“You’ve been wanting to talk to me,” I said. “Waiting until things calmed down.”
Luce looked down at the porch slats. The fire had left a piecrust of wood at the far corner. It started three paces from the steps and curved around for fifteen feet before its burned-match end. “You had to keep yourself safe. And me.”
“So here we are.”
She nodded. I waited.
“We aren’t right for each other,” she said. “These past weeks, even before this”—she motioned to the house—“I’ve been in knots. It wasn’t about Willard, or even Broch and his goons.”
A crow landed on the back fence, looked us over, decided against whatever it had in mind and flapped off.
“We were trying to make a fling more than it was, maybe,” I said.
“Please don’t. Don’t mark us down like that,” she said. Her eyes were wet, which added an extra dimension to their stormy color. “When you were here last year, that time was so short and intense. I thought that when you came back home and you stayed, it could go two ways. Either what I felt was all a ball of infatuation and new energy and it would fade and I’d be fine with that ending. Or we’d develop into something more.”
“But neither happened.”
“No. And you know it, too, I can tell. I’m wanting you more. And you’re pulling away. This nightmare with Kend and the Russians, for God’s sake. That wasn’t why. That just gave you a direction to go.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“If you did, this might be easier. You seemed—happy isn’t right. Resolute. More than with me.”
“I don’t need thrills to be happy, Luce.”
She thought it over. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re bred to it. That kind of excitement. After all the grief of the last week, could you say you would have preferred to stay out of it? If Elana and all those people hadn’t needed saving, would you still have gotten involved?”
I didn’t know how to answer conjectures like that. I hadn’t jumped in looking to play hero. Or even because I wanted to see Reuben K hang. If the bombs had gone off and the city had burned, I would never stop wondering if I could have stopped it. I couldn’t have lived with the question. Not if I stayed in Seattle. Maybe not anywhere.
None of which mattered to me and Luce, together. The answer wouldn’t fix us.
“Our lives,” I said. I had thought I was going to say more, but whatever words were next didn’t arrive. We both just stood.
“I like running things. I’ll probably find something else to manage, after I sell the Morgen someday,” she said.
“I’m not blaming the bar. Or you.”
She stood at the edge of the highest step. The kind of woman the Norsemen had in mind when they dreamed up Valkyries, high on the wing over the battlefield.
“I really do—” Luce said, and I was shaking my head to stop her almost before she’d started.
It was probably true. All the more reason not to hear it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for the winter rains to return. A soft, icy patter had driven the most of the world indoors while Leo and I ran on the two-lane road of the Arboretum. We wore waterproof gear with hoods and baseball caps. Our feet, mine in my broken-in ASICS and Leo’s in a pair of New Balances we’d bought earlier in the morning, were wet. Seattle socks.
Each time a car would approach, we’d jump the tiny, rushing river along the curb and wait for the car to hiss past. We could have run through the mud alongside the road. Or taken a longer route to loop back to the house. But the slower pace was better. Leo was still healing. And although the bandages were off my wrists, every once in a while a joint or muscle would twinge to remind me that it was less than happy.
“You ever been through here before?” I said, nodding at the dogwood trees.
“No,” Leo said between breaths.
“It’s bare-looking now, with the leaves gone. When spring comes, it’s a hell of a place.”
We waited for one minivan to ease past. Leo watched the tree line, scanning it in the same way he’d had eyes on every street and car we’d passed.
“You sleeping?” he said.
“Mostly,” I said. “I had that old dream just last night, with the rifle fire. But I could sleep after. You?”
“Off and on,” he said. “But the days are better.”
We came to the end of the park and wound our way around to Montlake. I stopped to stretch out my Achilles. Leo stood, shoulders back, exhalations making white bursts in the air.
“V.A. gave me a start date,” he said. “Last week of March.”
“The inpatient program?” I asked. He nodded. “How long?”
“Two weeks, they think. Out-care afterward.”
“Not too long.”
“Not too long,” he agreed. “And it’s in the city.”
“So I can visit.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe your nurse can, too,” I said.
