Not just someone.
Hersh.
The boy who had written me letters I never received.
The man who now lives in Eagle River.
The man I was about to ask for protection while lying straight to his face.
“Go to the tavern,” Michael said. “Blaze will keep you safe.”
I swallowed hard and looked toward town.
The Last Stand Tavern waited somewhere ahead.
So did Hersh McDougal.
So did sixteen years of pain I had no idea how to survive.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Then I hung up and drove toward the one man I had spent half my life trying to forget.
3
BLAZE
Something was wrong.
I felt it before I even stepped inside the Last Stand Tavern.
Maybe it was the way the hairs on the back of my neck refused to settle.
Maybe it was the look Trigger gave me the second I walked through the door.
Or maybe it was because I couldn’t stop seeing Felicity standing outside that café pretending she had no idea who I was while her eyes quietly betrayed her every second.
“You look terrible,” Trigger said from behind the bar.
I tossed my truck keys onto the counter. “Appreciate the support.”
“You look like somebody kicked your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Exactly. That’s how bad it is.”
I ignored him and grabbed the coffee pot sitting near the register.
The tavern was quieter than usual for late afternoon.
A couple locals sat near the far wall watching a baseball game. Country music hummed low through the speakers. The familiar scent of burgers, beer, and wood smoke wrapped around me like muscle memory.
Usually, this place settled me.
Today?
Not happening.
