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Sliding in, Boone started the truck and headed for home.
As he drove down the winding road back to the farm, he took a moment to admire the leaves and all the colors. He had to admit that he loved fall in Vermont. He turned onto his gravel driveway.
Beyond the drive there lay rolling, green fields, and patches of thick trees. He pulled up in front of the cabin.
There was a larger building farther down the driveway. He’d boarded up most of the windows to keep the critters out. The main house was too big for him, and needed a lot of renovation—new plumbing and electrical, to start. His uncle had never bothered with it after he’d bought the farm.
Boone climbed out and grabbed his shopping bag. Atlas leaped down and headed for the smaller groundskeeper’s cabin. It was a one-bedroom, cozier and a lot more rustic. It had been Uncle Ben’s place and now it was perfect for Boone. The structure also had a small loft that had once been where Boone had slept as a kid. Now, it was where he stored his books, but Atlas had also claimed it. His dog bed—that he didn’t always use—dominated the space.
Boone passed the woodpile, eyeing his axe stuck in a log. Soon, he’d be lighting fires every night. He had plenty of logs split, but he always prepared extra, just in case.
Look at you. Farm, dog, firewood. You came home to your cozy farm, but the others didn’t. Miles, Charlie, Julio. They had kids, wives, families.
You have nothing.
You should’ve died, not them.
The muscles in his jaw tightened. That ugly voice always whispered to him. Intruding when he least expected it.
Dragging in a deep breath, Boone opened the cabin door. He dropped the groceries in the kitchen and put the milk in the fridge.
The walls seemed to close in.
He’d just had a job in Louisiana recently, working personal protection for a wealthy businessman. He hadn’t planned another one, but maybe he should.
“Fuck.” He stomped out of the cabin. He had to get out.
Outside, the air was cool and fresh, and his pulse settled a little. He used the breathing techniques that he’d learned to calm himself down.
Scraping a hand through his hair, he whistled, and Atlas appeared. Like his dog knew, Atlas brushed against Boone’s leg.
“There are a few hours of light left.” He gave the dog’s head a scratch. “How about we go fishing?”
Atlas gave a low woof.
Boone grabbed his fishing gear from the mudroom and headed for the river.
CHAPTERTWO
Boone tossed his line in the river and breathed deeply.
He smelled water and trees and could feel himself relaxing. Even as a grieving boy, he’d loved Vermont. His uncle hadn’t known what to do with a sad, angry twelve-year-old boy, but he’d had land where Boone could run wild.
When his uncle had died of cancer a few years back, he’d left the farm to Boone.
It had given him a place to come home to after he’d left the military.
Nearby, Atlas was exploring the edge of the river, where the water gurgled over rocks. Then the dog lifted his head, his gaze zeroed in on the nearby bushes.
Boone fought a smile. Atlas loved chasing squirrels.
The fish didn’t seem interested in biting this afternoon, but he didn’t care. Just being outside, doing something, helped him stay level. It wasn’t many people’s idea of a fun Friday night, but it suited him just fine.
He might grill this evening. Atlas loved a juicy steak.
Suddenly, he saw Atlas go on alert.
Frowning, Boone watched the dog as he walked right to the edge of the water.
