Wilder didn’t respond, just tightened his grip on the wheel. “You have a lot of unexplained fires in town?”
“Not really. These have been the first in a while. Why?”
“No reason.” Wilder stared straight ahead, ignoring Sawyer’s probing gaze.
“You’re not the sort to say anything without a reason.”
“Let’s have a look, then we’ll see what I have to say.” Wilder flicked on a country station, so music filled the cab and drowned out the silence.
They parked halfway up the driveway. The air still smelled of smoke even though the fire was out. The house was gutted. Wilder and Sawyer slammed the truck doors and walked the property line perimeter. Wilder left his stick in the car. The snow wasn’t too deep and he wanted the practice. His limp was pronounced but he managed to stay mobile and upright.
Small victories but he’d take them for once.
“This the garage?” he called out. Sawyer had stopped to survey the mountains. Place had a hell of a view, positioned to catch sunrise and sunset.
“Yes—a three-car deal. Owner said the place was empty. Think it could be faulty wiring again?”
“Nope.” Wilder walked forward, scanning the ground, kicking here and there at bits of char. Shit. There it was. His heart sank. “Come over here and take a look at this.”
Sawyer walked over. “What’s that?”
“Part of a sock.” Wilder brushed a light dusting of new-fallen snow from the perimeter. “That’s where the fire started. Didn’t the guys do a check?”
“The volunteers got it under control fast. I didn’t quiz them.”
“Should have.” He pointed. “See, someone started this, probably poured gasoline into a milk jug. Check out that bit of melted plastic too. The sock helped ignite it, burned like a wick.”
Sawyer squatted and whistled low. “Shit. You’re thinking arson.”
He mashed his lips together and thought a moment. “Yeah. I’d say the likelihood is pretty fucking good.”
“I’ll call the boys at ATF.”
“Good thinking. It’s not going to be easy to catch him. It’s usually a him by the way. But they’ll be of use helping to build a profile. We’ve had a couple arson cases in Montana over the years. A few were arrested but most eluded justice.”
“I’ll brief Leroy and Kit,” Sawyer said, referring to his deputies. “Request they keep a sharp eye out for any suspicious activity during their patrols.”
“Could be anyone.” Wilder hooked a hand over the back of his neck, rubbing the thick cords of tight muscle. “Don’t want it to be a place with people inside next time. Also, you might want to see if the gas station and Save-U-More will help keep track of who is buying two-gallon milk jugs.”
“Be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
“True, but it’s a start at least. Could be a loner. Or someone seeking attention.”
They stared at the fresh cinder and ash. “You ever think about that one night?”
Wilder didn’t have to ask which night his brother referred to. He knew. The worst night of his life.
“I don’t remember any of it,” Sawyer said. “Weird, isn’t it? Like I should recollect something.”
“No,” Wilder replied firmly. “Consider it a very good thing.”
“Do you remember?”
Wilder shrugged, unable to face him.
“Shit, you do, don’t you?”
He wasn’t going to say he could still hear the deafening groan from when the roof caved in. The crash cutting off the scream. Their mother’s scream. He remembered the thick smoke cloud, clogging his lungs, burning his eyes. He remembered more too, from earlier in the night. How he couldn’t sleep because Dad had his weekly poker game, all the men were laughing too loud, drinking lots of beer. His brothers both fell asleep fast, but he’d tiptoed down the hall, peeked into his parents’ bedroom and saw Mom reading by lamplight.
He almost went in. She always went to bed with a book and didn’t mind giving him a snuggle. She’d rub his back, call him “my big beautiful boy.” She smelled like rose water and baby powder. But tonight he was curious about the men so kept going down the hall, perched on the top stair, listening to crass jokes he didn’t understand, followed by loud booming laughter.
Eventually, Mom turned off the light and the guys began to leave. He waited for Dad to stumble upstairs, scoop him up, tuck him in.
But he didn’t come.
So Wilder decided to find him.
“Hey, man.” Sawyer clasped his shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Wilder said, turning. That far-off night something happened to his soul. For a long time he thought it was burned away but the last few days revealed little shots of green in the black barren wasteland. But what if he didn’t have the right to regrowth? Hadn’t he lost the right to most everything good in this world?
He took Sawyer back to the station, dropped him off with a tense handshake. Next, he found himself driving slowly past A Novel Experience as if that might be a way to curb this restless sensation in his gut. Maybe he was a damn fool, but he couldn’t extinguish the small light inside him, fragile as candlelight that murmured, “Maybe.”
A woman walked by the bookshop window but it wasn’t Quinn. She was older, had long black hair, parted down the middle, and wore a flowing silk outfit that seemed to fit into the new Brightwater. Not so much the old. Things were changing around here. This wasn’t the hardscrabble Western town of his youth.
But he wasn’t sure if he fit in back then, and he sure as hell didn’t now.
What was he going to do?
Kit and Archer’s trucks were parked out in front of The Dirty Shame. He didn’t want a beer or to go shoot the shit over a game of darts or pool, and hell if he wanted to go home to an empty house. He didn’t even have Quinn’s number or know where she lived. Instead, he parked and went into Higsby Hardware to buy cracked corn for the deer. On the way out he stared at a few tulip bulbs. They might come up pretty in spring.
Hell, now he was thinking about flowers? What was going on?
On his way back to his parking spot, he paused, peering into Haute Coffee’s big plate glass window. Edie’s bakery shop. He’d never gone in but right now, on this cold, grey late-autumn day, the warm and cozy atmosphere called out to him.
The bells rang as he walked in. The tables were mostly empty as closing time approached. Shit. No chance of anonymity. He turned to beat it when Edie appeared behind the counter, gave him a double-take followed by an enthusiastic wave.
Trapped.
“Howdy, stranger.” Edie’s hair was caught up in a bun and there was a dusting of flour on the tip of her freckled nose. Archer, the playboy of Brightwater, had finally settled down and it didn’t surprise Wilder one bit. Edie was marriage materiaclass="underline" beautiful, smart, and could cook in the kitchen like she was conducting an orchestra, a symphony for the taste buds.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee on the house? And how about a muffin. No, wait . . .” She gave him an appraising once-over. “I know just what you’d like. Take a seat. Any seat.”
He did as he was told, not minding getting Mom’d around when she had such a kind smile. Plus he was starving. He glanced out the window. A few snowflakes fell.
If he concentrated hard enough maybe Quinn might walk by.
How pathetic could you be?
“Penny for your thoughts,” Edie said, returning with a piping hot cup of coffee and a giant bear claw.
“Jesus, look at the size of that thing.” He eyed the plate. “That pastry could go toe-to-toe with a polar bear.”
She smiled. “I got caught up listening to a podcast and made this one a little too big, wasn’t sure what I’d do with it. But then you came in and, hey . . . got to love serendipity.”
He picked up the flaky, buttery bread and bit down, sugar and almonds flooding his taste buds. Impossible not to moan.
“Oh yay.” Edie clapped her hands. “You like it!”