A Soldier's Journey

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment, then grinned. He rambled on, “We’re not the only ones who meet here. We just claim Monday night.”

Andy admired the room. Like the other one, it had an eccentric charm. Three elderly overstuffed sofas of varying colors and design were scattered throughout the room. An equally aged television sat in a corner. A battered bar ran along the back of the room with mismatched bar chairs. Card tables and folding chairs lined one of the walls.

“I like it,” she said. “It looks...comfortable.”

“Ah, a diplomat,” he said. “It’s all donated except for the folding chairs.”

“In an odd way, everything fits,” she said. Then she remembered why she was there. “And the museum, Mr. Evans?” she prompted.

“It’s Bill. I hope I can call you Andy.”

“I would like that,” she said.

“I should warn you about the museum. We’re just beginning to put it together. We’ve been spending the past several months asking for contributions. Not money, but letters, photos, old newspapers, vintage clothing. Right now it’s just scattered pieces of our history. I’ve been going through it, but I’m no curator. In fact, I’m just a volunteer who kinda hangs around here.”

“Are you doing the sorting?” Andy asked. She was getting a suspicious feeling about this museum.

“When I have time. The library and computers came first.”

“Okay,” she said, trying to determine his role. “You take care of the library and computers, the meeting room and now the...museum, and you’re a volunteer?”

Evans looked embarrassed. “I like keeping active. I sold the general store to my nephew last year. It was a huge mistake. I was used to being busy.” He shrugged. “Retirement isn’t all it’s made out to be. Within a month, I was driving my wife and myself crazy. So this is not exactly slave labor for me,” he said with a grin. “It’s just that one thing kinda leads to another, and before you know it you’re hooked like a fish. Eve does have a way about her. Watch yourself.” He led the way up a flight of stairs to a door at the top.

“I’m only going to be here for a short time,” she said.

“I’ve heard that from your predecessors at the cabin. They’re still here.”

Despite herself, Andy was curious. And also wary. “What did they get hooked on?” she asked carefully.

“Well...quite a few things, actually.”

Andy sighed. “Eve just wants a short brochure. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Right,” he said, but there was doubt in his voice as he unlocked the door and stood aside as she entered.

Newspaper-size bound volumes sat in a pile on a table. Other tables held scrapbooks and photo albums. Unopened boxes filled another table, with even more boxes tucked underneath. She glanced through several of them: menus from the ’20s, a bill promoting a traveling circus in 1888 and several wanted posters from around the same time. Another box was filled with school pictures that looked as if they went back as far as the late nineteenth century. A stack of high school yearbooks was in the corner.

Bill Evans looked embarrassed. “We...I...really haven’t had time to look at all of it.” He brightened. “We also have a fool’s-gold nugget, along with a real one and some mining equipment. A few diaries.”

“Any of it cataloged?”

“Afraid not.”

She looked around helplessly. This wasn’t a museum. It was a disaster. An earnest disaster, maybe, but a disaster nonetheless. It would take months to find anything and more months to get the museum in shape.

“You can spend as much time as you need here,” he said.

“Maybe I could talk to...a descendant of the founder of the town...Mr. Monroe?”

“You could do that,” he allowed.

She eyed him. “What’s wrong with that?”

“He’s a bit...difficult.”

“Eve didn’t mention that,” Andy said. She tried a different possibility. “Is there a newspaper in town?”

“Yep. There’s only one now, of course, but there’s been a number throughout the years. We have bound copies of some of the editions.”

“What about talking to the editor?”

“Well, the newspaper’s been around, but the editor hasn’t. He’s only been here two years. Inherited it, and doesn’t give a damn about it or the town. He would sell it in a New York second if he could find a buyer. It’s not a very good paper.”

That wasn’t encouraging. Andy liked newspapers. In fact, she’d been addicted to them. She’d had a really strong curiosity about almost everything, although it had been dormant for the past months. She hadn’t wanted to read or hear about the Middle East or any kind of violence. It came to her too often at night.

Then she remembered what Eve had said. A Scot and a Ute princess. Gold. She’d been intrigued by the story. It was obvious now, though, that writing it would probably be more difficult than the mayor implied. Now she understood what Bill meant by a hook...

It didn’t make any difference, though. Now that she had committed to at least taking a stab at putting something together for a brochure, she wanted to get started. It was time to stop hiding from the rest of the world. And to do that, she had to join it.

Prying into the town’s history seemed a safe way of doing it. Having no goal was like looking into an abyss. She owed Jared more than that. She owed the others more than that.

She had to live for them.

But it was so damned hard.

* * *

EVE GREETED HER husband with a huge hug. “I’ve missed you,” she said. Josh Manning bent his head to her upraised face, and their lips met. She wondered if the heat would ever cool between them, prayed that it wouldn’t.

“Hey, Josh.” Nick bounded out of his room, Amos beside him and the other dogs following him. “Amos was so excited to hear your Jeep.”

“Hi, champ, thanks for taking care of him,” Josh replied as Amos pressed between them and leaned against Josh’s legs, making little crying noises.

Josh knelt down and rubbed his fur. “Sorry, guy, but you were better off here for three days.”

“How did it go?” Eve asked.

He grinned. “I have acceptances from eight in the travel industry, including two newspapers, a business magazine, the tourism bureau, several travel agencies and a freelance writer who specializes in writing about Colorado for major travel publications. I have a couple more maybes.”

“What date?

“Eight weeks from today. Clint will be back then and can give us a hand.”

Josh was talking more, and faster, than since she’d had met him nearly a year ago.

“Clint’s with the police department now,” Eve reminded him.

“I know, Mayor. But it’s the weekend, and hopefully his boss will let him off for a day then.”