"They were testing boundaries."
Roy set his mug down on a workbench cluttered with tools and walked over, peering into the bed with the practiced eye of someone who'd been doing this longer than I'd been alive. He was in his seventies now, bent slightly at the shoulders, hands gnarled from arthritis that made mornings difficult. But his mind was sharp, and his craftsmanship with pelts was still the best in three counties.
"Good shots," he said, running a weathered hand along one of the carcasses. "Clean. No damage to the hide."
I didn't respond. There wasn't much to say.
Roy sold the pelts he made—beautiful work, tanned and treated until they were soft as butter, decorated with traditional patterns he'd learned from his grandmother. The money went to the elementary school. New playground equipment. Library books. Art supplies. Whatever the kids needed that the budget couldn't cover.
He never kept a dime for himself.
"Appreciate it," he said, stepping back, brushing his hands on his worn jeans. "I'll get these processed."
"Thanks, Roy."
He studied me for a moment, something like concern flickering across his weathered face, deep-set eyes searching. "You doing all right, son?"
I felt my jaw tighten. "Fine."
"Your brothers?"
"They're good."
He nodded slowly, like he didn't believe me but knew better than to push. People in Valentine understood boundaries. Respected them. "Your mama would be proud. All of you. Good men. Serving your country."
The words landed heavier than he probably intended, settling in my chest like stones.
I managed a nod and climbed back into the truck before he could say anything else that sounded like absolution I didn't deserve.
Prada's Café was exactly as I remembered—vinyl booths with duct tape patches, checkered floors worn smooth in the high-traffic areas, the smell of bacon grease and strong coffee thick enough to taste. A handful of locals sat scattered throughout, nursing mugs and reading newspapers that were three days old because that's how long it took for anything to reach Valentine.
The woman behind the counter looked up when I walked in, her face lighting with recognition. Lucinda Herrera. She'dworked here since before I was born, her dark hair now shot through with silver, smile lines deep around her eyes.
"Wyatt Dane," she said warmly. "Lord, it's been a while."
"Morning, Mrs. Herrera."
"Coffee?"
"Please. And a couple of biscuits to go."
She poured without asking how I took it—black, same as my father—and slid the heavy ceramic mug across the counter. The coffee was hot enough to scald, strong enough to strip paint. Perfect. "How long you in town?"
"Just passing through."
She nodded like she understood, though I doubted she did. Her eyes held that look people got when they talked to soldiers on leave—gratitude and sadness tangled together, not knowing which one to show first. "Your brothers doing well?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good boys," she said, turning to wrap the biscuits in wax paper, the same way she'd been doing it for forty years. "All of you. Your parents raised you right."
There it was again. That tone. Reverence mixed with something else—pride, maybe. Or pity. Like we were heroes instead of just men who'd learned how to run in different directions from the same place.
I didn't deserve either.
An older man at the counter—Bill Morrison, owned the feed store—raised his mug in a silent salute. Another nodded from a booth, face familiar but name lost somewhere in the years. They looked at me like I was something more than I was. Like serving in the military made me a hero instead of just a man who was better at killing than living.
I paid, left a tip that was probably too much, thanked Mrs. Herrera, and left before anyone else could remind me of things I'd rather forget.
