November 30

Trevor Reynolds glanced around the studio apartment, located three blocks from the main drag in Kings Meadow. At one time it had been a detached garage, and the owner hadn't tried to disguise its original purpose from the outside. Inside, the furnishings were simple and spare, but good enough to suit Trevor's purposes for however long he was here. He'd stayed in far worse places in his early years on the road.

"I'll take it," he told the landlord, Harry Adams, a thin, white-haired man with stooped shoulders, a shuffling step, and a ready smile.

"Well, that's great. Great. Are you in town for long, Mr. Reynolds?"

Trevor slipped his wallet from his back pocket. "I'm not sure." He pulled out several bills. "First and last month's rent. Right?"

"Indeed it is." In exchange for the money, the landlord handed him the key to the door.

Trevor walked to the small refrigerator and opened it. The light went on at the back, showing a pristine interior.

"Grocery store's just a few blocks away," Mr. Adams said. "Open until nine."

"What about restaurants?" He closed the refrigerator door and turned toward the landlord again.

The old man chuckled. "Only got two. Got a drive-through a couple blocks over from the Merc. Good burgers and fries. Then there's the Tamarack Grill that you passed on your way into town. That's your sit-down choice. Nice menu, especially since they hired that Nichols fella."

Trevor remembered seeing the Tamarack Grill. That's where he would go now. He'd had his fill of fast food while traveling the two thousand miles from Nashville to Kings Meadow. According to the map app on his phone, winter driving conditions had made the trip take three days longer than it should have. And not knowing how many miles he'd be able to travel each day had also made it impossible to book motel reservations in advance. That hadn't mattered as long as he'd been traveling the freeway. Any motel in any town, big or small, had sufficed.

But he should have known things would be different up here in these mountains. Kings Meadow didn't have a motel, and the bed-and-breakfast he'd stopped at earlier wouldn't have any available rooms until tomorrow. It was a good thing he'd grabbed a local newspaper when he stopped for gas as he rolled into town. The paper was where he'd seen the advertisement for this apartment. The rent was fair — cheap, actually — and he didn't need anything fancy.

A yawn overtook him, a reminder that he'd been on the road since four o'clock that morning. A moment later his stomach growled. He'd pushed himself hard, determined to reach Kings Meadow while it was still daylight. He hadn't eaten a meal since breakfast. That had been somewhere in Utah. All he wanted now was a decent meal and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough to stock the cupboards, get settled into his new living quarters, and figure out what he was supposed to do next.

"Well," the landlord said, intruding on Trevor's thoughts, "you give a holler if you need anything. And you're always welcome to use my phone if you need it."

"I've got one." He patted his pocket.

"If you mean a cell phone, those gadgets don't work much in these parts. Mountains too high and too close, and no company's bothered to bring in one of them tower thingies. If you want to talk to folks, you're gonna have to get yourself a regular phone. Landlines, I think they call 'em."

Trevor remembered now. The day of the funeral, he'd tried to use his mobile phone. There hadn't been any reception. Not until he'd gotten close to Boise again had service resumed. But he'd figured it was a temporary problem. Hadn't considered it was an ongoing issue. He'd known he was coming to a small town. He hadn't figured on it being so backward it wouldn't have cell phone service.

Just as well. You don't need to hear from anybody who'd know your number anyway.

"Thanks, Mr. Adams. You've been a big help."

If the landlord felt as if he'd been dismissed — which he had — he didn't show it. Just smiled again and told Trevor to enjoy his dinner. Then he shuffled out of the studio apartment and along the snowy pathway to the main house.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Trevor hurried out to his truck and grabbed his duffel bag and guitar case from the backseat. Several more trips emptied the pickup bed of the tarp-covered boxes holding the remainder of his possessions. At least the possessions he'd considered important enough to bring with him. More boxes and all of his furniture were in a storage unit in Nashville. When he went back to Tennessee, he'd be glad for them.

With hunger becoming a more demanding sensation in his gut, he left the collection of belongings in the center of the room, grabbed his truck keys, and headed out the door. He drove the three blocks to Main Street, then followed it west until the restaurant's sign came into view. The parking lot on the side of the building had six or seven cars in it. That was probably a rush of customers for Kings Meadow.

He pulled into the first open space and got out, glad he wouldn't have to walk far in the bitter wind. Even gladder that he wouldn't have to sleep in his truck — which had seemed a real possibility — even for just one night.

The warm interior of the Tamarack Grill was a welcome relief. He stopped next to the sign that told him to wait to be seated. He didn't have to stand there long. A young woman, carrying laminated menus in the crook of her left arm, came toward him, a smile on her lips. Her gaze slowly traveled the length of him before meeting his eyes again.

"Welcome to the Tamarack Grill. Just one tonight?"

"Just one."

Her smile broadened.

Not to be vain, but he knew that look.

"Right this way." She led him to a table close to an open fireplace made of stones.

Trevor removed his Stetson and put it on the seat of one chair, then sat on the other, his right shoulder toward the fire.

"May I bring you something to drink?" the waitress asked as she set a menu on the table before him.

"Diet Coke, with lemon."

"I'll be right back." Still smiling, she departed.

Trevor's gaze took in the other tables in the room. Two families with young kids. A middle-aged woman eating by herself. Several couples of various ages. Off to the far right was the bar area. Three men sat on stools, sipping beverages and watching news on a television up high on the wall. Until a couple of months ago, that's where Trevor would have started a meal. Sitting at the bar, knocking back a Jack and Coke.

No more. The night of the accident, he'd had a wake-up call. He'd been living recklessly for years, in all kinds of ways. He could have easily died that night, but he'd been given a second chance. Brad Cartwright hadn't been that lucky.

A raw ache burned in his chest whenever he thought about Brad. Logically, Trevor knew the accident hadn't been his fault. He'd been asleep in the backseat. Brad had been at the wheel. But all the same, it felt like his fault.

And I'm not the only one who feels it's my fault.

In his mind — for what seemed the thousandth time — he saw the fury in Penny Cartwright's eyes at the moment she'd slapped him on the day of the funeral. He touched his cheek, as if he could still feel the sting of the blow.

The waitress returned with his drink....