Excerpt

Chapter One

Reed

I stood on the street corner of Main Street and Alexander Avenue in the little mountain town of Whiskey Springs, Colorado and watched tourists crossing the streets like sheep. Families. Young couples. Older couples. A few people walking by themselves.

They followed the rules. For the most part.

Waited at the street corners for the green hand signals giving them the go ahead to cross the street.

The sun was warm on my head, bare except for my short dark brown hair, military haircut, but the breeze coming off the mountains had a chill to it. Even on a hot day in the middle of July, the heat was tempered by a coolness coming off the snowcapped mountains.

I stood in place, like a statue at attention. I wore dark shades over my eyes. It felt odd to be out in public wearing blue jeans, a polo shirt, and white canvas sneakers. All new.

My feet glued to the sidewalk, I let people walk around me. It earned me more than a few curious and even more irritated glances.

The traffic lights turned red and the vehicles took their turn. Bumper to bumper. Tourists driving here and there. Into the national park for the day. Shopping. Some just driving through, out for a drive.

Then there were the locals. In a hurry to get where they were going. Mostly annoyed with the tourists, but most had sense enough not to show it. Without the tourists, the town would dry up into a ghost town.

Music blaring from one of the passing cars was followed by the loud beep of a horn.

It was funny. City people came out here to get away from the city, yet they brought the city with them. The sounds. The crowds. The impatience.

They didn't even realize it.

As the crossing light turned back to green, a couple of teenagers decided to break the rules and take a short cut. Dressed in shorts and brand new bright red Rocky Mountain National Park t-shirts, they headed across the street at a diagonal. Jaywalking.

The cop's shrill whistle stopped everyone in their tracks long enough to see that they weren't the ones in trouble. Everyone except the two teens. They laughed and started running.

My muscles tensed with instinct to go after the two boys. But it was not my job.

Retired.

The word still felt gritty in my mouth.

Retired at thirty-two.

Four years of college—ROTC followed by ten years in the Air Force.

New President. New rules. New orders.

And just like that the military was done with me.

Honorable discharge and all that. Full benefits befitting the officer I was. Had been.

Didn't matter. My plan had been to be career military.

Just like my father.

But my father's purple heart had come posthumously.

I'd always known that no matter how hard I tried, I would never match my father's success. He had been a hero in my eyes.

But I'd always had a chance. As long as I was active military, there had been a chance. Now I was on the street. A civilian.

People walked around me through the next round of lights. More dirty looks.

The policeman stopped the two boys who had the decency to lower their gazes as he handed them a citation.

Good. Law and order at work.

I was a firm believer in law and order.

The boys had to learn early or they would never respect authority.

My father had taught me early and it had served me well.

Tired of getting dirty looks, I turned away from the intersection and ambled, hands in my pockets, down the sidewalk. Hands in the pockets seemed like breaking a rule. I did it intentionally. To try and blend in.

I passed a bookstore displaying the latest bestseller. Not too many people hitting the bookstore today. With all the digital books, I rarely saw anyone holding an actual paper book anymore.

I guess I was the exception. I liked the feel of a book in my hands. The turning of the page. The special bookmark my sister had given me as a Christmas gift. It was faded and tattered now, but I used it anyway.

I kept walking. Today I was not in the market for anything to read. I had a science fiction novel in my overnight bag.

The next shop was a ski shop. Empty. Not much business in the summer for a ski shop. Maybe they sold other things. I didn't stop in to see.

But I stopped at the next door. Considered. Then stepped inside.

Perfect.

It was half café. Half bar. The owner was smart, serving burgers and fries as well as beer and whiskey.

Cool. Dark. Quiet. The television over the bar broadcast a baseball game, but the volume was turned down to barely audible.

There were a dozen tables, half of them booths along the windows. The bar was on the back wall with a full mahogany top worn with age. Lots of dings, but still shiny. A large stone hearth fireplace, tall enough for a man to stand up in, was on the wall to the right.

Not empty, but not crowded.

Half a dozen people sitting here and there. A middle-aged couple sitting at a booth having a hamburger. The other customers sitting at the bar.

"Welcome to Whiskey Springs Saloon," the man behind the bar said. Slightly overweight, he sported a bushy beard and a full-neck tattoo.

"Thanks." I slid onto the nearest bar stool and tucked my shades into my collar. "Can I get a bottle of Mill—?"

The bartender slid a cold bottle of Miller Lite across the worn mahogany bar.

"Lite," I finished my sentence.

Odd coincidence. Maybe everyone ordered a Miller Lite.

"No problem," the bartender said. "Can I get you anything else?"

The bartender had a flat affect. No smile. No emotion. But he sounded friendly enough.

"I'll let you know," I said, lifting my bottle to him and taking a sip. The beer was icy cold. Just the way I liked it. My men had always ribbed me about my aversion to warm beer.

A man liked what he liked.

With a shrug, the bartender slung a white cloth over his shoulder and straightened the already perfectly spaced glasses hanging above the bar. Apparently not all the customers drank beer out of a bottle.

In fact, there was only one other fellow at the other end of the bar drinking beer. The others had glasses of what looked like whiskey.

Refusing to add it to my list of worries, I stretched out my legs and made myself comfortable.

I'd found my way here, presumably to think.

So think I would do.

My parents had brought me and my sister here every summer for a month-long vacation. A three-bedroom cabin on the river. As far as I could remember, it was always the same cabin. They must have had a standing reservation. It had only been one month out of the year, but it was the one constant in my life. We'd moved around a lot during the year as my father was stationed at one base, then another.

But every year we came back to this one little town. Until we didn't.

I was sixteen when it happened. My wounded father was flown to Germany and given the best medical care in the world. But he did not come home.

My mother and her two children stayed in Alabama where Father had left her. And we never returned to Colorado as a family. I had never come back either.

Until today.

A vacation spot should never be the one constant place in a child's life.

But in some odd way, this was home to me.

I ran my fingers along the smooth wood of the bar.

My life could turn now. Go in a completely different direction.

I'd never married or had children because I did not want to subject them to the military life I had grown up in.

But now…

I wasn't sure I was ready to do anything drastic.

I needed time to think.

To just be.

To get my bearings.

I did not have to hurry. The military was taking care of me, financially at least. I guess that was some consolation.

The grandfather clock standing next to the stairs leading to the second floor chimed the hour.