Page 1 of Rangers Last Promise

1

Mara

The last box in my mother’s bedroom has been waiting for me for three weeks.

I’ve packed her clothes, wrapped her porcelain angels in newspaper, and carried enough memories down the stairs to fill the back of my patrol SUV twice. I even cleaned out the bathroom cabinet where she kept every prescription bottle she’d been given since 1998.

But I haven’t touched the cedar chest at the foot of her bed.

It belonged to my grandmother first. Then my mother. As a child, I believed it held priceless treasure because Mom always kept it locked. When I was twelve, I tried picking the lock with one of her sewing needles and received the only spanking she ever gave me.

After my brother died, the chest moved from the hallway into her bedroom.

Mom never opened it again.

At least, not when I was around.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the scratched wooden lid. The house is too quiet without her. No television playing old game shows in the living room. No kettle screaming from the kitchen because she put water on the stove and forgot about it. No voice reminding me that being a deputy is dangerous work for a woman living alone.

She never stopped worrying about losing me after we lost Grant.

I run my thumb over the small brass key I found taped beneath her dresser drawer.

“Okay, Mom,” I whisper. “Let’s see what you didn’t want me to find.”

The lock sticks. I have to turn the key twice before the mechanism gives with a sharp click.

The sound seems unnaturally loud.

I lift the lid.

The scent of cedar and old fabric rises from inside. A folded quilt covers the contents. Beneath it are my grandmother’s wedding dress, a stack of family photographs tied with a blue ribbon, and the baby blanket Mom brought me home from the hospital in.

Nothing dangerous.

Nothing worth hiding.

Then I see the Army-green canvas bag at the bottom.

My heart stops.

I know that bag.

Grant carried it everywhere the summer before he enlisted. He kept climbing ropes in it, extra socks, protein bars, and the small notebook he used to record his running times.

Mom told me the Army had returned his dress uniform and a sealed box of personal belongings after he died. She let me see the uniform once, then packed it away because she couldn’t bear to look at it.

She never mentioned this bag.

I lift it out and set it on the bed. The canvas is faded, and one of the straps has been repaired with black tape. Grant’s last name is written across the side in permanent marker.

ELLIS.

My fingers shake as I unfasten the metal clasp.

I’m twenty-nine years old. I carry a gun for a living. I’ve walked into domestic disputes without backup and chased an armed robbery suspect through three acres of woods.

But opening my dead brother’s bag scares me more than any of those things.