CHAPTER 1
November 1
It wasn’t much to look at. The wooden slats that made up the ancient red caboose were weathered, the boxcar sitting on the edge of a flat yellow grass meadow, backed by thousands of evergreens in western Montana. Early-November wind whistled and cut at Jesse Myer’s exposed face. She felt the icy morning coldness seep through her rain dampened, olive green Army jacket as she emerged cautiously out of the woods. She had discovered the boxcar while hunting rosehips scattered along the banks of the Bitterroot River. It was a source of protein for her tightened, gnawing stomach in want of food.
The large, oval-shaped meadow bordered the water and the rose hips were a substantial source of food when in the back country. She chewed slowly on another one, knowing it was packed with nutrition. Shivering, she felt hope spike through her as she walked out of the woods that lay west of Hamilton, a small hunting and fishing tourist town. She had followed the river in search of a place to pitch her tent outside the city limits. Standing on the edge of the meadow, she fully surveyed it. It rained at dusk last night and then snowflakes had fallen thick and fast throughout the nighttime hours. Toward dawn the ground was covered with about six inches of the white stuff. As a gray dawn sluggishly crawled upon the eastern horizon, the flakes had turned into a soft, constant rain once more. Most of the snow had melted as the temperature rose, but patches of white still existed here and there—it was an Indian summer event. Jesse sincerely hoped that it meant warmer weather would come into the area and warm it up for a couple of weeks while she hunted for a place to live.
She’d discovered the ancient Union Pacific caboose at the edge of the meadow by accident. There was no telling how old it was, the slats of tongue-and-groove wood that composed its sides were worn, the paint chipped off but still solidly in place despite the harsh winter weather that it had obviously endured over the years. There were no railroad tracks around from what she could see. The under carriage of the caboose had been removed and set upon a rectangular concrete slab, reminding her of the tiny house craze sweeping through her Millennial generation. Her gaze absorbed the forty-foot-long boxcar and she could see that at one time, it had been well cared for. But now, it looked utterly abandoned, the paint dull and peeling off the sturdy oak staves beneath it. Someone had brought this caboose out here. Was it someone who lived in Hamilton? Maybe the owner of this plot of land used it as a cabin to hunt and fish on weekends? Jesse had no idea, but there it was. Maybe it could be a home for her instead of the tent she had strapped to the huge knapsack she carried on her back. She wanted to make sure no one was living in it presently and thought about trespassing to find out. Even though it went against her grain, Jesse couldn’t explain the allure to do just that.
She called out several times, her voice echoing around the meadow. There was no response or movement from inside the boxcar. The four windows along the meadow side were dirty, and she longed to clean them. Deciding either no one was home or living in it, she curved her hand around the rusted metal railing at the rear platform of the boxcar and took the first tentative step upward. The ends of the wooden steps were buckled from age and now rested precariously on the metal frame beneath each one, the nails pulled out by rain and snow over the years. The step groaned. Not that she weighed that much. In the Army, she had been a hundred and sixty pounds; but three months ago when she received an honorable medical discharge at the end of eight years of service, she had slowly lost at least twenty-five pounds due to lack of appetite and no money to buy food. Her Army jacket, the only reminder of her life since age eighteen, hung loosely on her frame.
Her gloves were threadbare, her fingertips numb. She hauled herself up the rest of the creaking wooden steps and leaned forward, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering through the dirty glass of the door to see what was inside the caboose. It was a possible place to live. She’d just gotten a job at Katie’s Koffee Bean in Hamilton as a dish washer. But it was part time and Jesse had no money yet to rent a room in town, much less an apartment. She had lived in her tent since leaving the Army and was prepared to do it now, but maybe her luck was about to change.
Jesse opened the door, feeling guilty about trespassing. It creaked as she pushed it open. Stepping inside, she shut the door and turned, peering around the gloomy interior of the caboose because the sun still hadn’t risen above the carpet of evergreens on the slope above where it sat. She spotted a propane gas stove, a table with two simple, carved wooden chairs nearby, and a bed at the other end of it. In the middle of the car was a kitchen sink and opposite the sink was a long leather couch. To her delight, there was also a rocking chair and an overstuffed leather chair that probably housed a lot of field mice, the stuffing looking like popcorn along the thin, separating seams of leather. The couch was long enough to sleep on and was a possibility because the mattress on that bed looked very old and needed to be replaced—but she considered it a far better upgrade to her tent.
