Page 2 of Nixon’s Promise

“Not by choice. She’s a cantankerous bitch. But her owner was moving to Florida and I couldn’t say no. And with Sally came Goat. They stick together and roam so she’s not a problem until I need to argue with her to get her in the barn.”

He was looking at me like I was a puzzle that needed to be solved. Or maybe he was thinking I was a crazy woman who had a feral pony and he was regretting stopping to help. The way he’d taken a giant step back from me after he’d tossed in the dog food, I was betting it was the latter.

“So, you gonna need help?” He went back to his original question—obviously done with standing out in the heat in the parking lot of Southern States Feed Store.

“No thanks. I’ll get Zack to help me.”

“Right.” His smile dimmed a fraction and he dipped his head like he was a gentlemanly cowboy.

But he wasn’t. We didn’t have cowboys on the Eastern Shore, we had Farm Boys. And he looked every bit the part. Dirty jeans, plain black tee, baseball cap, right down to his work boots. Ones that were used for working, not for style. Even though they were kick ass and he was rockin’ the whole look.

“McKenna, it was a pleasure. See ya around.”

“Yeah, see ya. And thanks again.”

With a lift of his chin he was gone.

I’d survived my first Nixon Swagger sighting.

I wondered if I should report the encounter to the local townspeople and mark myself as safe. According to some people, I’d taken my life into my hands just by talking to him, further supporting my views on rumors.

Total. Bullshit.

He seemed perfectly pleasant to me. Not to mention, he had to have been the second hottest man I’d ever seen. Second only to Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Even if you don’t like Tom’s chiseled good looks, he still looked mighty fine in his flight suit and aviators.

Nixon Swagger looked better.

Way better.

He filled out his tee to maximum capacity. It was a wonder how the seams hadn’t split trying to accommodate his biceps. Not to mention, after a thorough inspection of his rear end, he more than filled out his Levi’s.

Yes, indeed, I survived the great Nixon Swagger sighting.

2

Nixon Swagger thought coming home was what he needed.

Twelve years serving his country was a long time. It wasn’t the amount of days he’d served that had taken a toll. It was what he’d seen and done that weighed heavy. It was what he’d lost that weighed heavier.

The weight that had bared down on him to near-crushing levels lifted when he’d crossed over the Bay Bridge. By the time he’d made it east to the Kent-Narrows Bridge, he could breathe. And when he’d passed over the Chester River Bridge, he’d felt free.

He was home.

The problem now was, he was home.

Cliff City was a small town. Population five-thousand. Four elementary schools, two middle schools, and one county high school. There had been two-hundred students in his graduating class, most he’d gone to school with from kindergarten on.

He knew everyone and everyone knew him. And the people who didn’t know him still did—by rumor, tall tale, or straight bullshit. He’d forgotten that part, how fast shit spread. And most of it was pure shit and lies.

It wasn’t like people tried to hide it. He heard them. Acme, Tractor Supply, Southern States, Nixon couldn’t go anywhere without someone giving him the side-eye or trying to pump him for information. The men mostly gave him a wide berth, the women thought they’d give it a go. You know, be the one who could tame his war-torn soul.

That was never going to happen. He’d need more than a soft hand and a roll in the sheets to wipe his memory and guilt clean.

So the new issue was he was home, and he’d forgotten people couldn’t mind their own business. When he was a kid, he was used to it. The man he’d become, the trained killer who was now used to living in the dark, under the veil of secrecy, hated it.

Nix had come home for a variety of reasons. One being he’d needed to sort his life. He couldn’t think of a better place to figure out his next move as he transitioned into civilian life than on the farm he grown up on. Long hard days working did the body good. The mind, too. He couldn’t sit back and dwell on all the ways he’d fucked up his last mission when at the end of the day, he was too tired to do anything but fall into bed. Since moving back, he’d traded whiskey for hard work. His liver was thanking him even if his body was begging for a reprieve.

The other was his father had died while he was still in the Navy. Nixon’s wife—who had no business being a Navy wife—had already divorced him, and he’d severed all contact from anyone back home. That hadn’t been on purpose, but time and circumstance had a way of cutting ties. Even ones you thought would hold fast. So being as Nix didn’t have anyone in Kent County he could count on, he’d done the best he could with the land, equipment, and farmhouse his dad had left him.