“Maybe you were in the military. The way you handled yourself tonight, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Maybe.”
“I could ask Jimbo down at the station to do me a favor and run your prints.”
Mack stilled.
“Or not,” Jethro said. “Sometimes a man needs a fresh start.”
Is that what he needed?
“I’ll think about it,” Mack said. “I was thinking I probably don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Jethro’s mouth tightened, as if he might be deciding whether to disagree.
But if he was a criminal, the last thing Mack wanted was to bring trouble into Jethro’s and Raven’s lives. So, yeah, hitting the road might be exactly what he should do.
But not tonight. “Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
“The Harvest Festival is coming up in a couple weeks and I need to order for it…”
“I can help you figure it out if you want—in the morning. Go home and get some shut-eye.”
Jethro considered him, then nodded. “Okay. Probably be good for someone to know how to run the place if I go down.”
Oh. Um. That wasn’t… “I think Raven’s a better choice…”
“Oh, Raven. I know she thinks she’s helping me—and she is. She’s a joy in my life. But she has school to finish and dreams to follow. She can’t stay here waiting bar and tables for the rest of her life.” He slid his glasses back up. “And don’t you start making her fall in love with you or she’ll never leave.”
Mack’s eyes widened. “I’m not—she’s—I mean, she’s fantastic and beautiful and—”
“Aw, breathe, son, I’m kidding. I know you’re not a player. Clearly you’re either blind to all the women who make passes at you every night or you’re not interested. But should you decide to get interested, well…I’m not saying you need to go to therapy, but at some point, you need to wrestle with who you are, and I just want you to be clear of that before…aw, it’s probably too late after tonight…”
He probably didn’t mean it as a slap, his voice gentle. But Mack drew in a breath.
“I respect your daughter, Jethro. I promise to…well, I agree. I’d love to fall for a girl like her. But frankly, she probably needs a better man than a drifter who doesn’t know his own name. And someone who isn’t sticking around.” There, he said it, despite the burr it stuck in his chest.
Jethro let out a long breath. He didn’t have to nod.
“See you in the morrow, boss.” Mack headed upstairs to the one-bedroom apartment, the conversation stirring inside him.
Sometimes a man needs a fresh start…
It’s probably too late after tonight.
I hope you’ll stay…
The apartment was sparse, with brick walls, a soaring ceiling with exposed pipes, and a cement floor. Furnished with a futon sofa, an old table and two chairs, and a bookcase, Ace had lived here the year before he’d left for the military. He’d left behind a couple Star Wars paperbacks, his Nintendo machine, and an ancient television.
The bedroom had no windows, but the main area overlooked the lake, the stars sprinkling it with glitter. Mack cracked the window, letting in the cool autumn air. He liked this little town, with its wineries, festivals, farmers markets, and relaxed lifestyle.
Regardless of who he’d been in the past, the small town hearkened to a place inside him now. No, not a terrible place to lose his past and reinvent himself.
Call home.
But how could he live with not knowing who he was?
He took a shower, sloughing off the night’s craziness, and when he crawled into bed, the light on the bedside clock read after 2:00 a.m.
Mack fell hard into slumber, and the dreams found him again.
On a train. Red vinyl seats, the clank of the tracks familiar.
He sat with a woman. Dark hair, blue eyes. Pretty, and he knew her.
He just couldn’t remember her.
She got up and walked out of the compartment, and he followed her.
Down the hallway and out into the area between cars. She stood in the darkness, her hair blowing in the wind, the pine scenting the air, smiling at him.
Yeah, he knew her. And in his dream, he loved her, heat stirring in him as he reached for her.
She morphed right in his arms into a man. Someone he also recognized but couldn’t name—blond—and he held a knife.
Mack grappled with the man, his blood pumping in his ears, grunting as he grabbed for his wrist.
He missed. The knife slashed his side, and he groaned, his voice dislodging him from his dream.
He fell back into it, however, just as the man’s fist came at his head.
Then the man was flying off the train, falling into the free, down and down and—
Smoke.
Mack sat up, the smell slight enough for him to wonder if it might be part of his nightmare. Sweat slicked his body, his heartbeat thundering.
Definitely smoke. He threw off the thin sheet and headed toward the main room.
Orange light flickered, a reflection in the window, and he looked out. Nothing lakeside—wait—
Fire. Coming from the patio area, the blaze reflecting off the buildings, back into his loft.
What—? He grabbed his shoes, a T-shirt, and pulled on his jeans, buttoning them as he went down the stairs.
Stopped.
The fire had engulfed the office area.
Turning, he headed back upstairs to his fire escape.
He pulled the ladder down from the ceiling, climbed it and accessed the roof panel.
Landing on the roof, he ran over to the edge to get a good look at the fire. Smoke billowed up from the patio and the back entrance and had worked its way into the building.
The fire stairs latticed the back of the building and Mack scampered down, kicking the last section free. The flames bit at him as he jumped the last six feet.
He backed away from the building, the flames licking up to the second floor.
The sprinklers hadn’t cut on. Which meant that maybe the fire department hadn’t been notified. He was scanning through his options when he spotted—oh no, Jethro’s truck.
Mack stared at the entrance, now overcome with smoke and fire. No—no—
Mack took off, cutting through the alleyway and emerging to the front entrance.
The flames engulfed the side of the building, smoke blackening the inside.
Sirens blared—maybe the fire alarm finally kicked in, but it did nothing to dent the smoke.
“Jethro!” The man wasn’t standing on the street and Mack knew—just knew—that he’d fallen asleep on that ratty, flammable sofa.
He picked up a boulder from the landscaping in the front and hurtled it through the door. Glass shattered, and he used another rock to slap out the biggest pieces.
Smoke gusted out, the fire rolling along the ceiling with the influx of oxygen.
He gulped a breath, ignored the sirens blaring in the back of his head—and on the street—and launched into the darkness.
His memory led him through the room, dodging tables and chairs as he stumbled toward the back.
The heat blistered his skin, watered his eyes, and when he reached the bar, he crouched behind it, reaching up to run the water. It splashed hard into the sink, and he grabbed a bar towel and wet it, throwing it over his head.