It was dusty and dirty, mouse pellets scattered here and there along the dulled oak floor. Some parts of the oriental carpet had been eaten into, probably by mice who took those fibers to make a warm nest somewhere else in the car. Walking to the other end of the caboose, she saw that the bedroom was roomy with a full-sized bed in it. A few blankets that were probably once folded at the bottom, were now open and spread haphazardly across the bed. Some of the drawers were partially opened, and appeared to be empty. This caboose could be a good place to protect her from the coming winter, and she could buy a tank of propane to keep the boxcar warm instead of freezing to death from hypothermia in her tent. The last year of her enlistment in the Army had turned into a nightmare, all her hopes and dreams smashed and shattered. She’d been out of control, unable to fit in and be “normal” in order to perform her duties. Not wanting to think about her downfall, Jesse walked toward the center of the caboose and studied the ivory colored Formica counter that surrounded the double aluminum sink. This was a place that could be cared for once again and brought back to life. Seeing herself in the same condition as this boxcar made her want to stay here and use it as a place to begin to heal from her recent past.
She mentally calculated her weekly salary and compared it to what a tank of propane gas would cost, plus having to buy food, and needing a source of water in order to survive. The numbers churned in her head. Maybe some blankets and a pillow would be a nice addition as well. She’d seen a Goodwill store in Hamilton that would be the perfect place to pick up used bedding. Her parents had wanted to give her money to survive on until she could get a good job and manage her life once more, but she’d refused it. They had worked hard for their savings and Jesse didn’t want to steal from their nest egg meant for retirement. Maybe she could call them in a couple of weeks if she could keep this new job and ask for a loan. Jesse had never taken a handout in her life. She’d always worked hard for everything she’d earned, just like her parents had.
The morning light filtered in through the windows of the caboose, illuminating the interior. She could see the electric lights along both walls, sconces that still had a hurricane lamp in each of them—dirty but still looking usable. There were no electric lines out here and she looked around for a generator outside somewhere, but saw nothing. At another time, there must have been one because the sconces would only work if there had been a generator present. Besides, even if there had been one, she couldn’t afford to pay for the gasoline needed to run it. And she didn’t have any wheels. She had to walk everywhere, no matter what the weather did around her. Still, she felt a trickle of hope because the oak tongue-and-groove ceiling looked solid—there were no leaks along it to indicate water had gotten inside, and that was good news.
Stepping carefully to the meadow-facing side of the car, she grazed one of the windows with her fingertips. The insulation around the frames needed to be replaced so heat wouldn’t leak out and make the car drafty. The tatty old red and yellow oriental rug beneath her boots was smudged with dirt and hadn’t been swept for a long, long time. She looked around and spotted a long, vertical door near the kitchen table. Going over to it, she opened one side panel of the door. To her delight, there was not only an ancient-looking broom, but dust cloths hanging off hooks, a mop, two small aluminum buckets and several usable sponges. Everything she’d need to clean up this place.
She treaded lightly, her Army boots heavy and clunky, the floor creaking here and there. Jesse closed the closet door, turned and simply absorbed this small, comfy looking place. It could definitely become a temporary home for her. Her eyes adjusted to the low dawn light, and she realized this was more than a fishing and hunting cabin. The small kitchen table against the wall was still covered with a dusty red and white checkered tablecloth. A pair of cut glass salt and pepper shakers stood in the middle of it. On a shelf above the kitchen sink, she saw dust-laden, brightly colored Fiesta dishes. To her right, were more shelves that held a set of bowls, a couple of aluminum pans and some cookbooks. Jesse liked the feeling in this caboose. It truly had been someone’s home once. The person probably lived here full time, her intuition told her. Maybe years earlier it had been a warm, cozy house, but now, it had been abandoned for some unknown reason, no longer loved and cared for. She wondered who had made this caboose their home. She liked the small bathroom next to the bedroom. There was a shower stall in there as well as a Formica counter with an aluminum bowl in it.
The caboose was forty feet long and ten feet wide: four-hundred square feet of living space. It felt like a warm nest to Jesse and she couldn’t explain why this beaten down train car suddenly meant so much to her. She managed a strangled laugh because symbolically and physically, she was beaten down, too. The inside of her looked like the inside of this car. But even in disrepair, the caboose showed the potential of what it could become if a little care and love was bestowed upon it. Was the same true of her? Could that be her outcome as well?
