Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ I think she likes Pete.”

      But maybe not so much in the restroom. “You do your homework after you finish your snack. If you need help, let me know.”

      “’Kay.” He spooned a blackberry into his mouth. Juice dribbled out around the corners. “Mom, could we maybe have a dog someday?”

      She and her son had had this conversation any number of times. “I can’t have a dog inside the diner, honey. You know that. And there are too many wild animals around to leave a dog outside all the time.”

      “We could keep him upstairs with us.”

      Reaching across the table, she pulled her son’s head toward her, kissing him on the crown. “Sorry, munchkin. No dogs for us.”

      Dogs were for families with a mother and father and two-point-five children who lived in houses with white picket fences. Not for single moms who worked double shifts and often smelled like grilled hamburger meat at the end of the day.

      * * *

      Nick stacked the last of the kindling under the lean-to and grabbed his jacket.

      “Come on, Rags. Let’s see what kind of table scraps Ms. Alisa has come up with.” Maybe there’d be a few scraps suitable for a hungry man too, he mused, his stomach growling.

      He knocked once on the kitchen door but stopped when he heard a woman inside yelling. Not Alisa’s voice. Someone older. And far angrier.

      “What you mean, you can’t come ’til tomorrow? We got two hundred people coming tonight. I’m not going to—” After a moment of silence, the woman ran off a string of words that Nick couldn’t understand but guessed were an expression of her frustration.

      He took a step back from the kitchen door. “I think we ought to wait a while for those scraps, buddy.” But before he could get away, the door flew open.

      An older woman, her cheeks flushed with anger appeared, her eyes burning with fury. “What do you want?”

      “It’s okay, ma’am. Just wanted you to know the kindling—”

      “You know anything about fixing a dishwasher?”

      The abrupt question stopped him. He blinked. Beyond the woman he could see the shine of stainless steel prep tables and refrigerators. He caught the scent of garlic, onions and paprika. Heard the clatter of pans and sizzle of meat on a grill.

      Sweat formed on his brow and dripped down his neck. His breathing became labored.

      Automatically, he dug his hand into his pocket and began to rhythmically squeeze the rubber ball the prison chaplain had given him. It was supposed to relax and distract him. Don’t lose it. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Think of something else. They’re only memories. It isn’t happening now.

      “Mister, I’ve got a busted dishwasher that’s full of dirty dishes. If I don’t get it fixed in a hurry, we’re going to be hand washing every single dish in the place. Now...” She put her fist on her hip in much the same way as Alisa had earlier. “You know anything about fixing machines or don’t you?”

      “I, ah...” He did have some idea. And he sympathized with the woman’s problem. But fixing the dishwasher would mean going inside the kitchen. Being surrounded by reflections that flashed and sparked off the stainless steel equipment, bringing back memories he struggled to forget. Images he couldn’t ignore. Afghanistan. An attack on his outpost. A shiny kitchen turned into a bloodbath. His crew dead or dying.

      He clenched his teeth. Squeezed the ball harder. Don’t think about it.

      Alisa, the blonde who’d been chopping kindling slipped up behind the older woman. “What’s going on, Mama?”

      “The dishwasher is busted. I called Samson. He can’t come ’til tomorrow.”

      A frown etched Alisa’s forehead, matching her mother’s. “Guess we’ll just have to make-do somehow.”

      Helplessly, Mama threw up her hands. “It must be God’s will.”

      “I can try to fix it.” Nick didn’t know why he’d spoken. Maybe it was the mention of God. Or the thought that the Lord had brought him here for a reason. To fix a dishwasher? He nearly choked on how ridiculous that sounded.

      Mother and daughter both gaped at him.

      “You know how to fix a dishwasher?” Doubt deepened the grooves in Alisa’s forehead.

      “I’ve fixed a few. No guarantees.”

      “Come on inside, young man.” Mama opened the door wider. “Give it a try. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

      He signaled Rags to stay. Using every ounce of courage he had, Nick crossed the threshold into the shining bright world of a commercial kitchen.

      Blackness oozed in around the corners of his mind. The scream of bullets and crying men assaulted his ears. He fought to keep them at bay.

      This was the world that had once been his to command. A place where he’d felt at home as the top chef.

      After Afghanistan, would that ever be true again?

      Chapter Two

      Nick gritted his teeth.

      He could do this. All he had to do was keep focused on the present. The mission. Find the dishwasher. Figure out what was wrong. And fix it. Plus keep his eyes averted from shiny surfaces that inevitably awakened horrific memories.

      He forced himself to remember his mother’s kitchen. The smell of oregano and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. The laughter they’d shared when she taught him how to make fresh pasta. The good times before she got sick.

      Alisa’s mother marched ahead of him. He watched her feet, her black leather granny shoes treading on the spotless, blue-gray, antiskid tile floor. A well-kept kitchen. A-rated and ready to pass muster with the toughest health inspector.

      She stopped so abruptly, Nick almost ran into her.

      “This is the creature that has decided to plague me.” She slapped her palm on the side of the upright stainless steel dishwasher. Clearly an older model, probably prone to problems.

      Nick used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the sweat from his brow and squinted to minimize reflections. “What’s wrong with it?”

      “She won’t start. Hector, he pushes the button. Nothing happens.” She thumbed toward the fry cook working at his station, a small guy who looked young enough to be a new enlistee. “I push the button. Nothing happens.” The rhythm of her voice spoke of foreign roots.

      The washer not starting meant the problem could be anything from being unplugged to a motor that had burned out.

      Frowning, he looked along the back of the machine. “Do you have a flashlight?”

      Almost instantly, Alisa thrust a heavy-duty flashlight toward him. “Here. I thought you might need one. We lose power pretty often in the СКАЧАТЬ