So here he was, several years later, getting bossed around by the big furball. His boots crunched on the gravel as he walked toward the stone building that housed the local general store.
Haven, Vermont was tiny. It had one café, one hardware store, an auto shop, and the general store that sold a little bit of everything. That was about it. The best thing was that there weren’t too many people, and there were no reasons for tourists to venture this way.
It was a pleasant fall afternoon. It wasn’t too cold yet, but the evenings were starting to get chilly. Last night, Atlas had snuck into Boone’s bed. Something the spoiled dog tended to do in winter.
Boone pushed open the door, and a bell rang. The store was filled with shelves. There was a display of some baskets up front by the counter, filled with local produce. This time of year, it was pumpkins and apples.
An older man sauntered out of the back room. “Boone. How ya doing?”
“Good, Frank. Just needed some bread and milk.”
The man nodded.
“Is that Boone? Did he bring my one true love?” A woman bustled out, a frizz of gray curls around her makeup-free face.
“I thought I was your one and only true love,” Frank grumbled.
“Sure, sure.” May patted Frank’s arm absently as she skirted the counter. Her face lit up. “There he is. Atlas. As handsome as ever.”
Boone’s dog bounded over to shamelessly lap up the pats and affection. Boone rolled his eyes and went to grab the things he needed. He set them on the counter as Frank rang them up.
“Boone, I baked some bran muffins today.” May held up a plate. “Want one?”
He didn’t need Frank’s quick head shake—out of view of his wife—as a warning. Boone had already learned that May was a terrible cook. Her baked goods might look okay, but they tasted horrible.
“No, thanks, May. I’m fine.”
“You can’t be watching your figure.” Her gaze scanned Boone’s body. “You haven’t got a lick of fat on you.”
He might’ve left the military, but he still did a few freelance jobs. It meant he had to keep in shape. He ran, worked out, and chopped a lot of wood. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the demons didn’t let him sleep, swinging an axe was the only thing that helped.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” She grabbed a muffin. “Atlas, I bet you’d like a treat.”
Oh, Boone’s dog loved treats, but he wasn’t dumb. He’d learned his lesson as well.
Atlas quickly padded in behind Boone.
Coward. Boone rubbed the top of the dog’s head. “Ah, I fed him a little while ago.” He handed his credit card to Frank.
May huffed out a breath. “No one will humor an old woman.”
Frank grunted. “Everyone wants to keep their teeth and stomach lining intact.”
“Francis Harris.”
Frank circled the counter and slid an arm around his wife. “You have other skills. I didn’t marry you for your cooking.”
May’s wrinkled face softened.
“Which is lucky for you,” Frank continued. “Or you’d be an old spinster.”
May elbowed her husband.
“I’ll see you two later.” Boone grabbed the paper bag and headed out of the store.
He didn’t know many couples like Frank and May, committed for so long. They clearly loved each other, flaws and all. He knew relationships worked for some people, but he figured there had to be a whole hell of a lot of luck involved.
He reached his truck. Relationships weren’t for him. Opening up, trusting, sharing. No, he preferred being alone.
There’d be no one to see the jagged mess of his soul. To wake up with his nightmares. To look at him with confusion and pity.
Learn to like being alone, son. It’s the best advice I can give you.
His uncle’s voice echoed in his head. The old, cantankerous bastard had raised him after Boone’s parents had been killed when he was twelve. Uncle Ben had never married. He’d been a loner, through and through.
Boone whistled for Atlas, who was sniffing around the truck’s tires. The dog leaped inside.
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.
CHAPTER TWO
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.