Phil

“This is the one.”

I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

If Mom were still kicking around, she’d be giving me a hard time for being so impulsive. She might have had a point, given I rolled into town less than four hours ago, and am about to put an offer in on a house.

What can I say? Who wouldn’t fall in love on the spot with this beautiful town nestled between stunning mountains? Hell, I was so taken, I found the one and only realtor’s office and walked right in, and am now about to buy my own little slice of this heavenly place.

“Are you sure?” Rowan, the realtor I dragged into my house-hunting mission, checks. “You haven’t seen the inside of the place yet.”

I spread my arms wide and twirl around in the dirt driveway.

“It won’t matter,” I assure her. “If I don’t like what’s there, it can be changed.”

“I suppose,” the younger woman mutters as she flips through the file folder she’s been carrying around. “At least it’s had an inspection done when it was first listed four months ago, and it passed. It looks like the building is structurally sound anyway.”

I turn to face her, grinning wide. “See? When it’s right, you just know.” I pat a hand on my chest. “In here.”

Rowan smiles a little uneasily, probably not used to someone like me. Someone who has taken a vow to live in the moment; to let the heart and not the mind rule.

The house itself is cute, but not necessarily remarkable. I think it might even be one of those prefab designs with one small dormer above the porch to the front door, and one over what looks to be a garage. But I do like the contrast of the natural beams of the porch and the slate gray siding and slightly darker trim. It looks fresh.

“It’s a little over twenty-five-hundred square feet, has three bedrooms—or two and an office—a loft, and two-and-a-half baths,” Rowan rattles off.

“It sits on the edge of a beautiful creek with rapids, on a property awash with wildflowers, with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the mountains,” I add. “When I’m in the house I’ll be looking out, and that’s going to be my view. That’s why those things are more important to me. To top it off, this place is about five minutes from the sweetest little town I’ve ever seen. As far as I’m concerned, this place was made for me,” I gush.

“I’m getting that sense,” Rowan observes dryly, cracking a grin. “Do you at least want to have a peek inside?”

“Absolutely.”

When we walk in, I notice the house is completely empty, but for a thin layer of dust on everything. It feels like a clean slate; just what the doctor ordered.

“Is this brand new?” I ask Rowan.

“Technically it’s not—it was built three years ago—and was lived in for only a few months,” she clarifies.

“So it’s been empty for that long?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a bit of a sad story. It was built by a local woman and her fiancé, but he died two days before the wedding in a freak workplace accident. She couldn’t bear to live here by herself so she moved into town, but wasn’t able to bring herself to list the property until a few months ago.”

That is tragic.

“I can’t even imagine, that poor woman.”

When you come in the front door, you walk into an open-concept space. I’m guessing immediately to my left is the dining area, straight ahead would be the living room where the fireplace is, and to the left of that is a kitchen with a long island. The kitchen has a nice big window and a simple door leading out to the back deck, and from the large picture window in the living area you get a fantastic view of the creek and the mountains beyond.

In here it’s a little smaller than my place in Portland, Oregon, but out there I have all the space in the world.

Rowan shows me the two spare bedrooms and one bathroom off a small hallway that runs behind the fireplace on the right side of the house. Off the kitchen on the left side of the house is another hallway that leads to a good-sized master suite, a powder room for guests, a laundry room, and a stairway leading to a bonus room and third bathroom above the garage. That bonus room could be my home studio.

“How far are the closest neighbors?” I ask the realtor when we step outside on the porch.

“The sheriff lives up another half mile, if you follow this road. He’s your closest neighbor.”

The first thing I’ll be doing is putting in a good security system, but it’s nice to know the law is literally right up the road.

“Let’s go back to your office, I want to put an offer in.”

“Right now? Don’t you need to talk to a bank first?”

I turn to her, smiling. I can’t blame her. She saw the old school bus I parked in front of the real estate office. Little does she know, the inside of that rambling old bus was turned into a very nice living space for when the road calls me. I purposely left the exterior alone to avoid drawing unwanted attention to the old girl. She serves as a great cover for me.

