The Wanderer. Робин Карр

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      He shot a note off to his sister Rochelle and told her this was a pretty cool place, in fact. He had no idea what to do with it, though. Dry camping in the fifth wheel was not exactly convenient—he had to find a trailer park, dump the lav and reload potable water every few days. But he could at least run off the bar’s power and not his battery. He hadn’t told anyone in his family the extent to which he was tied to all this—he didn’t want any advice. His family, especially his sisters, was very good at telling him what he should do.

      He saw the dog again, but not with the girl this time. A young man or boy was with him, throwing a ball for the dog as he walked. Husband? he wondered.

      Then he saw the guy trying to give the kids on the beach a wide berth, walking all the way down to the surf to get by them without contact. The guys, six of them, two in wet suits, made a line across his path. The dog walker went the other way, headed inland for the hill, calling the dog to follow. The teenage boys reversed their position, blocking him again. The dog, half as big as a human, cowered behind his master.

      Cooper, who had been in way too much trouble for fighting when he was younger, could see the fight brewing. He knew what was coming, and it was six on one. Then the guy who must be the ringleader shoved the loner. The loner stood taller; his shoulders widened a little, ready. The ringleader was seriously talking him down, leaning into him, verbally assaulting him. Then he shoved him again and the loner put his fists up.

      “Not gonna happen, assholes,” Cooper said aloud to no one. He put down the laptop. Then he stood, put two fingers in his mouth and rent the air with a deafening whistle.

      They all turned to see him standing on the deck of the now-defunct bait shop. His legs were braced apart, hands on his hips, and he watched. He hated bullies. He was ready to leap over the deck rail and barrel down to the beach to stand up for this guy, even though the guy, the loner, might be the problem. It didn’t matter if the loner had done something terrible, you don’t do that—you don’t attack someone in a fight that isn’t fair and balanced.

      The teens watched him; he watched the teens.

      Then the barricade wisely separated and the loner passed, headed for Cooper’s dock.

      He wasn’t headed for Cooper. He went to the bottom of the steps that led up to the bar and sat. From there he threw the ball for the dog. Cooper let this go for about five minutes, then he descended to meet the guy. A very cranky-looking teenager looked up at him and said, “Thanks for that. I guess.”

      “You guess? Would you rather I just watch them beat you up?”

      “They probably wouldn’t have.” He looked back down to accept the Great Dane’s ball and throw it again.

      “Probably wouldn’t have?” Cooper asked.

      The kid shrugged.

      “Have a little disagreement with your friends?”

      The kid looked up and laughed. “Dude, they are not my friends!”

      “Who are they, then?”

      “Teammates. And that’s all.”

      Cooper took another two steps down and sat on a step even with the kid. “You throw the last game or something?”

      The kid gave him a very impatient look. He held on to the ball, all slimy with dog spit. The dog sat and panted happily, full of expectation. “You wouldn’t understand,” the kid said, finally throwing the ball.

      “Wanna try me?”

      The kid shot him an angry look. All defensive, hurt, full of impotent rage, and Cooper thought, Holy shit—that’s me! About twenty years ago or so...

      “I’m the new kid,” he said. “Just moved here. Just in time for football, which was my fatal mistake. I wasn’t supposed to get on the team, much less make touchdowns. The asshole on the beach, he’s a senior. Team captain. He was counting on three things this year—being all-conference, being homecoming king and getting laid by every cheerleader in Coos County.”

      Cooper had a strange reaction to that. First of all, being the new kid felt all too familiar to him. Getting in fights, though long ago, was fiercely memorable. Homecoming king—not Cooper! And cheerleaders? When he was in high school, he hadn’t been lucky enough to even date one, let alone anything more. He thought about Mac’s daughter, whom he’d met when he’d had dinner with the McCains a few nights ago. Eve was a lovely, virginal, delightful sixteen-year-old cheerleader who no one should be allowed to touch. Just to be ornery, he asked, “How many of those things are you going to rack up?”

      The kid looked at him incredulously. “Seriously? Like I could ever get all-conference or get a date. Come on.”

      “The kid who shoved you—who is he?”

      A bitter laugh. “Jag Morrison. Crown prince of Thunder Point. And yes, that’s short for Jaguar, if you can believe anyone would name their kid that.”

      “Shew,” Cooper said, shaking his head.

      “Yeah.”

      Cooper let that settle a little bit. Obviously there was some very bad blood there. It could be about anything—about this kid being a better ball player, about a girl, about anything. Finally Cooper asked, “Your dog have a name, kid?”

      He laughed without humor. “Are you ready for it? Hamlet. It’s Danish.”

      “You could use a tougher dog.”

      “Tell me about it,” he said.

      “How about you? Name?”

      “How about you?” he shot back.

      “Sorry,” he said, putting out his hand. “Hank Cooper. People just call me Cooper.”

      The kid relaxed a little. “Landon Dupre.” He shot a glance at the teenagers on the beach, who were not going anywhere. It occurred to Cooper that they were looking for a second chance at bullying and intimidating Landon.

      “Nice to meet you, Landon. So, what do your parents have to say about this new-kid issue you’ve got going on?”

      “I don’t have parents.”

      “Ah. So who do you report to?”

      “Report to?” he mimicked with a mean laugh. “Gimme a break.”

      “Look, I’m trying to figure out, in the nicest possible way, if your parents back you up, if you’re a street urchin, in foster care or just plain contrary.”

      “I live with my sister,” he said. His voice dropped, as did his chin. It was either a measure of respect or misery.

      “Ah, the girl in the red slicker.”

      Landon looked up at him. “You know her?”

      “I know the dog—she’s had him out on the beach a couple of times. He’s hard to miss, big as a horse.”

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