Home to Montana. Charlotte Carter
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the wall. “Stay.”
Rags sat. His eyes remained alert, riveted on Nick.
“What was your unit?” Ned flipped on the lights.
Nick shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a coatrack. “Fifth Infantry. Stationed at Kandahar.” Until the army decided to send him to an outlying camp to feed the troops. When al Qaeda overran the camp, Nick got an unplanned flight out to the U.S. hospital in Germany. He was luckier than most of the guys he worked with who went home in a box. Including his best buddy, Hank.
He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily to banish the image of smeared blood across stainless steel kitchen appliances where so many had died.
Ned gestured toward the barber chair. “I’m First Infantry. Served in ’Nam from ’68 to ’70.”
“That was a tough war.”
“They all are.” He placed a cape around Nick’s shoulders and ran a comb through his hair. “So what’ll it be? Trim?”
“The whole shebang, shave and a haircut. I’m helping Mama out at the diner for a week or so as handyman. Figure I ought to at least look respectable when I’m working around the place.” He smiled slightly. Alisa might appreciate a cleaned-up handyman, too, though she was unlikely to admit it.
“If you’re working for Mama Machak, you better toe the line,” Ned commented. “She’s a pretty special lady around Bear Lake. Her daughter, too.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Nick didn’t doubt for a moment that the townspeople would take Mama’s side if a stranger tried to cross her. Maybe that’s what made Bear Lake a good place to live.
Except he wasn’t looking for a place to settle down.
As Ned began working on him, a couple of fellows came into the shop. One began making a pot of coffee without asking. The other gave Rags a couple of pats then picked up the morning newspaper.
“Mitchell there behind the newspaper served in Iraq,” Ned said, snipping at Nick’s hair with his scissors. “The guy with the coffee habit is Ward. He’s a marine, but we let him hang out with us army types anyway.”
Ward shot a look over his shoulder. “Only ’cause you know I could take you out with my hands tied behind my back.”
Mitchell and Ned laughed.
“We got ourselves our own veterans group.” Ned brushed loose hair off Nick’s shoulders. “Nothing formal, you understand. We meet every Wednesday night in my back room. Half a dozen or so, some who are still shaking off the memories of whatever war they were fighting. ’Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan, it’s all the same for us grunts when we come home. If you’re around next Wednesday, come on by.”
Surprised by the invitation, Nick said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He wasn’t sure he’d be in Bear Lake that long, or whether he’d want to sit in with a bunch of vets who probably spent their time complaining about the government.
But the chaplain at the Louisiana State Prison where he’d spent three years for assault in a barroom brawl had put together a cadre of vets. They were like him—still having flashbacks. It had helped to know he wasn’t the only one. But it hadn’t changed anything.
Still, he hadn’t figured out what God’s plan was for him. Or if it had anything to do with coming back to Bear Lake.
A half hour later, Nick left the barbershop. His face felt naked, and he was ready for one of Mama’s hearty breakfasts.
He hated to do it, but knew he had to tie Rags up this time. Mama’s orders. So he secured the leash to a post at the side of the diner and told the dog to stay.
* * *
Alisa grabbed a menu as a stranger walked into the diner. She greeted him with her usual smile. “Good morning. Would you like a table? Or would you rather sit at the counter?” Men alone often wanted to eat at the counter so they could visit with the waitress as she passed by.
“The counter will do.”
Alisa’s mouth dropped open. She knew that voice but not the face. “Nick?” Her voice caught.
He flashed her a set of white teeth. “Early morning visit to the barber.”
“Y...yes, I can see that.” From the third grader she’d known, Nick Carbini had grown into a striking man with a strong jaw, full lips and a classic nose. His beard and shaggy hair had been hiding a man who could cause a woman’s heart to flutter. Well, most women, she supposed. But not her. Absolutely not her.
All business, she gestured toward the counter. “Take your pick.” Walking behind the counter, she placed a menu in front of him. “Coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
She hesitated, staring at him longer than necessary, noting the teasing glint in his incredible eyes, before wheeling around to the get the coffeepot. Now that he’d shaved and had his jet-black hair cut in a way that emphasized the natural waves, he was more dangerous than ever.
What woman wouldn’t be tempted to weave her fingers through his hair?
“Here you go.” She poured a mug of coffee and set it in front of him.
“You work long hours,” he commented. “Through the dinner hour last night and now up for the breakfast shift.”
“We get a pretty big rush until ten o’clock. Then I take a break until it’s time to set up for dinner.”
“Unless you have to chop wood.”
“Well, yes. Things do come up.” After years of serving customers, she suddenly didn’t know what to do with the coffeepot she still held in her hand. She licked her lips. Set the pot down on the counter. “Do you know what you want for breakfast? Or do you need a minute?” She was the one who needed a minute to get her head on straight. Whatever was wrong with her?
“How ’bout a couple of over easy eggs, hash browns and wheat toast?”
“Coming right up.” She returned the coffeepot to the warmer and started to write up Nick’s order. Her pencil poised over the order pad, she stopped. Her mind had gone blank. Totally empty of everything except his eyes and how he’d looked at her. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what he’d ordered.
She gnawed on her lower lip. There was no reason for her to go brain-dead simply because the man had gotten a shave and a haircut.
Her face flamed as she turned to ask him to repeat his order, and that’s when her brain finally shifted back into gear. Over easy eggs, hash browns and wheat toast. She quickly wrote down the order and passed it through to Billy Newton, the morning short-order cook.
Plucking up the coffeepot, she skirted the counter—and Nick—refilling customers’ cups and chatting with the regulars.
A large booth near the kitchen door was permanently reserved for the “old duffers” group, men whom she’d known all of her life and were now retired. They came in to visit and gossip, drinking gallons of coffee and putting together thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles that remained spread out on the table until they were completed.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” She held up the coffeepot, and two of the four men seated at the table slid their mugs toward her for refills. “How’s the world today?”
“State’s talking about widening the back road to Plains to make an alternate route for tourists.” Ezra Cummings was the senior member of the group, still agile and mentally quick at the age of ninety-two.
“Ain’t worth it,” Abe, a retired lumberman, complained. “Ought to save the tax money and send them tourists back where they come from.”
“Don’t send them all back, Abe.” Alisa set the pot down, picked up a piece of the puzzle, studied it a moment then fit it in right where it belonged in the waterfall part of the woodland scene. “Remember