“That’s all under control,” I assure her.

She doesn’t need to know I have what would probably be a decent down payment on the house hidden in cash in my school bus. I carry a lot of money on me because cash is anonymous, and because I want to be free to stay on the road as long as I want.

For too many years I’ve gone where I was told to go, and had little freedom for the things I wanted to do. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone. Not anymore. I work when I want to—which I can do from anywhere—and not because I need to.

“In that case, let’s go write up an offer.”

I follow Rowan to her SUV.

“How fast do you think we can close?” I ask when we pull out of the driveway.

“How fast do you want to close?”

“Tomorrow, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Are you serious?” She immediately bursts out laughing. “Never mind, of course you are.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I think I like this girl.

“Do you have a lawyer?” she asks.

“Not here in Washington, but I can have one by tomorrow.”

I can feel her eyes on me.

“Okay, and what are you thinking of offering on the house?”

I glance back. “Asking price minus one dollar, out of principle.”

She nods as her eyes focus back on the road.

“That’ll work. We can try for a closing the end of next week, provided the seller is in agreement, and we don’t run into any glitches.”

That’s actually not bad. It gives me a chance to set the wheels in motion back in Portland.

“Excellent. Now, where is the nearest campground?”

“Campground?”

I grin and fold my hands behind my neck, stretching the muscles in my arms a little.

“Yeah. I’m gonna need a place to stay until then.”

* * *

Brant

I should be relieved.

My heart has been given a clean bill of health a full year after my triple bypass surgery.

The surgery saved my life after getting hit with a massive heart attack while on the job. But, apparently, it left me with something my cardiologist tells me is PSPS, or post-sternotomy pain syndrome. Some people are left with it after they crack your chest for the heart surgery.

The pain has caused me plenty of sleepless nights, but I’ve been too stubborn—or maybe too scared—to see a doctor until now. When I mentioned it to my cardiologist, I was assured the pain in my chest had nothing to do with my heart, which did put my mind somewhat at ease. But now I have something else to add to the list of ways in which my fifty-three-year-old body is deciding to let me down.

Dangit.

There was a time not so long ago, I could still outrun, outlift, and outlast even most of the younger guys working for me. But those days are gone, and with it the ability for me to do my job effectively or reliably, which is why I chose to hand off the reins to my daughter, Savvy, and take an early retirement. She’ll do a good job, I trained her myself, but after devoting nearly thirty-three years to the office, living and breathing my job, I feel as useless as tits on a bull.

Now I have this chronic pain condition that doesn’t seem to have an easy fix, other than popping more damn pills. I swear half the crap I take is burning holes in my gut.

Speaking of guts, I should probably stop at Home Depot to pick up some more pellets for my smoker. I’m almost out and I really want to smoke that trout I pulled out of Gold Creek last night.

As I’m pulling into a parking spot, my phone rings.

“Hey, Toots. What’s up?”

“Hey, Daddy. What did the doc say?”

My daughter is as subtle as a steamroller. No easing into the conversation or idle chitchat when she’s got a point to get to. We’ve had one too many arguments about my health over the years, and that damn heart attack proved her right. I was still in the hospital recovering from the surgery when she laid a heart-to-heart on me, the weight of which I feel to this day.

Savvy had been in tears, and I haven’t been able to stand seeing my daughter cry since she was twelve, got tossed barrel racing, and broke her collarbone. She’d been inconsolable and so had I. Making her cry made me feel even worse than I already felt. She’d been fuming mad though, telling me she’d already lost too many people too soon, and wasn’t about to stand by and watch her last remaining parent play fast and loose with his life.

Since then, I’ve done my best to be more open with her instead of brushing off health concerns she might’ve brought up.

“Ticker’s good to go.”

“Good news. Did you ask her about the pain?”

I groan. She caught me wincing the other day and, in the spirit of honesty, I mentioned I had some discomfort in my chest and I’d bring it up with the cardiologist.

