LITMIR.BIZ

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adrenaline junkie. He’d started to need bigger and bigger thrills to feed his habit.

      He gave it more diesel, pushing the bike’s speed balls to the walls.

      His second tour, while not as physically stressful, made up for it in head games. How had the white coats at the OMS put it in their discharge orders? “Captain Owens no longer trusts his own feelings.”

      Didn’t take a shrink to see that. Sometimes he didn’t even know who he was anymore, let alone what his feelings were.

      When he finally got back to the states, he’d found it hard to let go. He wasn’t a snake that could just shed his skin whenever the powers-that-be said it was time. Almost two years later, he still found himself ducking personal questions, constantly looking over his shoulder.

      His siblings were long gone. So was his mother, raising another family that she valued more than him. His dad was no different from what he’d always been, a royal pain in the ass. At least now that Sam was grown he was no longer under his thumb. That made his occasional visits to check on him bearable.

      He had a handful of close friends and tons of new acquaintances, thanks to the consortium.

      But when it came to the one person he couldn’t live without…well, that person was Red. He needed her calm. Her logic. Despite growing up with a succession of shady characters in mobile home parks before her grandmother stepped in, she was remarkably balanced. Without her, he feared he’d go spinning out of control again.

      But he couldn’t let her fall in love with him. If she insisted on forcing his hand, making demands…

      He’d let her believe he would kowtow. Wasn’t manipulation his special talent? He was a highly trained professional, adept at setting up relationships—there was that word again—and influencing and controlling others, based on fabrications.

      Chapter 7

      “Come back again,” called Sam to the foursome who’d come all the way from Amarillo to see for themselves what all the fuss was about the Willamette’s wines.

      “Thank you kindly.” The Texan in tooled boots held up a parting hand, then used it to hold the door for Manolo, on his way in.

      Manolo saluted. “Lieutenant.”

      Sam dried his hands before clasping Manolo’s. “Appreciate you taking time.”

      “Least I can do.”

      Sam had met Manolo in Iraq after dropping out of college in the middle of his freshman year.

      Manolo had joined the Army as an alternative to taking over his family restaurant, just outside New York City. Lost and disoriented in a foreign land, the two had bonded instantly.

      Despite acting nonchalant about it with Red, Sam took his best man responsibilities seriously. Last time he and Manolo had talked there’d been some confusion as to who on the groom’s side was going to show up for the wedding. His mom was having some health problems, and he didn’t get along with his dad.

      Sam knew all about difficult fathers. The details weren’t important. He and Manolo shared their stories on a need-to-know basis. Didn’t hurt so much that way.

      There was probably still time before the nearest motel sold out of rooms, but he couldn’t risk failing at one of his tasks; risk disappointing his friend.

      He poured a glass of the good stuff he kept under the counter, slid it over to Manolo, and rested his folded arms on the bar. “Wanted to touch base with you on the rooms. You got a final headcount yet?”

      “My sisters still don’t know what to do about letting my mom travel by herself since the knee replacement,” said Manolo, scratching his head. “She insists she’s okay, but they found out she was lying about still using her walker, so they’re talking about one of them flying down to Miami first to get her and then flying out here.”

      “Family. Always got to be some complication.”

      “Tell me about it.” Manolo took a sip of wine.

      “That mean your dad’s definitely a no-show, then? Can’t be because he disapproves of the bride. They don’t come any better than Junie Hart.”

      “Hard to disapprove of someone you’ve never met. No, it’s not her he disapproves of.” He looked down at where he cradled his glass. “It’s me. Last I heard, he denies even having a son.”

      “That’s rough, man.”

      There was a heavy pause.

      “What about your dad?” asked Manolo. “What was it you used to call him?” He snapped his fingers and grinned. “Psychodad. That’s right.”

      “Until just last week he was still living in the old homestead, out in the middle of nowhere. Seventy-seven years old and still chops his own firewood, even though I had the fireplace converted to gas when I got back from the service. Thought I was doing him a favor. Making it easier on him. But the numbskull won’t stop.”

      “Seventy-seven? Christ! He had to be, what, late forties when you were born?”

      “Let’s just say I was a surprise, an unpleasant surprise. Luke, my brother, was fourteen, and Cindy was eighteen and on her way out of the house. Anyway, last week Psychodad earned his nickname.”

      “What’d he do?”

      “You’re not going to believe it. Piled real kindling on top of the gas fireplace logs.”

      “Aside from the obvious, it’s July,” said Manolo, his face screwed up with confusion.

      “Musta caught a chill.” Sam smiled drolly. “If I hadn’t happened to go out there to check on him that day, they’d be finding pieces of that house in Portland. It’d be like Mount St. Helens all over again.”

      “There’re public gas lines out there?”

      “The fireplace runs on an above-ground propane tank. The place isn’t exactly falling down, but he refuses to part with enough money to keep it properly maintained. And every time I’ve sent people out to look at the roof or clean the gutters at my own expense, he’s sent them packing.

      “It’s frustrating as hell, man. Sometimes I think all it’d take is one shot from my Winchester into that propane tank, and—” He raised a pretend rifle to his shoulder. “Peeeerrrr.”

      “Right,” drawled Manolo. “And what are you going to say when the fire department shows up?”

      Sam spread his palms. “Who’s gonna call the fire department? It’s the only building for miles. The O’Briens moved to Hood River years ago.”

      “The place must be worth something. Sell it. That’s my advice. Take the money and don’t look back.”

      “The O’Brien place is still on the market. Nobody wants it.”

      “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, the authorities did come, catch you in the act.”

      “I’d tell them to let ‘er burn.”

      “I believe there’s a word for that.”

      “It’s not arson if it’s my own property. It’s not like I’d file an insurance claim. And I could still sell the land any time I want. Come to think of it, the land’s probably worth more without the house. Anyone who’d want it would only raze it and start over, anyway.”

      Manolo shifted uncomfortably. “No sense talking about something that’s not going to happen, Samuel, my man. What about your Dad? Goes without saying he can’t be left unattended after that.”

      “Roger. He’s at the assisted care place being evaluated as we speak.”

      “So that’s it? There he stays?”

      Sam shrugged. “You know how bureaucracy is. It’ll take a while.”

      “What

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