The right thing to do was to walk back into Hamilton, locate the county recorder’s office and find out who owned the caboose on this property. She needed to know because she wasn’t going to just move in without permission. Even though this train car was in disrepair, it was owned by someone. Maybe, if she could find the owner, she could ask them to allow her to live in it, hoping that the rent wouldn’t be very much and that she could afford it. Jesse adamantly refused to become a squatter. In her world of morals and values, one didn’t just take over a house of any kind without permission and without paying some sort of rent. She already felt guilty enough that she’d entered the place without permission. The door wasn’t locked, but that wasn’t an excuse to trespass. That wasn’t like her, but she was invisibly driven to explore the inside of it.
She turned and she left the caboose, shut the door and carefully made her way down to the concrete slab where it sat. She picked up her heavy pack and unstrapped her tent—there was a lot to do today. This was her off day from work and it would take thirty minutes to walk through the woods to the south end of Hamilton. Hope threaded through her, feeling grateful that she’d miraculously stumbled upon this place. She placed her rolled up tent on the metal and wood platform of the caboose. If she couldn’t find the owner, she would pitch her tent just inside the evergreen tree line for protection from the elements and stay in it, instead. Jesse took out her phone, a gift from her parents, and located the GPS for the caboose. That information would be instrumental in locating the owner. Hitching the heavy knapsack that carried everything she owned in it, Jesse gave the red caboose a wistful farewell look and then turned away, heading into the woods to walk back into Hamilton. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she would have to locate the county seat office and wait until they opened up at nine a.m.
*
Travis Ramsey was behind the counter of Ramsey Fishing Guides when the bell above the door tinkled, telling him he had an early morning visitor. His fishing guide business was mostly dormant during this time of the year and he had little to do over the coming winter months. Next April when the snows left the Bitterroot Valley where Hamilton sat, fishermen from around the world would stream in to take advantage of the world-class trout in the creeks and river. Looking up he saw a young woman, her short black hair emphasizing the paleness of her features. Straightening, he saw her look around the large, two-story building. As her blue gaze met his, he frowned. She was wearing an Army jacket. A real one, with patches that he quickly recognized. Had she bought it at an Army-Navy store or was she the real deal? She was tall, her shoulders thrown back, wearing a heavy Army rucksack on her back. His gaze dropped to her long legs wrapped in denim, and then to her boots. Those were Army boots. There was something about her, a sense that she was probably ex-military. So was he.
“Can I help you?” he called, walking toward the end of the maple counter that had been in his family since the late 1800s. He saw her blue eyes narrow, silently evaluating him. There was a glittering intelligence in them, something he rarely saw outside the military. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her rucksack curved across her shoulder. He’d been a Delta Force operator and missed nothing. If she was ex-Army, she wasn’t office personnel. No, she was carefully assessing him on every potential level as he was her. There had been women in Delta Force for over a decade. She certainly behaved like an operator and his respect for her was already amping up. He halted at the end of the counter. “I’m Travis Ramsey. How may I help you?”
The woman looked disheveled, but clean, her clothes showing wear and tear. Something pinged his intuition as she headed toward him, her lips set in a line that suggested she was afraid of his response to whatever she wanted or needed from him. Travis couldn’t prove it, but he never dismissed an intuitive hit. It had saved his life way too many times.
“I’m Jesse Myers. I was walking in the woods along the Bitterroot River when I saw a red caboose in the nearby meadow. I went to the county recorder’s office here in Hamilton to find the owner and they said it belonged to you.” She hesitated and then said, “I’m looking for a place to rent. I have a part-time job at Katie’s Koffee Bean down the street. I can’t afford much, but I would take good care of that boxcar if you’re open to renting it to me.”
Stunned by her request, he nodded, watching fear and hope alternate in her eyes. “You did your homework.”
Jesse managed a weak smile. “It’s my nature. I fell in love with the caboose and thought it would be a great place to stay. I’m not making enough money to rent something in town, yet. I could clean it up, maybe paint it and repair some of the things inside and make it livable once more. I’m pretty good with mechanical and electrical stuff.”
Travis liked her low, husky voice. She might be fearful that he’d say no, but she stood her ground and kept good eye contact with him. “You have family around here?” Hamilton was a town of four-thousand plus people and he knew all of them because his family was one of the first to settle in this town.