“Nothing to do with my heart.”

“So…what is it?”

I grind my teeth; she is tenacious, which is what makes her damn good at what she does, but I’m not a fan when it’s aimed at me. Reluctantly, I fill her in on what the doc told me, that it’s likely something I’ll simply have to contend with. I could hear the tapping of her fingers on the keyboard of her computer, and I know she’s already doing research on the subject before I’m even done talking.

“Toots, do me a favor,” I preemptively stop her from spouting off the results of her findings. “Give me until tomorrow to process before you start tossing out articles and studies on alternative treatment options and shit like that.”

I’m met with silence, and I know she’s biting her lip to keep from doing exactly that.

“Fine,” she finally concedes, but she doesn’t sound happy about it.

“You know what? I caught a nice trout yesterday; why don’t I smoke it for dinner tomorrow night?” I can find something else to eat tonight. “It would probably go well with your broccoli salad,” I add.

That has her laughing. “Is that your way of asking me to bring my broccoli salad?”

I grin. “Well, you’re the one who made me eat it in the first place.”

Ever since I got home from the hospital last year, Savvy’s been trying to get me to eat more roughage, since I lived my whole life a meat and potatoes kinda guy. I’m trying; there aren’t a lot of green things I actually get excited about, but Savvy’s broccoli salad is definitely one.

“Oh, fine. I hope to be out of here by five, but I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

After ending the call I head into Home Depot, get my smoking pellets, and a few other odds and ends I need to finish a project I’ve been working on.

I’m trying to build a secure pen for Angus, my rescue goat, who keeps escaping the pen he currently shares with the chickens. Also rescued, by the way, since Buck—our local vet and one of my poker buddies—keeps bringing over these animals for me to look after. He tells me it’ll give me something useful to do, force me out of the house now I’m retired.

It forces me out of the house all right; I’ve been having to chase that damn goat all over the county a couple of times a week. I’m starting to see why the previous owners got rid of him, they should’ve called him Houdini instead of Angus. So far, I haven’t found a way to keep him contained. At least not for long.

When I walk out with the large roll of galvanized fencing wire and the lumber on a cart, I realize it would’ve been smarter to bring the pickup. I’m gonna have to open the tailgate window on my 1996 Bronco to stick the lumber out.

“Let me give you a hand.”

A pimple-faced kid in an orange apron walks up and starts lifting lumber from my cart. Do I really look that dang old already? It’s on my tongue to tell him I don’t need help, but the truth is, loading it on the cart caused that damn chest pain to flare up already.

Five minutes later I’m all set, the kid even strung a little red flag from the protruding two-by-fours, and threw me a little salute when I palmed him five bucks for the help.

This entire morning has not put me in the best of moods, which is questionable on a good day. Then there’s the frustration of trying to drive in the big city, where every moron is in a hurry and thinks they’re Chad Little racing for the finish line. Although, very few of the millennials crowding the roads these days would remember the NASCAR driver, let alone that he’s actually from here.

My mood hasn’t improved much on the rest of the way home, so when I drive up my road and pass by what should be an empty house to see an old ratty school bus parked in front, I slam on my brakes and throw open my door.

All I can see is the bottom half of what I assume to be a woman sticking out from under the bus, judging by the ankle bracelet and purple-painted toenails on her flip-flop-wearing feet. Although, I guess it might not be safe to assume anything anymore. I briefly register the jeans she’s wearing are as beaten up as her bus is.

“Hey, this is private property!” I bark, clearly startling the woman who scrambles out from under her bus.

She looks like she’s a leftover from the seventies, except I don’t think people dyed their hair purple then. Her hair is mostly gray, a riot of untamed curls, which turns purple toward the ends, and she has an orange pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

She’s smiling, and for some reason that gets me even more riled up.

“This here is private property,” I repeat in a growl, planting my fists on my hips.

The purple-haired woman mimics me and starts laughing. 

“I know it is.”

She pokes her chest with an index finger and leans forward.

“Mine.”