Home to Montana

“What you mean, you can’t come ’til tomorrow? We got two hundred people coming tonight. I’m not going to—” After a moment of silence, the woman ran off a string of words that Nick couldn’t understand but guessed were an expression of her frustration.

He took a step back from the kitchen door. “I think we ought to wait a while for those scraps, buddy.” But before he could get away, the door flew open.

An older woman, her cheeks flushed with anger appeared, her eyes burning with fury. “What do you want?”

“It’s okay, ma’am. Just wanted you to know the kindling—”

“You know anything about fixing a dishwasher?”

The abrupt question stopped him. He blinked. Beyond the woman he could see the shine of stainless steel prep tables and refrigerators. He caught the scent of garlic, onions and paprika. Heard the clatter of pans and sizzle of meat on a grill.

Sweat formed on his brow and dripped down his neck. His breathing became labored.

Automatically, he dug his hand into his pocket and began to rhythmically squeeze the rubber ball the prison chaplain had given him. It was supposed to relax and distract him. Don’t lose it. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Think of something else. They’re only memories. It isn’t happening now.

“Mister, I’ve got a busted dishwasher that’s full of dirty dishes. If I don’t get it fixed in a hurry, we’re going to be hand washing every single dish in the place. Now...” She put her fist on her hip in much the same way as Alisa had earlier. “You know anything about fixing machines or don’t you?”

“I, ah...” He did have some idea. And he sympathized with the woman’s problem. But fixing the dishwasher would mean going inside the kitchen. Being surrounded by reflections that flashed and sparked off the stainless steel equipment, bringing back memories he struggled to forget. Images he couldn’t ignore. Afghanistan. An attack on his outpost. A shiny kitchen turned into a bloodbath. His crew dead or dying.

He clenched his teeth. Squeezed the ball harder. Don’t think about it.

Alisa, the blonde who’d been chopping kindling slipped up behind the older woman. “What’s going on, Mama?”

“The dishwasher is busted. I called Samson. He can’t come ’til tomorrow.”

A frown etched Alisa’s forehead, matching her mother’s. “Guess we’ll just have to make-do somehow.”

Helplessly, Mama threw up her hands. “It must be God’s will.”

“I can try to fix it.” Nick didn’t know why he’d spoken. Maybe it was the mention of God. Or the thought that the Lord had brought him here for a reason. To fix a dishwasher? He nearly choked on how ridiculous that sounded.

Mother and daughter both gaped at him.

“You know how to fix a dishwasher?” Doubt deepened the grooves in Alisa’s forehead.

“I’ve fixed a few. No guarantees.”

“Come on inside, young man.” Mama opened the door wider. “Give it a try. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

He signaled Rags to stay. Using every ounce of courage he had, Nick crossed the threshold into the shining bright world of a commercial kitchen.

Blackness oozed in around the corners of his mind. The scream of bullets and crying men assaulted his ears. He fought to keep them at bay.

This was the world that had once been his to command. A place where he’d felt at home as the top chef.

After Afghanistan, would that ever be true again?

Chapter Two

Nick gritted his teeth.

He could do this. All he had to do was keep focused on the present. The mission. Find the dishwasher. Figure out what was wrong. And fix it. Plus keep his eyes averted from shiny surfaces that inevitably awakened horrific memories.

He forced himself to remember his mother’s kitchen. The smell of oregano and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. The laughter they’d shared when she taught him how to make fresh pasta. The good times before she got sick.

Alisa’s mother marched ahead of him. He watched her feet, her black leather granny shoes treading on the spotless, blue-gray, antiskid tile floor. A well-kept kitchen. A-rated and ready to pass muster with the toughest health inspector.

She stopped so abruptly, Nick almost ran into her.

“This is the creature that has decided to plague me.” She slapped her palm on the side of the upright stainless steel dishwasher. Clearly an older model, probably prone to problems.

Nick used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the sweat from his brow and squinted to minimize reflections. “What’s wrong with it?”

“She won’t start. Hector, he pushes the button. Nothing happens.” She thumbed toward the fry cook working at his station, a small guy who looked young enough to be a new enlistee. “I push the button. Nothing happens.” The rhythm of her voice spoke of foreign roots.

The washer not starting meant the problem could be anything from being unplugged to a motor that had burned out.

Frowning, he looked along the back of the machine. “Do you have a flashlight?”

Almost instantly, Alisa thrust a heavy-duty flashlight toward him. “Here. I thought you might need one. We lose power pretty often in the winter so we’ve got these positioned all around the diner. Summer lightning storms can knock out the power too.”

Their eyes met as he took the flashlight from her hand. The depth of her blue eyes and her furrowed frown told him she was dubious he could fix anything. He wasn’t all that confident either.

He checked behind the machine, handed her back the flashlight and grabbed hold of the dishwasher. “I need to move it out from the wall a few inches so I can get a better look.”

“It’s heavy,” she warned.

“Yeah, I figured that.” Rocking it side-to-side, he inched the dishwasher far enough forward to get a better look but not so far that he’d mess with the drain or water hoses.

He took the flashlight again and squeezed up against the wall. The machine was plugged into a power strip along with neighboring equipment. While he couldn’t reach the plug, he had no reason to think it wasn’t providing power. Everything else was working.

He fussed with the connection at the back of the machine. It seemed solid.

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” Alisa asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. With her blond hair pulled back, she looked younger than she had outside. No blemish marred her fair complexion. “I’ve eliminated the two most obvious reasons it won’t work. Your mother’s electrician would’ve charged her a hundred bucks for doing that. I’m saving her money.”

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“I’m that kind of guy.”

“Glad to hear it.” Her overly friendly smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He sensed her distrust and turned back to the machine, opening the door. Racks of dirty dishes were stacked inside. He pressed the latch on the door.

“Try starting it now,” he requested.

“The door has to be closed before it will start.”