Shaking her head, she said, “No, sir, I don’t. I was born and raised in Billings, Montana and that’s where my folks live.”
Things didn’t add up. “And you’ve come to Hamilton to get a job?” Travis knew there were no jobs after tourist season, which ended in late September and didn’t begin again until the first of April. Everyone who worked here was seasonal. What was her story?
“Yes, sir, I have. Growing up, my parents’ favorite place to go for a weekend or a vacation was Hamilton. I’ve always loved this small town, the people, and how it’s surrounded by nature.” She gave a slight shrug. “I’m not a city person even though I was born in Billings. I need the outdoors, the woods, the water and the quiet.”
She appealed to him on so many levels that Travis felt momentarily rocked by this unexpected awareness. Jesse’s short hair was mannish in cut and that triggered something in him that he hoped to explore with her. “Listen, I’ve got an espresso machine at the rear of the store. Why don’t we go back there, have a cup of coffee and we can talk?” He gestured toward the front door. “There isn’t going to be anyone coming in today. I just bought a half-dozen fresh pastries from the Las Palomas Bakery next door. Let’s talk further in my office?” He wasn’t looking for a woman, but damned if Jesse Myers didn’t call strongly to him, man-to-woman. She was clearly mature for her age, and had morals and values because she went to the county office to find out who owned that caboose and then asked to rent it. He’d seen some vets who passed through the area in the summer who squatted and used the caboose, never asking if they could stay there or not. He liked her honesty.
“Well…”
He gestured toward the other end of the store. “Come on. It’s early and I don’t know about you, but hot coffee is something we can all use at this time of the morning.” Military people were coffee hounds of the first order. He saw her eyes widen momentarily, those thick dark lashes emphasizing them. Pleased, he saw the offer appealed to her.
“Sounds good, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Call me Travis and you can put the ‘sir’ away, too. I’m ex-Army. Are you?” he asked, walking down the length of the counter. He met her at the other end and opened the door to the tourist area of the shop. The waiting room was large, lots of wooden chairs with cushions spaced neatly around the perimeter. At one end was a long table filled with paper coffee cups, boxes of assorted teas, sugar, cream, and spoons, and a very expensive espresso machine. “Put your rucksack on a chair and have a seat,” he invited. Partly shutting the door, he went and turned the machine on. “Coffee? Espresso? What’s your poison?” He grinned a little, wanting the tension she carried to dissolve. He saw her gently set the fifty-pound pack on the floor next to the chair where she sat down.
“Just plain coffee is fine. Black. Thank you.”
Her manners were all military and Travis nodded, getting busy making her that coffee. “Reach over and grab yourself a donut or two,” he said, pointing to a box near where she was seated. “Help yourself. Alex Delgado, the daughter of Hector and Maria, now runs the bakery and she’s known as the queen of pastries around Hamilton. They all taste great.” Jesse was a tall, big boned woman and he noticed how the wrinkled Army jacket hung on her frame. He saw her look wistfully at the pastries and lick her full lower lip. Her hands were taut against the thighs of her jeans. She was hungry. The realization hit him hard. In black ops it was the little things, jigsaw puzzle pieces that alone, didn’t tell much. But as an operator in Afghanistan for far too long, it was all these tidbits that came together to paint a fuller picture of a situation. Or in the case of Jesse, that she was definitely an Army vet. There was no question in his mind about that.
Further, she had hesitated momentarily at the door to the coffee room to thoroughly evaluate it. This told him she was clearly an operator, not some office assistant. Maybe she was an intelligence officer or maybe an operator out in the field like himself? When she came into the room after sweeping it thoroughly in a moment with her gaze, she deliberately sat down in one corner, at the end of the table, her back up against a wall, facing the only exit door. An operator always did that. As he put the coffee into the machine, placing a white paper cup beneath the spout, he began to cobble more of her story together in his head. If she’d been in combat, more than likely she had PTSD. The fact that she wasn’t at home after leaving the Army told him that. He had many friends, ex-Delta operators, who had their marriages go bust after coming off a deployment because of the years of accumulated PTSD and being unable to adjust to civilian life again. They couldn’t go home to their parents, either, because they wouldn’t understand the flashbacks, the nightmares, and the ongoing anxiety they carried in them 24/7/365, either.
