Chapter 3
S he had no idea what she was doing. None whatsoever. She sat on the cold, hard ground, willing it to do something, anything other than remain dirt. Were the trees in front of her dead? She had no idea. Did she want them to be? Again, no idea. Her glance slid to the house, feeling similar dread and dismay. She’d paid a tidy sum to make it livable, had brought in a plumber and electrician to bring things up to code and make them habitable. Somehow she thought that would make the place a home. It hadn’t, of course, and she had no idea what to do next.
Everything in her life she had learned by doing. First she had survived her hardscrabble childhood, no easy feat. Then basic training. Then assassin training. Then being an assassin. And now phase three. After overcoming everything else, she’d been under the mistakenly optimistic impression she’d somehow know what to do. From far away in DC while tying up the loose ends of her former life, it had seemed so easy. Buy an orchard. Fix it up. Become country, at one with the earth. What she failed to take into account was that she had never so much as owned a houseplant, let alone an entire field of trees. And the house. She’d never lived in one before, at least not one like this, with two stories and a spacious layout. The vastness made her feel strangely stifled and adrift, insecure about all the things she didn’t know, all the things she lacked to fill the space. Worse, she had no one to teach her.
In basic, she’d had drill instructors. After, she’d had her CO. And then The Colonel. He’d instructed her, guided her, mentored her. Their relationship had always been professional. Even so, he was the closest thing to a father she’d ever had. And now she was on her own in the middle of Montana with no idea what to do next.
A sound alerted her to someone’s imminent arrival. Palming her gun, she turned her head toward the long driveway and waited. They found you. They’re coming. It would have to be a hostile. Who else? She knew no one here. There was no reason for a random stranger to show up uninvited. Except there was.
A massive forest green truck, the word DEPUTY painted in school bus yellow letters on the side, made the long drive slowly, as if he was as wary as she was. Maybe he does know about you but he’s not here to kill you; maybe he’s here to arrest you. Slowly, she stood and tucked her gun away, stumbling forward and working her jaw, reminding it how to speak. Soon she would need all the words she’d shelved four days ago when she arrived.
The man parked and unfolded himself from his truck, literally. He was tall, far taller than most men she’d met. He wore an eye patch, one that covered a ragged scar that somehow put her at ease. IED. Army. Familiar. Safe. Her shoulders relaxed as she let out a breath. He raised a hand in greeting and she followed suit.
“Good afternoon,” he called.
“Hello,” she said.
“My name is Elliot Runningbear. I’m what amounts to the law in these parts, I suppose.”
That made her smile, if only a little. “You’re not sure?”
“I’m certain I’m the law, I’m not sure there’s much need for it. We like to keep it quiet out here.” There was a question in the tone, one asking if she was the type who also liked to be quiet or if she planned on making trouble.
“A good policy,” she answered reasonably. Once upon a time she’d hated the law, had found herself too often on the wrong side of it. Life had a funny way of making corrections.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said pointedly.
“I didn’t give it,” she returned, but not unkindly. Her life had made her factual and no-nonsense. It was no longer in her nature to pussyfoot. Maybe it never had been; she could no longer remember. “I’m Celeste.”
“What brings you to Paradise?”
“Retirement.”
His brows rose, assessing her age and—rightly—thinking she looked young to be retired. She was, but assassins had their own timeline. Instead of remarking on her age, he gazed out over the orchard. “It’s funny, I’ve lived here my whole life and never been here, even thought my parents told me a lot of stories about it.” He motioned a hand toward the decrepit barn. “Any plans to bring it back to life?”
She also gazed at the barn and repressed a sigh. All of the equipment was still there; it had come with the house. “Would that I knew how.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure you’ll get lots of advice around town. Whether you’ll find it helpful or not is up to you.”
“I’m not much of a townie,” she said, an understatement. She planned on being Unabomber levels of unavailable to the local populace. It was sort of the whole point of moving here.
Elliot snickered and coughed when her glance slid questioningly back to him. “Sorry. It’s just…Paradise might have other ideas about that.”
“I don’t think it’s up to them,” she said.
His smile was definitely wry this time. “If you figure out how to stop them, tell me how.” He touched the brim of his cap—an actual cowboy hat—and gave her a little nod. “It was nice to meet you, Celeste. I’m sure I’ll see you again sometime. Feel free to call if you need anything or have questions.”
She didn’t reiterate that she would neither need anything nor have questions. No need to further his amusement at her expense. When she failed to show up in town, he’d soon figure out that she wanted to be left alone. And so would the rest of the town. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say. Polite manners were another thing she’d had to teach herself, in order to function in society. They were another way to blend in. People noticed abrupt rudeness much more than niceness, at least in America.
After Elliot drove away, Celeste meandered to the barn, staring around with something that felt a bit like panic. There were machines and equipment she couldn’t begin to name. At first she’d been excited; it had seemed like a bonanza. But then as she tried each piece of machinery and failed to make it go, her enthusiasm dimmed. Then began to turn to a bit of despair. Should she sell it? Could she sell it when nothing worked?
She walked to each piece, attempting again to turn it on, in case some magic had happened between the last time and now. As before, nothing worked. Her last stop was the giant tractor. She climbed atop it and turned the key. It made no sound, not even the semblance of turning over. She remained sitting a few moments, imagining that it worked, that she drove it out of the barn and attempted to use it.
I am country now, she told herself, but the words wouldn’t stick. They slid off her and splattered uselessly to the ground. She was not country. She was not an assassin any longer, was no longer even in the army. What was she? She was afraid to find the answer, afraid it might be the same as before The Colonel pulled her out of obscurity. Afraid she had gone back to the same nothing trash heap she started from.