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Troy
Six months later
* * *
I pull into the small parking lot near the lake, frustration simmering due to the news I learned a short while ago. News that I might’ve missed the chance to buy the house I’d planned to renovate and flip. Flip and donate the proceeds to my best friend’s widow and toddler daughter.
I kill the truck’s engine, climb out, and open the rear door. Butterscotch hops down and bounds over to the grassy bank separating the parking lot from the beach. It’s early evening and my truck is the only vehicle here.
He disappears into the long wild grass that’s dry and bent over from the winter snow that once weighed it down.
I survey the area, something that’s second nature after serving with the Marines. The sloped bank leading to the beach—a potential hiding spot for a sniper. The tangled undergrowth, still bare of leaves and a challenge to vanish behind. Unless you’re skilled at camouflage.
I fill my lungs with the cool, pine-scented mountain air and slowly release it. The crisp pine scent is one of my daily reminders that I’m here in Oregon, and not back in Afghanistan.
The enemy isn’t waiting to ambush me.
I walk along the path that cuts through the grass to the beach. Butterscotch is near the lake, grabbing at a stick half-buried in the sand.
I head toward him. It’s only when I’m on the sand that I notice the woman sitting farther down the beach, her gaze on the water.
She’s wearing jeans and a dark sweater. Her toes are buried in the sand. Her long blond hair blows in the breeze. She attempts to tuck it behind her ears, only for the wind to tug it free again.
I don’t need to see her face to know that I’ve never seen her before. I would remember her hair, and the way the sunlight catches it. She’s probably just a tourist passing through town.
But that doesn’t explain how she got to the beach. She must have driven to a nearby beach and walked here.
I head toward her, curiosity driving me forward. Usually when tourists come to the beach, they aren’t alone. I glance around, but there’s no sign anyone’s with her. “Hey there.”
She startles and scrambles to her feet, turning to face me. Her eyes are wide, and something about her expression makes me think she’s on the verge of bolting.
I raise my hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
She stares at me with anxious eyes. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the dark shadows under them.
Butterscotch walks over to her, moving slowly enough so she can retreat if she feels threatened. There’s a reason Butterscotch makes a great emotional support dog. He reads people’s emotions. He knows when someone is nervous. He also knows when someone needs his type of loving.
The woman’s eyes remain on me, her muscles tense. Shit, what has her so scared?
Butterscotch drops his ass near her feet and gives her a friendly bark.
The woman flicks her gaze to him, then looks back at me. The corner of her mouth is pulled down by a scar that cuts from the corner of her mouth to her jaw. Probably a knife wound.
It’s not an old laceration. The redness suggests the scar is less than a year old.
I take a cautious step forward. “His name is Butterscotch. He volunteers as an emotional support dog at Maple Ridge Veterans Center.”
She crouches and slowly reaches out to him, offering her hand for him to sniff. Butterscotch closes the distance, and she strokes his small body. The tension in her shoulders lessens.
I take another step. When she doesn’t balk, I walk closer. But I don’t push my luck. She doesn’t know me. I could be a psychopath in her mind.
Her clothes swamp her body, as if they’re two sizes too big, but they appear new. There’s something familiar about her that I can’t identify. I don’t mean I recognize her. It’s just something about her, her reactions, that stoke the unease in my gut.
“You’re sweet.” Her voice comes out stiff and rough like she hasn’t used it in a while. She continues stroking Butterscotch. She doesn’t acknowledge me.
“Are you staying in Maple Ridge, or just visiting?” I don’t advance any closer, giving her a chance to soak up Butterscotch’s therapy.
I glance farther down the beach and spot an old-fashioned bike perched in the metal stand. It’s not a mountain bike, nor is it a regular street bike. So she’s probably not a tourist here to make the most of our mountain bike trails.