His mouth flexed in sympathy as he watched her from the corner of his eye. She rose in one fluid motion and picked up a paper napkin, her long, elegant-looking fingers hovering over the mouth-watering array of pastries. When she leaned over, her jacket opened and he saw she was wearing a desert tan shirt he was very familiar with. It was an operator’s shirt, with camouflage print on both long sleeves and a tan torso core of one color. Yeah, she was black ops, no question.
“Where were you stationed in Afghanistan?” he asked, turning and placing the steaming brew on the table next to where she’d sat down.
Jesse froze for a second, transfixed by the man’s large, slightly narrowed gray eyes as he buttonholed her with that question. His dark brown hair was cut military short, his beard clipped close, showing off his square face and giving him an air of dangerousness. Trying to slough off her shock that he knew what she was in the Army, she replied, “Nangarhar Province.” Tensing, she saw several emotions flit across his face. How the hell would he know that about her? She hadn’t answered his question earlier about being in the Army. The chocolate éclair teased her wide-open senses. Her mouth watered. The scent of the sugar, vanilla pudding and chocolate was too much to resist and she bit slowly into it, savoring it as if her life depended upon it. Closing her eyes, she made a humming sound in the back of her throat. The world stopped in that moment as she tasted the luscious, thick chocolate coating. She finally swallowed, feeling it hit her hungry stomach, the urgent amount of strength that it created within her as the glucose shot into her system.
Slowly, her senses moved outward once more and she heard Travis tinkering with the espresso machine, the fragrance of chocolate surrounding her as the machine hissed and steamed. Opening her eyes, she saw he was making a large mocha latte. He was a tall man, at least six feet and broad shouldered. The blue plaid, flannel cowboy shirt he wore stretched against his powerful chest, a black leather vest worn over the shirt. He was someone who was in top shape, probably in his late twenties, she would guess. There were a lot of crinkles at the corners of his gray eyes, telling her he was outside a lot. She liked his short dark brown hair that sported reddish strands among them.
She decided to take a closer inspection of him because no one was a mind reader. His hands were large, square and calloused. When he made a gesture, she saw that he sported a thick callous on the inside of his right index finger, his trigger finger. Black ops all had that telltale sign. She had it on hers, as well. And he might have spotted it on her hand after she’d removed her gloves. When she’d come into the store, she’d seen him suddenly shift almost invisibly, into a heightened space of alertness aimed at her. It was nothing obvious, but her senses were far too honed not to pick it up and now, she was beginning to put together that this man standing in a cowboy shirt, jeans and scarred, well-worn leather boots, was black ops himself, not regular Army—otherwise he wouldn’t have recognized who she was. Questions came, but she sat on them. Right now, she needed a place to rent. Besides, he’d probably find her personal questions rude.
Biting into the éclair once more, Jesse moved inward to appreciate all the wonderful tastes that bloomed in her mouth and wrapped deliciously around her tongue. She wanted to jam the rest of it into her mouth, barely chew it and grab a second and third one to sate her starvation. Hunger was something she dealt with constantly since getting out of the Army. Her manners won over on the purely Neanderthal reflex, and she focused on the fact that Travis Ramsey had been kind enough to offer her something to eat. Not to mention, the delicious hot coffee. Her stomach growled after she’d finished the éclair and she opened her eyes, embarrassed by the loud sound. She looked up, aware Travis had heard it too. He merely pointed to the box.
“Eat all you want.”
He hadn’t embarrassed her. He sauntered over, grabbed a donut and sat down, his back to the other wall nearby, opposite the partly-opened door. Inwardly, a sheet of relief started to avalanche through Jesse because she now knew without a doubt that Travis had been an operator. He had to be because of the question he’d asked her earlier. She chose a donut with white frosting and colorful sprinkles across it this time.
