Page 124 of Goose

“You’re not planning on—”

“No. It’s not like that,” he said. “It’s just. I don’t know.”

I gazed out the window, wondering what unfinished business he had—other than the mess back in San Diego with the crooked cop. After a few miles of grassy green fields rushed past, a big sign on the side of the road let me know where we were going.

It took a moment to register.

I turned in my seat to face him. “Are we going where I think we’re going?”

With his eyes straight ahead, he grinned. “Depends. Where do you think we’re going?”

I grew excited and anxiously hesitant at the same time. “My stomach feels flippy-floppy.”

“You can add me to that list,” he said. “Mine’s been doing backflips all morning.”

“How long have you been planning this?” I asked.

“I don’t know that I’ve been planning it,” he said. “But I really started thinking about it when you said everyone deserves a second chance. It got me to thinking.”

“What if this isn’t what you think? I asked. “If everything’s the same?”

“We leave.”

I tried to wrap my head around everything that he might be going through and couldn’t make sense of it all. His situation was unique. All that mattered, I decided, was that I was there for him regardless of what he needed or wanted.

Before I finished my thoughts, he turned down a county road. There were hills, views of the beautiful mountains in the distance, and rolling fields of the greenest grass, but Goose paid no attention.

None of it seemed to matter.

The vehicle slowed. He looked off to his left. “Cleaned the place up a little.”

We rolled past a mailbox marked PEARCE.

I swallowed heavily. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do that’ll make me ready.”

“You sure you want to—”

He nodded. “I’m sure.”

The home was what I would have pictured as a typical Montana farm home—a two-story house with upstairs dormer windows and a full front porch. The brick red paint with white trim suited it well.

The surrounding acreage was well-trimmed. The landscape around the home was manicured to a greater degree of perfection than I would have expected to see on any farm.

When we turned into the driveway, I noticed wooden flowerpots along the porch. “What are those yellow flowers on the porch?”

He grinned. “Yellow Bells.”

With my stomach in a knot, we idled along the winding entrance until we reached the home. When we came to a stop, Goose exhaled a long breath.

He leaned to the side and kissed me. “C’mon, I’m not doing this alone.”

“I wouldn’t let you do it alone.”

We walked hand in hand toward the house. The front door opened before we reached the porch. A man dressed in a short-sleeved blue and white plaid shirt, jeans, and boots stood in the opening. He looked just like Goose, only twenty years older. He wore his salt and pepper hair cut short, like his son’s.

His skin was tan. Slight wrinkles were visible at the corners of his narrow eyes. He was strikingly handsome. A hint at what I had to look forward to in twenty years. He took a step into the porch, and then another.