He glanced sideways at me. “You know about that?”
“She blushed a little when I picked you up at the hospital last week. And her blouse wasn’t all the way zipped.”
Leo might have smiled. It was hard to tell sometimes with Leo.
He wasn’t the only one making plans. With the paltry insurance on the house, I had just enough to afford a new foundation and to buy the lumber for the framing. I’d figure out the rest as I went.
A future, one piece at a time. Luce wouldn’t be part of it. I’d have to take that in steps, too.
“How far?” said Leo, looking up the hill of 24th Avenue.
“To my street? Over a mile, all up. It’s a meat grinder.”
“We could catch the bus,” he said. “If you want.”
“I’m not the guy with stitches in his head.”
“Screw that. Bet a steak dinner that I can beat you.” His grin was obvious now. Baiting me. Trying to take my mind off my troubles.
I came out of the stretch. Bounced twice on my toes, loose and springy, and looked up the long, steep incline.
“Shut up and run,” I said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for making Hard Cold Winter a warm season:
First, to my editors Lyssa Keusch at William Morrow, and Angus Cargill at Faber & Faber. They have been tremendous collaborators in shaping the novel and adding depth to its characters, and they make a tough job look positively elegant. I am especially grateful for their encouragement and enthusiasm through the challenges of writing a book to deadline, which may be the most unnerving part of any writer’s sophomore effort.
The teams at both houses are the best any author could want. Sincere appreciation and admiration to Danielle Bartlett, Kaitlin Harri, Richard Aquan, Mark Steven Long, and Rebecca Lucash at Morrow, and to Sophie Portas, Luke Bird, and Katherine Armstrong at Faber.
My agent is Lisa Erbach Vance, at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency. Lisa navigates waters for which I not only have no charts, sometimes I’m not even sure I have a boat. Her expertise and understanding keep me afloat, and it’s my great fortune to work with her. Caspian Dennis of the Abner Stein Agency carries the flag superbly for us on the opposite shore; thank you, Caspian.
This novel is fiction, and I occasionally play fast and loose with jurisdictions, geography, methods, or anything else that will keep the story moving, keep the legal teams happy, and keep classified or dangerous information where and with whom it belongs. That said, I have aimed for accuracy wherever possible. I am deeply indebted to the professionals, both named and anonymous, who have lent their hard-won knowledge and experience to the work. From the veterans of the United States Army, those include Christian Hockman, Bco 1/75 Ranger Regiment, and Matt Holmes, 82nd Airborne, 1st Brigade combat team. From law enforcement and emergency services, my thanks to Officer David Jacus and District Ranger Dean Yoshina, both of the U.S. Forest Service, and to Fire Chief Matt Cowan. As always, the really cool s
tuff is theirs, and any mistakes are mine.
I belong to a writing group led by the amazing teacher and author Jerrilyn Farmer. Her contributions and those from the rest of the Saturday Morning Gang—Beverly Graf, Eachan Holloway, Alexandra Jamison, and John McMahon—can’t be overstated. An extremely talented bunch.
A belated thanks and love to friend Áine Kelly of Galway, Ireland, for providing the Irish Gaelic phrases for my first novel Past Crimes. I messed up and left Áine out of the acknowledgments in that book, but hope to make it up to her by stealing even more of her time to help with the next work. We’ll negotiate over pints.
To my family, immediate and extended: I love you. Could never do it without you. Would never want to.
And finally: A piece of every book belongs to those who make time for it. Thank You, Dear Reader.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Seattle, GLEN ERIK HAMILTON grew up aboard a sailboat and spent his youth finding trouble around the marinas and commercial docks and islands of the Pacific Northwest. He now lives in California with his family, and frequently returns to his hometown to soak up the rain.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY GLEN ERIK HAMILTON
Past Crimes
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HARD COLD WINTER. Copyright © 2016 by Glen Erik Hamilton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-234458-8
EPub Edition MARCH 2016 ISBN 9780062344601
16 17 18 19 20 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
Hard Cold Winter Page 27
