A Summer to Remember (4 page)

Never had been.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Dillon had driven to one of a hundred small towns where he'd spent time. This one was in South Dakota, a dusty little place that kept itself running on hope and sheer will. In the four years he'd been gone, the high school had shut down; so had three of its five restaurants, all but one of the doctors' offices, and the tiny hospital. The motel on the edge of the town was the only one in the entire county, and it was about as beat-up and run-down as Dillon.

The day was still, the sky faded, nothing on the move besides him and a few birds circling overhead. Swiping at the sweat on his forehead, Dillon figured the only thing that could make the scene any more perfect for him was if the birds were vultures instead of common swallows.

His boots thudded on the sidewalk as he passed a Baptist church, then a mom-and-pop diner that made pancakes as fluffy and buttery as his grandmother's had been. Across fifteen feet of empty lot was the next building, two stories built of stone and weathered by wind and rain. The big windows were painted black, forming a backdrop for the childish red scrawl that read
BB's Bar
. There was no place in this town for fancy or trendy; BB's was a solid building with tables, chairs, a scarred floor, a long bar scavenged from barn wood, beer on tap, and cheap strong liquor.

He stepped inside, gave his vision a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, then headed for the bar at the back. To the right was a flight of stairs that led to the apartment on the second floor, stairs he'd climbed a thousand times when his shift behind the bar was done. It had been a part-time job, paid with free rent. His living money had come from his work at the grain elevator just north of town.

The place looked empty, but he knew he'd find BB kicked back in a shabby recliner behind the bar. Times were rare when the old man could afford help, so he made himself comfortable with the chair, a TV, and a microwave where he could heat frozen meals for himself. He'd never been married, he used to say, but he'd consider giving up bachelorhood for a woman who could cook. Apparently, no one had ever taken his offer seriously.

When Dillon stopped at the end of the bar, BB looked up, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. No surprise crossed his face, nothing but recognition. “Dillon Smith.” His voice was raspy and loud. The worse his hearing got, Tina had teased, the louder he talked.

An ache stirred deep inside, but Dillon had gotten pretty good over the years at ignoring it. Never a day went by that he didn't think about Tina, but if he let himself hurt every time, he'd have no reason to keep on living. And he did have a reason.

“In the flesh,” he replied, and his own voice sounded pretty damn raspy.

“You looking for work?”

“Not right now. I hired on with my brother down in Oklahoma.”

“Didn't know you had a brother.”

“Got two.” It was one of the things he'd liked about living away from his hometown. No one ever had to look at him twice before making a stab at what name to call him. He'd been mistaken for Dalton his whole life in Tallgrass, by their parents, their friends, even their girlfriends. Hell, Noah had been so young when Dillon left home that he never had known which was which. But in those hundred small towns, no one had known Dalton Smith existed. No one had held him up as an example of what Dillon should be.

The old man gestured to the cooler, a silent invite for Dillon to help himself to a cold one, before asking, “What brings you back to Dullsville?”

Dillon circled the bar and opened the cooler, feeling the chill radiating from the bottles. He pulled out a long-neck, popped the top, then went to sit on a lawn chair next to the TV. It was older than he was, made of aluminum, the seat formed by strips of nylon webbing. It sagged and shifted under his weight, but today wasn't its day to collapse. “I'm looking for someone.”

BB finished off the pizza slice, licked his fingers, and wiped them on a paper towel, all the while studying Dillon intently. He swallowed a gulp of Pepsi—he'd run the bar his whole life and never had so much as a taste of the product he sold—then belched. “You know Tina's gone.”

Gone and buried. Dillon had gotten that news just before the start of his trial, when the district attorney had upgraded the charges against him to manslaughter. But for all practical purposes, she'd been gone the moment her head had cracked against the windshield. Brain-dead, and it had been his fault. He supposed the end had been a mercy for her family—no more vigils, no more prayers, no more hopes. It would have been damn easier for him if she'd continued to live, even in that state. Less guilt and sorrow and blame and hatred. But it hadn't been about him, had it?

