away from the road, across the grassland and up the foothills before settling on the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. That was where he belonged—in the mountains, on the mountain face, granite under his fingertips. Not here.
I was never meant for this life.
Sunshine glinted on metal in the field south of the highway and Quinn glanced that way instinctively. Muscles in his stomach tightened at the sight of the windmill, the tail wagging back and forth to keep the lazily spinning fan faced into the wind.
Forcing himself to refocus on the two-lane highway, he tried to keep his mind on the faded yellow and white lines in front of him.
No dice.
It had been almost eighteen months since the middle-of-the-night phone call that had changed everything. Eighteen months back here, home, in New Mexico. His heart ached with loss and longing.
Rolling onto one hip without slowing, he pulled his smartphone out of the back pocket of his Wranglers. A single press of the home key showed no missed calls. He’d become paranoid about being inaccessible, and cell service out here was sporadic at best, nonexistent at worst.
Five bars of service.
No missed calls.
The ringer was on.
Volume was up.
A small part of him relaxed. The rest of him remained as knotted up as ever.
Memories crowded in on him, despite his objections, and for a split second Quinn wasn’t in his truck headed to town. He was in bed in his little Idaho home, the alarm set unreasonably early so he’d be on time for a scheduled climb up Baron Spire. The ringer on his smartphone had been shut off, the vibrate function left on in case his parents needed him. And they had.
Mom.
She’d called four times in a row, the phone eventually shimmying its way across the nightstand and over the edge, hitting the floor with a thunk that pulled him out of deep, dreamless sleep. He’d rolled over, blindly fishing around on the floor for the phone, accidentally hitting Answer before he had the phone to his ear.
Soft sobs came from the caller.
Adrenaline had careened through his system and driven his heart wild, setting his nerves on edge and sharpening his voice. “Mom?”
No answer.
“Mom?” he’d asked again, undiluted fear souring his stomach. He had fallen out of bed then, his knees striking the hardwood floor with a loud crack. He’d buried his face in his hands and the phone had slipped, forcing him to re-pin it between his ear and shoulder to hear her.
Odd thing to remember.
“You need to come home, Quinn.”
“Where’s Dad?” he’d demanded. “Put Dad on the phone, Mom.” Pleaded. “Where is he?” Beseeched.
“This afternoon...” She’d hiccuped, a sharp sound. “Oh, Quinn...” Deep breaths had raked across the phone’s receiver, scraping at him through the earpiece.
“Tell me.”
Then she’d done as he’d asked. He’d stopped breathing the moment she complied, uttering damning words he wanted to childishly demand she take back. “Your dad was working on the windmill in the south pasture. No one is sure what happened. Not exactly. All we know is that he fell. The doctor said his injuries were massive. Quinn, he didn’t...”
The words make it weren’t spoken, but they were there just the same as if they had been shouted, hovering a moment before they crashed into him. The impact tattooed the truth on his heart. And then? The world simply stopped.
His dad. The man Quinn had spent years following, listening to, emulating. The man who had convinced Quinn it was okay to want more than the rural lifestyle he’d grown up with. The man who’d handed him the title to his pickup and $15,000 in cash, telling Quinn to figure out what made him happy and where he’d be happiest doing it. The man who’d been unashamedly in love with his wife and left a light on for his only child every night.
His heart had seized, a tight band of pain around his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Dad.
A jackrabbit darted across the road and he jerked the wheel. “Pay attention,” he muttered to himself.
More than eighteen months since he’d lost the man and Quinn still felt off-center, like the world had tilted hard to the left and he couldn’t get it back on its axis.
When he crested the small hill, the town appeared as if conjured by dark memories that defied the impossibly blue sky. It looked exactly as it had when he’d left twelve years ago. He chuffed out a harsh laugh as he realized that there was as little for a man of thirty-one to do here as there was a nineteen-year-old boy on the edge. Nothing had changed. Not a single. Damn. Thing.
“Except that one half of the best part of this place is gone.” His words were swallowed by the noise his all-terrain tires made on the rough asphalt road.
Stomach rumbling, he shot a look at the clock. It was late for lunch. He could skip it altogether, head to the ranch and snag something from his mom’s fridge or—he turned onto Main Street—he could grab a bite in town. The cook at Muddy Waters, the local bar and grill, was an old high school buddy. He’d throw a burger on the grill without complaint and Quinn would be sure to tip the waitress well. His stomach growled in response. A burger it was.
He parked curbside, hopped down from his truck and traversed the fractured concrete walk that never failed to trip up drunks and tourists alike.
Inside, the atmosphere was comfortable in its familiarity. Square laminate tables, each surrounded by four vinyl-covered chairs, were scattered around the floor.
He nodded to a handful of familiar faces as he settled at a table in the corner and dropped his hat on the neighboring chair.
The waitress sauntered up, order pad and pen in hand. “What’ll it be, handsome?”
He didn’t even bother with the menu. “Cheeseburger, medium, all the trimmings, large basket of onion rings and a lemonade. How’s your mom, Amy?”
The waitress was another high school friend, and her family had owned the restaurant for three generations. She rolled her eyes. “Same as always. Swears I’m running this place into the ground and am going to end up being forced to sell to an—” she feigned a gasp “—outsider. She’s threatening to come out of retirement.”
Quinn chuckled. “If she comes back, tell her she’ll have to make her chocolate cream pies by the dozen. I miss those.”
“Secret family recipe I just happen to possess.” She considered him for a moment before tacking on, “You should come to dinner one night. I’ll make you a pie.”
He appreciated her predicament, being single in Crooked Water. The dating pool was more mud puddle than pond. But as much as Quinn liked her, he wasn’t the solution to her problem.
He’d once thought he wanted a love like his parents had shared, had spent years
