A Lot Like Home

He fingered the letter she’d written him while he’d still been in Syria. The worn paper would fall apart eventually, but he’d carried it in his pocket for every second of the horrific events over the past eight months, rereading it often. So he didn’t have to pull it out to recall what she’d scratched onto the page.

You feel a strong desire to replant your roots. A move to a new area is your opportunity to meet your soul mate. With her, you’ll experience a deep sense of intimacy and shared emotional values.

Replanting, yes. Soul mates, no. Not really. Intimacy meant sharing everything, including the demons that had hitched a ride with him as he shook the dust off both Syria and the Navy for the last time.

No woman deserved to be dumped into the middle of the mess that was Caleb’s head right now. The prediction had gotten him off his rear end and onto the road in search of Superstition Springs, the tiny town near Austin where Serenity lived, and that was the full extent of its power.

Knowing that, rationalizing the implausibility of a woman he’d never met in person having some kind of precognitive ability to see his future—even repeating it to himself over and over—hadn’t stopped him from longing for it to be true. That maybe he could find someone meaningful in Superstition Springs.

As if he’d needed another reminder that magic didn’t exist, the redhead’s splash of cold water on his interest served as a stellar recap. It didn’t matter if she had great qualities like a nice laugh and a sense of fair play. He wasn’t fit for a relationship right now.

Caleb took his Doritos to the cash register so he could pay for them and get on with his new life. His band of former SEALs had been cut loose from everything familiar, and it was up to Caleb to steer this ship in the right direction, namely to a place where they could regroup. Rebuild. Heal maybe. Forget about Syria and all the events that had come along with that godforsaken place. Superstition Springs was plan B, and C didn’t exist.

Two

“That was something,” the cashier offered in a twangy voice heavy with Texas heritage.

He smiled at the markedly short cashier. She couldn’t have been more than four nine or ten and stood on a step stool so she could see over the counter, which explained why she might not have jumped into the pig fracas despite having clearly watched it.

“That pig a regular customer?” he asked.

The cashier grinned back. “Only on Tuesdays. That’s when Farmer Moon brings me fresh produce. His truck had a flat, so he’s cussing at it out back. Darling wanders when she gets bored. We make sure nothing happens to her.”

Darling. Caleb had to laugh. The pig was a girl and a pet. Of course she was. This tiny town was a long way from California and not solely in distance. “Noted. I’ll steer clear of buying groceries on Tuesdays from now on.”

“You sticking around, stranger?” The cashier stuck her hand out without waiting for his affirming nod. “I’m Mavis J. We don’t get newbies too often. Welcome.”

The famous Mavis J that Serenity had mentioned in her letters. No one knew what the J stood for, and it was a bit of a running joke among the townspeople. His pen pal had never mentioned the colorful name of the store Mavis ran though, likely because it didn’t seem all that strange to Serenity.

Caleb shook her lined hand, noting Mavis was a good bit older than he might have originally supposed. Probably in her fifties or sixties, but her stature and general cheery demeanor made her seem much younger.

“Thanks. Caleb Hardy. These are my mates, Hudson Rafferty and Tristan Marchande.”

He jerked his head toward the ingrates as they wandered over to meet Mavis now that Caleb had dragged them into the intros, both of them shaking her hand like good boys.

“Not often we get such esteemed company,” Mavis said, her eyes on Caleb’s chest where his dog tags had made an appearance courtesy of Bacongate. “What branch?”

“Navy,” Caleb said almost without flinching and left it at that. One day he’d be able to remove his tags without feeling like he’d simultaneously shed a part of his soul. “We’ve taken enough of your time. I’m sure we’ll be back.”

“Since this is it, there’s no back to come to,” she corrected, her eyes dancing. “What you see is what you get when it comes to Superstition Springs. Till next time.”

With that cautionary note ringing

in his ears, Caleb led the way out of Voodoo Grocery, stepping out onto the main street of the town where he’d kind of parallel parked the Yukon if you squinted and ignored the fact that there was no curb. At least pavement stretched the length of the main strip, albeit cracked and sun worn.

Across the street, an old-fashioned hotel painted white with a spindle-edged balcony like in a western movie nestled up next to a smaller building with boarded-up windows. Individual letters had once been nailed to the area above the door to spell out the word Clinic. The letters had vanished at some point, but the paint had discolored enough behind them to still form the word. There was another shop with a carved wooden sign that said Antiques, and a few dark pieces peeked out from the window, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was still in business.

“So this is it?” Tristan asked with a tinge of disbelief coloring his tone. “Is that what the cashier meant? There’s nothing else but this one lone street with these few dilapidated buildings?”

Isaiah and Rowe clambered out of the Yukon, where they’d likely gone so Rowe didn’t have to put weight on his bad side for very long. The five of them stood on this very short, very dusty road and surveyed the place they’d traveled two days to reach.

Doritos needed, stat. Caleb ripped the bag open and shoved half the bag down his throat before pausing for a breath. Nothing bad could happen while you were eating Doritos. It was a rule. He’d had a hard time procuring any while overseas, which explained why Syria had taken such a turn for the worse.

Superstition Springs was supposed to be the answer to everything. Serenity had sold them on that concept via her many letters to the team over the past year as they tramped all over Syria in vain pursuit of invisible pockets of al-Qaeda operations. She’d talked about her town so much they felt like a part of it, and when she’d let slip that Superstition Springs was in trouble, Caleb had jumped at the chance to help her.

Now that they were here? Nothing like Caleb had envisioned. But that didn’t make it bad, did it? “What were you expecting, Marchande? A parade?”

“Non, mon frère.” Tristan slid a hand across the smooth strands of hair at his temple as if searching for strays that had dared escape from his careful topknot. He was definitely the only SEAL in existence who could pull off a stubby ponytail with such flair. “But maybe a little more of a hint that we made the right move. Otherwise, laissez le bon temps rouler.”