hundred square feet suited her just fine.
“Finding the right woman shouldn’t be hard,” she murmured, twisting to see him.
“Sometimes it’s not. You found Scott before you were twenty. My mom knew she was going to marry my dad when she was fourteen. But sometimes it takes a while. Uncle Vance was coming up on fifty when he met his wife.”
A Summer to Remember Page 4
