Small things. Evidence of a life being lived thirty yards from mine.
I sit in the truck for a moment with my hands in my lap and let myself feel it.
I want him to stay.
Not temporarily. Not until he decided to leave. But forever. I always have.
I want his truck in the drive, his jacket on the rail, and the light in the guest house window when I come home late. I want morning coffee with someone who already knows how I take it. I want the easy that we had at the kitchen table last night.
I want it badly enough that it scares me.
Because wanting something and not knowing the outcome is the most dangerous kind of wanting there is.
I grab the pie plate and get out of the truck.
Frank is on his post, watching me come through the gate with what I can only describe as a challenge.
"Not a word," I tell him.
He crows anyway.
Chapter 7
Mondays at Ethel’s
Bo
I'm on the sidewalk outside Jerry's, grocery bag in one hand, and Pearl's list in the other. She'd called early this morning and asked if I could run a few errands. I went by Falon's to see if she needed anything, but she was already out in the far field, driving the truck slowly along the fence line while the Heelers worked the edges. She was spreading hay, a chore easier done with two, but doable, and by the looks of it, practiced. I watched for a minute from the gate. She didn't see me, but watching her was fascinating. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it showed. In the meantime, a few morning errands in town couldn't hurt, right?
Besides myself, there were seven cars in the lot this early. I pulled out my keys, and suddenly, a truck door slammed three parking spaces down. A kid screams, and just like that, panic sets in.
My body freezes and reacts. Everwood disappears, and I'm back in the bunker. Bombshells explode just yards away, scattering concrete dust thick enough to taste, the acrid smell of burning metal and something worse. CaptainMorris slumped against the wall, his breath coming in wet, shallow pulls, reaching for me.
My heart pounds and I'm frozen in place.
I blink hard. Once. Twice.
The bunker dissolves. I'm back on Main Street in Everwood, Montana. Morning sun. Clean air. No dust. No blood.
But my hands are shaking.
I force myself to breathe in through my nose, count to four, and out through my mouth. One of my commanding officers taught me that one. It helps. Sometimes.
I can hear the bag crinkle in my grip. Eggs. Coffee. Bread. Normal things.
My pulse hammers anyway.
"Son."
The voice is calm and steady. It cuts through the noise in my head like a blade.
I turn.
An older man stands a few feet away. His hands are loose at his sides, and his posture is relaxed. He's maybe seventy, gray hair buzzed military-short, wearing a faded Marine Corps cap and a flannel shirt that's seen better decades. His eyes are sharp, and he knows exactly what just happened.
He just nods once and offers me a knowing smile.
Growing up in Everwood, I'd known Sam. He'd never minced words. He was a straightforward man and told it like it was.