They ate in silence for the next few minutes. Jesse had the distinct sensation that he was giving her time to get food into her body and allow her to relax before opening up a conversation with her. She felt shame over the condition of her clothes, realizing she looked like a vagrant, not the combat soldier she’d been in her prime. Because Travis was an operator, he would easily have spotted her condition: so many other military vets like herself swam in a sea of confusion, depression and aimlessness after being separated from the military. He probably wondered if she had turned to alcohol or drugs to dull the anxiety that ate constantly at her. That would be a reason for him to not rent that caboose to her. Fear skittered through her over that last thought. How she wished she had done more than use the washcloth and soap she kept in her rucksack at the river before coming into town. She’d scrubbed her face, neck and hands. She had no toothpaste, so she’d taken a twig and gone around each tooth, cleaning it the best she could. Short hair was something that was mandatory for her combat missions. Now, she wished she looked more feminine, not so mannish. Jesse worried that he would see her as a risk, a problem, and might have second thoughts about renting that caboose to her. How badly she wanted that sweet little boxcar. It meant something so important to her she couldn’t even give it words. How to convince him she wasn’t a risk? That she wasn’t going to be a problem in his life? That she would take the very best care of that caboose he owned? The fear built up in her and she decided to confront it head on.
“I just got out of the Army three months ago,” she told him, holding his gaze. “I was an interpreter assigned to a Delta Force group out of Jalalabad. I was in from eighteen through age twenty-six. After graduating translation school, I was assigned on every deployment to that province. Most of the time, I was assigned to one of the snatch-and-grab teams and we saw a lot of combat. I was planning on staying in the Army for twenty and then getting out, but my PTSD accumulated and I couldn’t function at that high level any more. The Army gave me an honorable medical discharge. I went home to my parents in Billings, but that didn’t turn out like I’d hoped. I decided to strike out on my own and try to figure out how to reintegrate back into civilian life.” She looked around the room made of glowing cedar planks, the gold and crimson of the wood telling her it was very old because the color was so bold and beautiful. “I came to Hamilton because it was my favorite place when my parents came over here on vacation. I got a part-time job at Katie’s Koffee shop as a dish washer. I need to fit back into the world and I don’t know how to do it, but I figure dishwashing is a good place to start. It’s just me and a machine in the back room of that store. I don’t do well with crowds and I don’t do well under severe stress. If you could rent me that caboose, I’d take great care of it. I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, and I don’t touch alcohol.”
It felt as if all her life had flowed out of her in the emotional plea she’d just shared with this stranger. Travis didn’t feel like a stranger to her, though. He was a brother—she was sure he’d been in black ops and that was a very small, elite group in the military. Jesse assessed him as he munched on the donut, his gaze never leaving hers. With him she didn’t feel like a bug under a microscope. Instead, she felt as if they were kindred spirits because of their shared service experience. Black-ops people were a tight family. Their every move, their attention to detail, either kept those around them safe or opened them up to injury and possible death. Jesse saw a softness filter into his expression as she finished her rushed, almost breathless admittance to him. Ordinarily, she would never share any of these things with anyone, not even her parents. But there was an inner sense that Travis needed to know more about her in order to make his decision.
How badly she wanted that caboose! It was crazy! How could a beaten down old boxcar suddenly become so important to her? And why?
“You’ve been through a lot,” he murmured, voice deep with knowing.
“I think you have too.”
He managed a quirked once-sided uptick of his mouth. “Yes, I think we both have. I have a story to tell you about that old red caboose that’s sitting on our property. My grandfather, Hiram Ramsey, worked for the Union Pacific railroad for thirty-five years. When he retired, he and his wife Inez, had this old 1940s UP red caboose trucked up there and he sat it on a concrete slab. That meadow was his favorite place as a child growing up and when he retired, he told my father that he wanted to live there, fish, hike and enjoy his pastime, which was photography.” He wiped his hands off and dropped the napkin into the wastebasket beneath the table. “Inez, my grandmother, died before I returned home from the Army. And then he passed shortly after that. Since then, the caboose has not been taken care of. I got out of the Army three years ago and took over the business here with my father, Sam, who no longer acts as a fishing guide for the company. I thought he would care for the caboose because it was my grandparents’, but he didn’t do that. He just let it go. I try to do upkeep on it, but we’re busy from April 1 through mid-September. And then the snow usually dumps hard and fast and getting back to the caboose on a dirt road is pretty dicey and sometimes impossible, depending upon when we get blizzards through the area, which is pretty often.”
“I took an overland route paralleling the river when I discovered it. I didn’t come in via the road.”
“Well,” he said, amusement in his tone, “you’re not the ordinary civilian, either. You probably followed the river and stayed within the tree line so you couldn’t be seen. People like us don’t need roads to get to where we need to go.”
She squelched a grin and gave a slow nod. “You’re right. My years in black ops have changed me forever. I’ll never look at anything again without assessing its safety or danger to me.”