He forced his voice through tight vocal cords. “Her family used to live over in Granite. They moved a year or two back. Either no one knows where they went…”

“Or they're just not telling you.”

Dillon took his first chug of beer, savoring the sharp flavor, the iciness sliding down his throat. “You ever hear where they went?”

BB took a long breath, then blew it out through his nose. “Heard it was to North Dakota. Some little town in the middle of nowhere.” His laugh scraped like sandpaper. “Also heard they went to stay with family in Wyoming. Nobody's said nothing about them in a long time. I might could ask around for you. You got a phone number down there in Oklahoma where I could get in touch with you?”

Dillon heaved himself out of the chair and got a note pad and an ink pen, right in the same place they'd always been, and scrawled his name and number on the top sheet. He'd bet not a single thing in the entire bar had been rearranged since he'd left. If he wanted to tend bar tonight, he wouldn't need even a glance to familiarize himself. Memory would guide him.

“You gonna spend the night?” BB asked.

He'd thought he would. He'd brought a couple changes of clothes, a toothbrush, the charger for his cell phone. He'd thought he might drive to a couple other towns in the area and ask around—the Hunter family had been pretty well known throughout the county—but now that he was here, he didn't see the point. He'd figured out without BB's help that people didn't want to talk to him about Tina's family. Even the ones who didn't remember him hadn't been willing to share information about one of their own with a stranger.

BB was a different story. He'd known Tina, her mother and father, her sister—hell, her aunts, uncles, and grandparents. No one would question his curiosity; no one would think twice about giving him answers. Unless they connected him with Dillon.

And South Dakota, with all its memories, was no damn place for him.

“Nah, I don't think so. It's a long drive.” He'd left hours before dawn, hit the interstate, and driven through Kansas, Nebraska, and half of South Dakota. It would be an even longer drive back because he was tired and just being here had stirred feelings he didn't often let get stirred.

BB nodded. “Anybody that don't come in tonight will be at church tomorrow. I'll let you know if I find out anything.”

“Thanks.” Dillon handed him the paper with his phone number, hesitated, then extended his hand. When the old man took it, the tension in Dillon's gut uncoiled a little bit. “Thanks a lot, BB.”

Elliot couldn't recall the last time it had taken him so long to buy groceries, and for one meal, no less. He'd wandered the aisles and wished for the days at home when he could walk into the garden out back to pick whatever produce he needed, open up the extra freezer in the pantry and take out whatever recently butchered meat he wanted, and make the rest from scratch. That was ten long years ago in a life that hadn't turned out quite the way he'd envisioned.

But that was okay. Sure, he'd like to have more money; extra cash was always nice. He was more than ready for a steady job, to prove his worth to himself if no one else, but that would come someday, when the time and the place were right. He loved his nieces and nephew and envied Emily the whole family experience, but he had a lot of years left. Maybe. If there was one thing war had taught him, it was that life was fragile. Scott Thomas was proof of that.

He arrived at Fia's house a few minutes before six, wearing jeans, boots, and a white button-down. He'd shaved before coming, and his hair was pulled back with an elastic band. For good measure, he was wearing the straw Stetson he kept handy in the backseat of the truck with a nicer dark brown felt one, and a championship bull-riding buckle he'd won when he was in high school. Hey, if ladies loved a cowboy, he was more than happy to take advantage of it.

Juggling shopping bags, he climbed the steps and rang the doorbell with his elbow. At his feet, Mouse tilted her head back to sniff the bag containing the meat. She licked her lips with anticipation.

Elliot could have done the same when Fia opened the door if his mama hadn't taught him better. She stood there in cutoffs that might have started at a modest length but now reached high on her long, lean thighs and nestled an inch or two beneath her belly button. Her shirt was like his if he only looked at them in broad strokes: both white, both long-sleeved, both buttoned. But where his was utilitarian and provided full coverage, hers was thin and light and shifted when she did, following the natural curves of her waist, her breasts, her biceps and triceps. She wore a little makeup, no shoes, and the only fragrance he smelled was bath soap or shampoo, and damn, it was enough to make his gut tie itself into knots.

