Paradise Peak (New Americana 5)

CHAPTER 1

Travis Alden could easily recognize the sights and sounds of hell: the bared teeth of predatory inmates, the sharp clicks of metal handcuffs, and the profanity-laden screams that echoed against the concrete walls of a six-by-eight cell.

But this place—whatever it was—held none of those things.

Cautiously, Travis stepped closer to the edge of the mountain overlook, his worn tennis shoes crunching on loose gravel, and looked down at the peaceful landscape. Evergreen trees and pines stood proud above the thick brown foliage that hugged their massive trunks. Distinctive outlines of leaves, trees, and bushes melded as his gaze roved further out, scanning the rugged mountain range that sprawled for miles in every direction.

The Great Smoky Mountains slumbered beneath a blue morning mist. The high peaks in the distance gradually grew clearer as the sun’s orange glow lit up the eastern Tennessee sky, its slow ascent above the mountaintops burning off the misty shroud one sleepy inch at a time.

Despite the bright warmth of the approaching sun, a thin plume continued to thrive on one distant peak. The gray plume billowed upward, obscuring the streaks of orange, pink, and purple coloring the sky, and cast a thin shadow over the mountain from which it rose.

A swift mid-February breeze pushed across the landscape, swept past Travis’s ears on a high-pitched whistle, bringing with it the pungent scent of smoke. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. The uneven terrain before Travis—a slumbering giant—seemed to breathe and stir. Almost as if it sensed his presence, that darkness within him, knowing he didn’t belong.

Travis jerked back onto the graveled path and raised his head, squinting up at the sun’s glow instead of studying the steep drop below.

“You in God’s country, son.”

A grizzled man, wearing a brown jacket and jeans, stood ten feet away by the entrance of a hiking trail. He carried a fishing rod in one hand and a large cooler in the other. The old man’s blue eyes surveyed Travis. Then he raised one arm and pointed the fishing rod in the direction of the mountain range Travis had studied. Orange sunlight glinted off the metal tip of the pole.

“That there’s the park.” The man’s gray mustache lifted with his slow smile. “But Paradise”—he swept his raised arm toward a large mountain jutting up high behind him—“is that way.” His smile widened. “Paradise Peak, that is. That what you’re looking for?”

Travis gripped the frayed straps of the backpack on his shoulders and swept his gaze over the other man’s form, searching for the bulge of a weapon in his jacket, along his waistband, or tucked beneath the hem of his jeans. The action was automatic—a distasteful, but necessary, habit Travis had formed during his twenty-year stint in prison. He’d been forced to defend himself on more than one occasion over the years.

Finding nothing suspicious on the man, Travis relaxed his hold on the bag’s straps and nodded. “Can you tell me how many miles it is into town?”

“Only seven or eight, but it’ll feel like thirty on account of the climb.” The man glanced at Travis’s shoes and frowned. “You been hitching?”

“I tried.” Travis looked down, cringing as he recalled the suspicious stares he’d glimpsed through windows of cars and trucks as drivers had sped past his raised thumb. He didn’t blame people for not trusting a nomadic stranger, and after three days with no success, he’d stopped asking for rides. “I started in Franklin ’bout three weeks ago.” He studied his mud-caked shoelaces and the loose stitching along the seams of the soles. “Mostly on foot.”

The wind picked up, gusting between them, and the man asked, “You walked two hundred miles across these mountains during the tail-end

of winter?”

It sounded like a perplexed statement instead of a question.

“Two hundred and thirty-three,” Travis said.

He’d counted every one. Each night, as he’d huddled beneath canopies of trees for warmth or stretched his aching frame out on a bed of dead underbrush and stared up at the stars, he’d calculated every step, added the estimated mileage that lay ahead, and subtracted the hours of sleep and periods of rest he’d need when the climb became too painful.

The man whistled low. “What you come all that way for?”

