Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ of her blue eyes and her furrowed frown told him she was dubious he could fix anything. He wasn’t all that confident either.

      He checked behind the machine, handed her back the flashlight and grabbed hold of the dishwasher. “I need to move it out from the wall a few inches so I can get a better look.”

      “It’s heavy,” she warned.

      “Yeah, I figured that.” Rocking it side-to-side, he inched the dishwasher far enough forward to get a better look but not so far that he’d mess with the drain or water hoses.

      He took the flashlight again and squeezed up against the wall. The machine was plugged into a power strip along with neighboring equipment. While he couldn’t reach the plug, he had no reason to think it wasn’t providing power. Everything else was working.

      He fussed with the connection at the back of the machine. It seemed solid.

      “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” Alisa asked.

      He glanced over his shoulder. With her blond hair pulled back, she looked younger than she had outside. No blemish marred her fair complexion. “I’ve eliminated the two most obvious reasons it won’t work. Your mother’s electrician would’ve charged her a hundred bucks for doing that. I’m saving her money.”

      “Very thoughtful of you.”

      “I’m that kind of guy.”

      “Glad to hear it.” Her overly friendly smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

      He sensed her distrust and turned back to the machine, opening the door. Racks of dirty dishes were stacked inside. He pressed the latch on the door.

      “Try starting it now,” he requested.

      “The door has to be closed before it will start.”

      “Unless the latch is the problem.”

      “Okay,” she said, still dubious. She punched the start button. The motor hummed and water spewed onto the dirty dishes.

      Nick shut the door and the action came to a stop. He grinned. Good guess, Carbini!

      “How did you do that?” Alisa asked, her eyes wide with surprise.

      Mama scurried across the kitchen. “You got it fixed already?”

      “Not yet, ma’am.” He opened the door again. “Looks like I’m going to need a screwdriver.” Fortunately, the only problem was that the latch had loosened and didn’t make a solid electrical contact. Thus the machine wouldn’t work. It wasn’t the first time Nick had seen that particular problem. The heavy use of equipment in a 24-7 military kitchen meant lots of parts broke. He’d had to learn to keep things going with whatever he could find.

      From somewhere Alisa produced a screwdriver. With a few twists, Nick tightened down the latch.

      He closed the door and stepped back. “Okay, try it again.”

      The motor hummed. The water whooshed.

      Mrs. Machak threw her arms around Nick and kissed both of his cheeks. “You’re a genius! Thank you! Thank you!” She patted his face, which was now hot with embarrassment.

      “It wasn’t that hard to do, ma’am.”

      “You call me Mama. Everyone does. I’m going to bring you a big plate of my special chicken and dumplings. Alisa will show you a nice place to sit out front—”

      “I really can’t—” He figured he looked a mess, his face streaked with sweat from fighting the memories that were reflected in the stainless steel. Even without that, he was pretty dirty from chopping wood and being on the road so long. “My dog’s outside. I was hoping he’d get some table scraps.” He glanced at Alisa.

      She nodded. “I’ll fix Rags a dish.”

      “Thanks. And if you don’t mind, Mama. I appreciate your offer of supper, but I’d just as soon eat on the porch with my dog. Looking the way I do, I think I’d scare off your customers if I ate out front.” Being outside would also get him away from the reflections. Give him some space to breathe again.

      Mama narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “Trust me, we’ve seen worse. But if that’s what you’d like, it’s fine with me.”

      He made his way out the back door and walked halfway into the yard, his leg more painful than usual, before he could draw a comfortable breath of cool, fresh air. He supposed the prison chaplain who counseled him about his post-traumatic stress disorder would say it was a good thing he’d done. He’d gone into a kitchen without having a full panic attack like the one he’d had when they’d assigned him to prison kitchen duty. They’d transferred his work detail to the prison laundry in a hurry.

      Good thing or not, he was still shaking on the inside.

      Rags did a couple of circles around Nick. He knelt and wrapped his arms around the dog. A calming sensation eased his nerves. The tight muscles of his neck and shoulders relaxed. More than one night since he’d found Rags, the dog had awakened Nick before his recurring nightmare had a chance to send him screaming out into the cold. Instead, he’d buried his face in the dog’s fur, holding on while the bloody images faded.

      “Your dinner’s on the way, buddy.” His voice was hoarse, his mouth dry. “Sorry it took me so long.”

      The back door opened. Alisa stood backlighted on the porch with two plates in her hands, her slender figure revealed in silhouette.

      He pushed up to his feet.

      “You really could eat inside,” she said. “We get hikers and fishermen who’ve been out in the wilderness for weeks that look worse than you do.”

      “I’m fine here, thanks.” He took Rags’ plate and put it down at the foot of the steps. “Here you go, buddy.” Tomorrow he’d have to find a grocery store and stock up on dog food. He didn’t usually take handouts, but he had to admit the paprika smell of the chicken was enough to make his mouth water. Rags didn’t have any objection to the chunks of steak on his plate, either.

      “We do appreciate you fixing the dishwasher. I was afraid Mama was going to blow a gasket if we had to do without until our electrician could get here tomorrow.”

      “Glad I could help.”

      Alisa hesitated for a moment before handing him the plate of chicken. “Just bring your dirty plates inside when you’re done.”

      He nodded and watched her walk back into the kitchen. An ache of loneliness rose inside him, and he wished he could follow her into her world. A world that used to be his.

      He’d be a fool on any number of levels if he acted on that impulse. She’d be worse than a fool if she let him.

      He bent over his plate, said a silent grace and dug into the chicken. The mixture of sour cream, paprika and garlic in the sauce slid across his tongue giving his taste buds a treat. He chewed the fork-tender chicken thoughtfully.

      Mama Machak sure knew how to cook.

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