“I like a man on time.”

“I like a barefoot woman.” He stepped inside and turned toward the kitchen before stopping. “I forgot to ask if Mouse could come. I didn't want to leave her alone in a strange place.” Not that he had any place besides the truck to leave her. Like the last four or five nights, he'd slept in the truck, parked in the dark corner of a quiet parking lot. It had actually been pretty peaceful, with Mouse curled in the front seat snoring and the rain hitting the roof most of the night. This morning he'd driven to a truck stop on the west side of town for breakfast and a shower. He'd had worse accommodations, even before he'd joined the Army.

Fia slid the leash off his wrist, then bent to unhook it. “Of course she's welcome. I don't have any pets who might say otherwise.” She scratched Mouse's ears and under her chin, and Elliot watched. Well, more accurately, he watched the way the faded denim stretched over her butt and how the muscles in the backs of her thighs and calves flexed. He'd said it before, and he would say it again: Lord, he loved women.

When she cleared her throat, he started, his face warming at being caught staring. He grinned big for her, then carried the bags to the kitchen counter. As he began unpacking them, she pulled a stool to the bar and slid onto it, her fingers moving to the stem of a half-filled wineglass. “Would you like something to drink? I have tea”—she raised the glass, clinking the ice cubes in it—“and there's milk and a couple cans of pop in there somewhere.” Her thin shoulders shrugged. “Sorry, no booze.”

She started to rise, and he waved her back. “I'll get it in a minute.” That was the second time she'd apologized about alcohol. He appreciated a cold beer in the right setting and, of course, a good wine paired with the right food, but he'd never seen the point in criticizing anyone for their beverage choices unless they were overdoing it. Fia not drinking beer was no more important, and no more his business, than him not eating cauliflower.

“I decided to start out simple with hamburgers,” he said before wadding the second plastic bag inside the other and pushing them aside. “Even though we had them last night, I like to think mine are better than the average fast-food place. If you don't have a grill, I can pan-fry them.”

“I do have one. It's been so long since I've used it, though, that we might have to clean out small rodents and such.”

He grinned again. “Hey, rodents don't scare me. I'm tough.” He did his best Hulk impression, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, drawing a laugh from her, then washed his hands before turning his attention to the kitchen. “Glass?”

She gestured toward the cabinet nearest the sink, where he found coffee mugs, tall insulated cups, and on the top shelf, a wineglass that matched the one she held. They were fine-quality crystal, edged with gold, the sort of glasses a couple might get as a wedding gift, maybe even drink their first toast from.

Feeling suddenly clumsy, he picked up an insulated cup decorated with sunglasses instead. “This okay?”

“Whatever you want.”

After filling his glass from a jug of sweet tea in the refrigerator, he found a large bowl and dumped the ground beef into it, added salt and pepper, then pulled out a cutting board.

“You appear to know my kitchen better than I do,” Fia remarked.

“Nah, we just think alike. Everything's in its logical location. Do you cook much?”

“It depends. My friends are incredible cooks who keep my freezer well stocked. And sometimes a peanut butter sandwich is the only thing I need.”

He wondered if that was because cooking for one was a lot more effort than seemed logical. No matter how hard he tried, it just wasn't possible to make a bunch of his favorite recipes without having leftovers. “Peanut butter is one of my major food groups. I like it best with sliced banana and a drizzle of syrup or caramel sauce.”

“Oh, no. Just plain smooth Jif. On a slice of white bread. Folded in half.” She made a
yum
noise, then smiled. “Pure comfort in a sandwich.”

She looked like she'd needed that comfort more in recent months than anyone should. He respected the sacrifices Scott had made, but Fia had had to make them, too. That was the reason Elliot had never looked for a serious relationship in the Army, not when he'd spent all his time in Afghanistan, getting ready to go there, or just coming back. He'd chosen that life for himself. It wouldn't have been right to choose it for someone else.