Margaret Owens. Absolution. To save his—justifiably—damned soul. Travis hesitated as he met the man’s narrowed gaze, not wanting to lie, but unsure of how much to share with this stranger. In his experience, most people weren’t all that understanding. Or forgiving.

“To start over.”

Travis’s throat tightened and he looked away. He raised his eyes above the blur of moisture coating his lower lashes and studied the burst of color brightening the sky as the sun rose higher above the distant peaks.

The sight conjured a small measure of peace within him, stirred a soothing sensation through his veins, and made him wonder how it might feel to be a good man. Not a great one (he doubted he’d ever be one of those), but at least an honest, trustworthy one. A man who always tried to do the right thing and had no blight on his name. The kind of person he wished, with every breath he drew, he could become.

“It must’ve been hell.”

Travis shook his head and returned his attention to the man, whose scrutiny had intensified. “Not at all.”

Travis had entered hell at eighteen and had emerged from it three weeks ago when he’d been released from prison at thirty-eight. By contrast, the mountain trek he’d undertaken over the last few weeks had been full of fresh air, bright skies, and majestic heights that had lifted his head and at times, his weary spirit.

“Weather’s been clear most of the way,” Travis added, gesturing toward the sunrise. “No snow, and only one thunderstorm that dropped lightning instead of rain.”

“We’ve had a drought for a while now. Bad for us, but good for your trip it seems.”

Gravel crunched underfoot as the man stepped closer. Travis faced him again, tensing as the man lowered the large cooler to the ground, wiped his hand on his jeans, then extended it.

“Red Bartlett.” Smiling, he nudged his hand closer.

Travis stared at Red’s palm, the deep creases stained with dirt, and considered the open invitation his upturned fingers offered. Releasing the straps of his bag, he slowly placed his hand in Red’s. “Travis.”

Red squeezed, his callused fingers gripping the back of Travis’s hand as he shook it firmly. He searched Travis’s expression, perhaps waiting for more, but when Travis didn’t speak, he said, “Welcome to Paradise Peak.”

Travis smiled, his chest swelling. It was the first time in twenty years that he’d been welcomed anywhere . . . or touched without animosity.

“I expect you’re exhausted,” Red said. He released Travis’s hand and retrieved the cooler from the ground. “How’s a decent meal and good night’s rest sound to you?”

“Good, but . . .” Travis shoved his hand in his back pocket and fumbled through the bills lining it. Fifty, sixty dollars at best, remained. “How mu—?”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Red said, rolling his shoulders, “but I got a few years on me. There’s fifteen rock bass in this cooler, and there’s another cooler stocked with more bass and trout by the river at the bottom of that trail.” He raised an eyebrow. “I been out here three hours—since five in the a.m. My arms hurt, my back’s screaming, and I don’t relish the idea of stomping back down there and hauling that heavy sucker up here. I’m interested in a trade, and your muscle would be a big help.”

Travis frowned. “That’s a kind offer, but not a fair trade.”

Red threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t bow your back up, son. I didn’t mean to offend you, and this ain’t no charity, if that’s what you’re worried about. That ain’t all there is to the trading, and there ain’t no five-star hotels my way. I’m offering you a plain ol’ fried fish dinner and one night’s stay in a rickety cabin with a lumpy cot.” He grinned. “When the temperature dips back down tonight, you’ll feel like you’re sleeping on a slab of ice, and that’s after you spend the majority of today cleaning, filleting, and cooking those fish before you eat ’em.” Red’s tone was firm, but his lips twitched. “Damned shame I didn’t stumble upon you earlier, otherwise I’d have made you catch them, too. Save me the trouble.”

Travis smiled. Maybe it was Red’s friendly demeanor, or it could’ve been the way being called “son” sat well within his soul, but either way, Travis liked the idea of helping Red. He hadn’t been able to help anyone in a long time.

“In that case, I’d say it’s a fair trade, and I thank you for it.” Travis headed for the trail, asking over his shoulder, “Cooler’s at the bottom of the trail, you said?”