“You ever gone deer hunting?” Dusty asked as they moved the empties out of the shed to make room for the bike.
“Nah.” He hated guns.
“The season starts in a few weeks. You wanna give it a try, we can go together.”
“Hunting’s not my thing, but thanks.”
“I like it ’cause Pops taught me, and the three of us—Cal, me and Pops—go every year. You know, do the guy thing.” He laughed. “But it’s not for everyone.”
When Adam was eight, his dad had started taking him to the dump to shoot rats. He’d taught him how to use a knife as well, but it had been about survival, not sport. As Paulie Hunter’s son, his dad had been giving him a running start against his enemies, that’s all. He supposed it was his dad’s idea of fatherly love.
Adam rested a two-by-eight board against the lowered tailgate of his truck and hopped up under the truck cap. To avoid questions, he’d have preferred to stash the bike out of sight by himself, but it was too heavy and awkward to move without help. “Can you climb up in here? She’s heavy. I’ll wheel her out if you hang onto the rear so it doesn’t get away on me.”
Dusty whistled when he saw the bike in the yard light. “Sweet wheels. Is it custom built?”
“Yeah.”
“You ride often?”
“Not much.” He grabbed the handlebars and pushed the bike into the shed. Romeo gave a soft woof from inside the truck. He didn’t know how the dog would react to the wilderness, so he’d left him in the cab.
Dusty followed him. “It’s a lot of bike for an occasional ride.”
“It was my dad’s.” He should have sold it before leaving Toronto. But it was the only thing he had of his father’s, and he wasn’t ready to let it go. Ironic that it was that same kind of sentimentality that used to drive old Paulie crazy.
“You decide to take it for a ride, let me know. I’m not crazy about riding shotgun, but it would be worth it with that machine. Your dad, he’s not alive anymore?”
“No.” Adam closed the shed door, relieved to have the bike out of sight. It stirred up too many unresolved feelings. Maybe Paulie’d been right—being sentimental would sink you every time.
“I can’t imagine my old man not being around,” Dusty said as they backed out of the driveway a few minutes later. “We used to whine about him being too strict when we were kids, but he’s always been there for us, you know? When I was six, these two kids started tormenting me. I guess you’d call it bullying now. When Pops found out...” He whistled through his teeth. “I don’t know what he said to their parents, but those kids never picked on me again.”
Dusty scooted sideways in his seat and peered through the dark cab at Adam. “How about your dad? Was he a weekend warrior?”
Adam choked. “Excuse me?”
“You never heard that expression? All those old farts riding bikes they can barely hold up. Weekend warriors. No disrespect to your dad, of course.”
Adam wanted to laugh. What would Dusty say if he told him that his father could have killed someone for calling him that? He slowed the truck as he crept through a deep pothole that had eaten a good part out of the road. Hopefully, the hole would discourage people from driving down this route.
“Is there much crime around here?” he asked as he picked up speed.
“Crime? Like what?”
Dusty had said that like he’d never heard the word before. Adam grinned. Would it always feel like he’d fallen down a rabbit hole and ended up on the other side of the rainbow?
“Like breaking into your camp or stealing my bike. It’s pretty isolated out here.”
“Just about everyone’s been out to my camp, and they know there’s nothing there to steal. Too far to go for too little. We won’t tell anyone your bike’s there.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“You never answered about your dad.”
And therein lay the danger of getting too comfortable around anyone. He’d thought Dusty was talking for the sake of talking, but this time Adam caught the curiosity in his voice.
“My parents divorced when I was ten, and my mom and I moved out West a couple of years after that. My dad wasn’t around much.” Thank God. Handling his mother’s addictions had been tough enough.
“That’s too bad. Nice that he left you his bike, though.”
Old Paulie didn’t do nice. If Paulie could have taken it to the great beyond, he would have. Adam ended up with it by default.
Dusty chatted on the way back to the house, leaving Adam free to chase images of his father from his mind. When his mother had left his father he’d dreamed of life getting better without Paulie around. He’d imagined he and his mom buying a house, having a real home—one they wouldn’t have to desert in the dead of the night. But his mother was a junkie, and it didn’t take long for Adam to realize that without his father’s questionable but lavish income, they were in trouble.
And trouble led to more trouble. At twelve, Adam joined a gang so he could make money to feed his mother and himself. By the time he turned fifteen he’d graduated to stealing cars. Everything—the lifestyle, the brotherhood—had felt right. Familiar. Until a street gunfight broke out between his gang and another. His best friend had died in his arms. The cops picked him up, more for his own safety than anything, and he’d served six months in a juvie hall. By the time he’d gotten out, his mother had a new douche-bag boyfriend, and he realized it was time for him to move on. He’d been on his own since.
With heavy memories weighing down his footsteps, Adam followed Dusty into the house and silently served up supper. As Dusty chatted about the upcoming fishing season, his last hunting trip and this winter’s local hockey team, Adam only half listened.
Was Adam crazy to think he could settle here and live a normal life? Every time someone asked him about his family, he felt as though they were shining a spotlight on his past. He had too much baggage, and it was too damned hard to leave it all behind.
They had just sat down to eat when Sylvie waltzed in. She had a lot of color in her cheeks and her eyes made him think of how the blue ocean looked with sunlight on it. Geez, he was turning into a regular poet. He dug into his potato, hoping to distract himself from the plunging neckline of her pink T-shirt.
“What smells so good?” She pulled up a chair beside her brother and filched a piece of chicken from his plate. “Yum. Is this your own recipe?” She directed her question to Adam.
“Yeah.”
“He even made his own salad dressing,” Dusty said around a full mouth of potato.
She picked a tiny tomato out of his salad and popped it into her mouth.
Dusty jerked his plate out of Sylvie’s reach. “Get your own.”
Adam grinned as he got up from the table, grabbed a plate out of the cupboard and put it in front of Sylvie. Sylvie and Dusty had no idea how lucky they were to have each other. “There’s another potato in the oven and lots of salad. You can have the last piece of chicken, too.”
“Are you sure? We shouldn’t be eating your supper.” Despite her polite inquiry, she slipped the chicken on her plate as she spoke and started cutting it into small pieces. She closed her eyes as she savored the first bite. “Superb.”
Then opened her eyes and skewered him with a look. “I’d love to know how to cook this.”
Heat crept up his neck. He couldn’t teach