Page 1 of A Veteran's Desire

PROLOGUE

GRANT

The walk from Jake’s Retreat into Hope is ten miles and takes me almost two hours. A slow pace for a former Green Beret, but not bad considering everything I own is on my back.

The mountain is behind me and the town before me, and I chew over my next move and where I should go next. I spent the last decade following orders and being posted where I was needed most. The sudden freedom is hard to get used to.

The steep mountain roads flatten out and widen as I reach the edge of town. I cross a bridge where a river burbles beneath it, and I pause to listen to the water and peer up at the mountain watching down on all of us.

My back aches from the heavy pack, but I ignore it and pull out my phone to check the bus schedule.

There’s a bus to Charlotte at fifteen thirty, and one to Fayetteville at seventeen hundred. I came here straight from Fort Bragg. The memory is still raw of my final posting and the process of leaving with an honorable discharge. I’m in no hurry to go back, so Charlotte it is.

Besides, it will have more transport options. I could head west and look for seasonal work.

Or I could head north and visit Mason’s widow.

Nope. I shut the idea down. I’m not ready for that journey.

From Charlotte, I can catch a Greyhound to take me into farming country, try my luck picking up farm work in Kentucky. Hell, I’m strong enough to pull a plow if they need me to. Not that I need the money. I invested most of my military income and can live off that for a good few years. But work is distraction, and I sure as hell need a distraction.

With a destination decided, I head down the main street of Hope. I’ve got two hours before the bus is due, and I could do with a coffee and a bite to eat.

I grab a chicken sandwich from a deli and eat it on a park bench while staring at the mountain. Funny how something so majestic can make you forget about everything else for a while. I’ve just spent a week with a bunch of veterans hiking, climbing, and remembering what I loved about the outdoors. In our group, there was a guy who’d left one leg behind in Afghanistan. He got up those crags faster than most of the group and had a grin on his face wider than the Hope valley. He must have been an exceptional soldier.

I finish my sandwich and chuck the wrapper in the trash. A little something sweet to follow it would be perfect. Back on the main street, I come across a bakery, Sweet & Strong, with mouthwatering goods on display in the window.

The jangle of the door as I push it open disappears beneath the buzz of conversation. Warm air hits me carrying the smell of coffee and baked goods. Every table is full, townsfolk with ruddy faces talking over one another, hands flying as easy laughter rolls through the room.

The walls are painted a deep blue, and the one beside the door is covered in family photographs. The colors are bright and the smiles unfiltered, captured back when cameras used film and every picture mattered. Some are black and white, includingone grainy portrait of a stern-faced man with a long beard and overalls, sitting rigidly as though he’s been warned not to move until the shutter clicks.

Generations of one family are preserved on this wall. Not only the people, but the land they belonged to. Beside the old man hangs a faded photograph of a brick farmhouse surrounded by an orchard. Next to it is an official document on yellowed paper covered in elaborate, old-fashioned handwriting, with the date 1872 written in large, sweeping numbers.

In one corner of the cafe is a mat with a wicker basket of kids’ toys. A toddler pushes a red fire truck around making car noises. The tables are packed in close together, and I feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop with my large frame and even larger backpack.

This isn’t the place for a man like me. I start to back out, because there’s no space to turn around without my backpack hitting something, and the last thing I want to do is send one of those family pictures flying off the wall.

“You can leave your pack back here.”

The voice comes from behind the counter, and I take a step sideways to find a woman leaning on it peering at me. She has a smile as sweet as the cupcakes in the display case next to her. Her dark hair is bundled on top of her head, making it impossible to tell how long it is, but one single strand has gotten loose and it tickles her neck, which I try not to look at because that leads to her cleavage, and the way she’s leaning over gives me a view that I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be on display.

My heartbeat quickens and I avert my gaze from her cleavage, but I can’t draw my attention away from her.

“That’s if you’re staying for coffee,” she adds.

I nod, unable to say more because my mouth has gone dry and my chest is tight.

I slide my pack off my shoulders and prop it at the end of the counter where she indicates.

“You just come from Jake’s Retreat?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We do free coffee for veterans. Take a seat, and I’ll bring it out.”

Her voice is sweet, like honey, and her eyes are warm chocolate. Then she smiles, and my entire world shifts. The noise from the cafe fades away, the ache in my back fades, and my vision narrows in on her.

I must be staring, because she tilts her head as if I’m a puzzle she’s trying to work out. “Unless you want something sweet with your coffee?”