Pulling out Sophia’s journal, she ran her thumb along the frayed corners.
Yes, she might have started this whole nightmare. But she was going to figure out how to end it.
Without anyone else she loved getting hurt.
I will find you, York.
Please, please be alive.
Monday nights usually didn’t get that rowdy.
Even at Jethro’s, the only tavern in Shelly, a tiny town in the shadow of the Cascade Mountains of Washington State. The tavern-slash-craft brewery located on Main Street saw mostly well-attired locals who came in for their Freaky Fries—crispy steak-cut fries slathered in sour cream and cheese—and a pint of amber beer fresh from the kegs in back.
But on Mondays, the tavern turned into a sports bar, the two giant flat-screens over the bar tuned to Monday Night Football.
And tonight, the Seahawks versus Vikings.
Jethro didn’t have to even ask Mack to stay late after the kitchen closed to make sure none of these jersey-wearing fans got out of line.
Because Mack would do just about anything for his boss.
Mack glanced through the crowd, looking for trouble as he wiped up a puddle and grabbed an empty mug.
Especially since the Vikings were up by a field goal, two minutes left, with Wilson under center. And at least two of the spectators in the crowd were wearing Vikings jerseys.
In the middle of Seahawks country.
That took brass.
He was also keeping his eye on a couple broad-shouldered tough guys bumping against each other at a high top, his instincts nudging him.
Not that Mack had any idea where he’d gotten those instincts. They seemed embedded in his bones, along with the knowledge that should something go south, he probably knew how to handle himself.
Or maybe not, because he’d been pretty worked over when he arrived in Shelly. He didn’t remember much about how he’d gotten here, which was bad enough, but when Jethro Darnell had found Mack huddled under a tree in Riverwalk Park, the wound in his side had already started to pus and burn, infection setting in.
A couple more days and it might have gone septic.
Mack had been shivering, running a fever, but in his gut he knew—just knew—that going to a hospital would be deadly. For someone. Probably him, but…something about hospitals had raked up his defenses.
Jethro had taken him to his pub and sewn up his wound with the steady hand of an Army medic and probably his many years as a bar owner. The cut separated Mack’s flesh along his ribs, nearly into his gut, and combined with the hematoma just above his ear, he looked like he’d survived a plane crash.
Jethro asked him a couple questions which Mack honestly couldn’t answer. Then he’d fed him and let him bunk in the vacant upstairs apartment until he could find his feet again, basically keeping him alive, feeding him, and then employing him.
Giving Mack time to figure out…well, who he was.
A month later he still hadn’t figured it out.
“How’s the game—oh my—” Raven Darnell had come in from the patio area where a fire flickered in the firepit and more spectators sat at high tops watching the outdoor screen. She wore a tight blue-and-silver Seahawks shirt, put her hands on her hips, and stared at the screen over the bar, her mouth a tight line.
He followed her gaze. Third and ten, one minute left.
Yeah, it wasn’t looking so good for the Hawks…
Wilson hiked the ball, dropped back—
Mack winced as Wilson went down, sacked.
He shot a glance at the Vikings fans in the back. One was pumping his fist, shouting in a sea of furious Seahawks.
Down, boy.
“Aw, shoot. There goes another twenty bucks,” Raven said.
Mack grinned and held out his hand. “I don’t know why you keep betting against me.”
“I believe in my Seahawks. That’s what a true fan does…” She slapped a twenty, probably out of her tip stash, into his hand.
Mack liked her. She stood maybe six inches shorter than him, her dark hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, her lips a deep red to match her fingernails, although the paint was chipped on the ends. She played her guitar and sang on open mic nights, her voice a deep, smoky alto, and had dreams of making it big as a country music star.
He had a feeling she was just sticking around to help her old man.
Her brother’s picture, the one in his Army Ranger uniform, hung on the wall behind the bar. Grinning, holding his weapon, the Afghani mountains in the background.
A war hero cut down before his life really started.
No, Raven wasn’t going anywhere, even if she was discovered.
The bar crowd began to close out their tabs, and the next time he looked up, the place was nearly empty.
Even the Vikings fans had left, and he hoped he’d given them a bill. Maybe—shoot.
Mack wasn’t a waiter, that much he knew. He let beers warm on a table, forgot to bring out food under the warmer, and too many times found customers holding out their water glasses as he walked by.
He could pour beers, however, and…
Well, there was that one night about a month ago when he’d spotted a couple college-age guys lurking around the back entrance and decided to stick around as Raven cleaned up.
Raven had let him walk her all the way to her car.
Since then, she’d been ultra-friendly. Started betting on the games with him.
Technically they were still open, so he left the door unlocked but turned off the Open sign.
The night shadows played off the eclectic vibe of the tavern. Tall barrels served as the base to high top tables, beer kegs lined the back wall with copper piping running along the ceiling, and Edison lights hung down like starlight from the painted black ceiling. The floor was original to the warehouse—a work-worn hardwood—and the walls red brick. The bar had been made from scrap copper, the stools handmade by Jethro, simple wood, also painted black.
The man had put his life into this place after he’d lost Ace to the Taliban.
Outside, the fire in the pit had died, the crowd that had been watching the game dispersed. Mack would have to go out there and get the glasses next.
“Hey, tough guy, are you interested in sticking around for the Riverwalk Open Mic tomorrow night?”
Raven stood at the bar, washing by hand the mugs for the mules. She looked up at him.
Something about her stirred a memory inside him, the way she laughed, a feisty edge to her persona. He liked down-to-earth, loyal women.
At least, he thought he did. He picked up a tray and began to clean the tables, piling up glass and copper mugs. “Who’s playing?”
“Besides me? There’s a guy doing a bunch of Neil Diamond covers, I think.”
“Who?”
She looked up at him. “Seriously? You don’t remember Neil Diamond?”
He made a face. “Should I?”
She laughed. “I dunno. Maybe not. He was sort of a big deal in my dad’s era, but you’re definitely too young for that—how old do you think you are?”
He added a plate of half-finished fries to the tray and headed for the back. “I don’t know. Twenty-nine?”
“Oh, dude, you wish.”
His mouth made a tight line, not sure if she was kidding. Probably not. He caught his reflection in the window of the freezer door.
Forty, maybe, given the lines around his eyes. He had blond hair, no gray, but a weird scar along his neck that had given him pause, but it was covered now by his beard. His head injury had finally faded, although the deep bruise still darkened part of his head.