2. Cassidy Winter
2
CASSIDY WINTER
The morning unfolds differently in the Winter household, uniquely ours and defying routine. It’s the weekend, a time when the world seems to slow down for most, but for me, it accelerates. I’m grinding away in my hideout, surrounded by the smells of malt and hops.
The ‘Pour Me Up, Scotty’ shed, I call it. It’s a modest wooden outbuilding at the back of my house. Here, my adventurous spirit finds a quiet joy in the crafting of flavors, melding the boldness of the New World with the traditions of the old.
My life has revolved around concocting ales and working at bars. I’ve wandered through the country and beyond its borders, sharpening my skills, thirsting for new experiences. The journey’s been a mix of bitter and sweet, and I’ve embraced it all—save for one detour.
Seattle. Amidst the backdrop of tourists and postcard vistas, I fell for a man whose charm was as panoramic as the view from the top of the Space Needle.
But Grace, our daughter, redeems it all—the unintended yet beautiful consequence of a path I once thought I’d regret. She’s the heartbeat of my world.
I push the thoughts back as I rinse the brew kettle. Those memories belong to a different lifetime, one I’ve since traded back for the open skies of my home state, Montana. Yet the shadow of that chapter lingers, a past that now drives me to seclude myself in Helena, to hide my daughter and me from the man who, much like the unpredictable weather of his city, changed from doting partner to a storm of trouble.
My fingers trace the familiar contours of my latest creation, a bottle of ‘Fallen Angel,’ its contents holding the promise of a thirty-year legacy borne from my mother’s recipes.
“Good, good,” I mutter to myself, a note of approval at the crisp dryness achieved, a gamble to win the favor of the market.
The door of the shed creaks, and my daughter, Grace, enters with an overflow of energy. Just moments ago, I found her in the living room, engrossed in a book, daydreaming away on a school-free morning, with grandma keeping an eye on her.
“Mom! Mom! You’ve got to see this!” Her eyes reflecting the urgency of her news.
I place the bottle down. “What is it, Grace?” I ask, stepping out and securing the shed with a padlock—a safeguard for the alchemical secrets it houses.
“That boy has been rescued!” she beams, her small hand gripping mine with earnest strength as she leads me toward the house.
Grace knows the importance of this news to me. As a mother myself, I can’t imagine what Ivy Forbes went through, having her only child taken away.
We enter the house just in time to catch the unfolding story on the morning news. As I watch the distant figures on the screen, I see a reflection of my own fears, of the lengths I would go to protect Grace.
“Turning to news from Helena, an air of celebration grips the community today as a once-missing child is safely reunited with their family,” the reporter narrates. “The capital, usually a hub for state politics and governance, finds itself at the heart of a dramatic story of heroism. Earlier this week, the local police department, in a bold move, called upon the services of Red Mark, a name that’s now become synonymous with hope for many families ravaged by abduction.”
On the screen, the replay of the rooftop rescue begins with a blur of motion and tense silhouettes against the city skyline.
“Grace, why don’t you head upstairs?” I ask her softly. My daughter, who has grown too quickly in the shadow of an absent father, displays maturity beyond her years, but I’m not prepared for her to witness these potentially harrowing scenes.
“Why can’t I watch with you and grandma?” she protests, her chin set in that familiar way that tells me she’s not going anywhere easily.
Her resilience strikes a chord in me; it’s her armor, one I’ve helped shape with every bedtime story that doubled as a lesson in self-reliance, every scraped knee I’ve soothed with a promise that she’s tougher than the pain. Her father’s absence—not by circumstance but by choice—left an undeniable void. But I was determined not to let his risky decisions put our lives in jeopardy. So I fled and never looked back.
Bending down, I meet her gaze. “It’s grown-up stuff, Grace,” my voice a blend of apology and authority.
She pouts as her grip tightens around my waist, refusing to budge.
There’s a tug inside me, a wish for a man who can be a true partner and help our family flourish. Yet, the idea of letting another man into our lives stirs a conflict within me. The possibility is both a beacon of hope and a signal of distress. For now, I choose the safety of the known over the uncertainty of new beginnings.
“Come on, upstairs,” I steer her toward the staircase. “I’ll pop in to say bye before I leave, promise.”
I watch her small figure ascending, each step allowing me to picture a space where a father should be. And I wonder, not for the first time, if my resistance is shielding her or holding her back.
I settle back in front of the TV, squinting at the blurred images captured by a chopper. There’s someone ducking behind a vent on a rooftop, a kid safe in his hold while his partner grapples with the kidnapper.
The voice of the reporter is steady behind the visuals, “The operation was fraught with peril, a testament to the grit and determination of the Red Mark agents, who, despite their urban origins, seem to have found their calling in the rugged heartland of Montana.”
“They’re not local?” I mutter.
Mother fills me in without taking her eyes off the screen. “The anchor said they’re from New York—one an ex-SEAL, the other Army special forces.”
We come from a military lineage. Growing up, Dad in his uniform was my personal benchmark of bravery and strength. And here I am, finding a chuckle in the Red Mark agents’ attire. They’re the spitting image of every agent cliché, and I can’t help but ask myself about the logic behind it. “Strutting around in suits, no less. Imagine, chasing down criminals in a tailored jacket and polished shoes.”
My mother’s eyes crinkle as she chuckles. “But there’s something about it, isn’t there? Those guys have proven they’re more than just a sharp suit.”
One of the agents, still holding the kid, steps out from behind cover. The footage is grainy, affected by low light conditions and a significant distance. While I can’t discern his face, there’s no mistaking the confidence in his stride—his suit an armor against the chaos, his embrace a comforting shield to the little one. A woman’s form comes into view—surely the boy’s mother—to whom he hands her son.
The image quality wanes, dusk creeping in. But the raw surge of relief and joy that must be flooding through her, as she embraces her child once more, is almost palpable even through the dimming screen.
As the reporter signs off, my mother stands up, likely to refill her coffee. She playfully brushes my shoulder, perhaps wondering what I could be thinking about—the suit, or the man.
I glance at the clock. It’s time to shift my focus back to Fallen Angel. The big boss of the downtown bar I work at will taste it one more time. If he gives it the thumbs up, we’re in business!
But as I walk to the shed, the man from Red Mark lingers in my thoughts. Who is he beyond the suit and the heroics? What drives a man to such lengths?
His roots as a New York bodyguard suggest a past steeped in safeguarding the glitterati. It’s quite the phenomenon—these New Yorkers trading concrete canyons for Montana’s sprawling horizons, their affluence buying them grand houses, top-shelf spirits, and acres of freedom. Yet, it’s a curious thing to see them dive headfirst into peril out here. Their military backgrounds provide a reason, but surely, there must be more. What draws them to flirt with danger in a land so different from the one they’ve left behind?