He scratched his head and flashed a dry look in her direction. “Yeah. For sure.”
“So? This caboose is a much-loved family heirloom?” she guessed.
“Probably means more to me than to my father. He never got along well with my grandfather. I was more or less raised by Hiram when he was home from his railroad duties. He was the one to teach me tracking, living off the land and how to stay alive. Sometimes, I think he had a premonition that I’d be in black ops someday and would need that kind of life-saving knowledge passed on to me.”
She finished the donut and then drained her coffee cup. Wiping her mouth with the napkin, she said, “The feeling I got around the caboose was that there was something special, something good, about it…maybe a lot of happy memories.” She shrugged.
“A ton of good things,” Travis agreed, his voice thickening for a moment. “He and my grandmother were special in my life. Still are and always will be. Everything they collected over the years in that caboose meant something special to them. Each thing had a story behind it. I wanted to keep it because it was a place where good family memories still dwell.”
She pushed her damp palms down her thighs. “Would you consider me renting it on a monthly basis? I could do a lot of work, get it cleaned up, the windows washed, the place swept and the dust removed, as part of my rent?”
“Music to my ears,” Travis said. “Off and on, there’s been squatters who would use that boxcar as a place to live during the summer season. I try to go out monthly and check up on it because next spring I was planning on putting a new roof on it. Most of the guys who lived in it without permission were vets wandering through the area. They were on drugs or alcohol, doing more damage than anything else to the caboose. I asked them to leave and they would. I felt bad about it, but they were wrecking my grandparents’ home, not caring for it.” He studied her in the ensuing silence. “You’ll take care of it. I know that.”
Her heart leaped with hope. “I promise you, I will, Mr. Ramsey.” She hated that she suddenly found her voice wobbling with unchecked emotions, showing just how badly she wanted to rent the boxcar.
“Remember? Call me Travis. No more sir and no more Mr. Ramsey. Okay?”
“Yes…thanks…it’s just been drilled into me by the Army.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I got that. It’s okay if you talk in Zulu time to me, though. I’ve been out three years and I still talk in Zulu, twenty-four-hour clock, not civilian time.”
She managed a slight laugh. “I’m glad to know that. I’m having a terrible time with stopping my military lingo, too.”
“That’s the nice thing about vets working with vets. We know the same foreign language and don’t have to translate it to each other like we do our civilian family and friends.”
“You’re right.” Just knowing a little bit of the history of that red caboose endeared it to her even more. Why? Why did it have such a mesmerizing hold over her? “There’s something so calming about your grandparents’ home. I can’t explain it, Travis,” she blurted. She pressed her hand to her heart. “I can’t put it into words. It’s as if that caboose is filled with magic just waiting to bloom once again. That’s the feeling I get.”
He wiped his mouth and looked up, pointing to a color photo above the door. “That’s my grandfather, Hiram. Red hair, red beard, blue eyes and full of risk taking and adventure. He was always putting something into that caboose from all his journeys across the United States. He was a conductor for UP, and he spent thirty-five years of his life living in a caboose. I think him wanting one to live out the rest of his life in was just a continuation of his dreams, his great memories and the many experiences he had. I always loved sitting at his feet as he rocked in his rocking chair, telling me those stories. So yes, I think their caboose has many, many good, hopeful stories filling it. Maybe you can feel that?”
“Yes, I felt all of that.” And more, but Jesse couldn’t find the right words to describe what she was picking up on. “I felt hope in their home. I know that sounds silly, but the last three months have been a special kind of hell for me. When I stumbled upon the caboose and approached it, I felt as if this invisible umbrella of hope and safety had descended upon me once more. I’m sure it sounds crazy…”
“No,” he interrupted. “Not at all. My grandfather came from Scandinavian Viking blood, and was also half Irish. His side of the family came to America in the 1800s. He was born in New York. Then, his family moved to Montana after that. He met my grandmother, Inez, here in Hamilton. He’s told me so many stories of the Irish fairies, the gnomes and elves that lived in Ireland. One time, he said they lived with them in and around the caboose. I never saw them, but he did. He used to tell me about them by name and describe each one of them. He was magical in some ways. When I was having issues with my father as a teenager, I used to go over to his home here in Hamilton and stay with them on weekends. They always liked taking care of me and my younger brother, Kyle.” Becoming somber suddenly, he said, “Look, I’ll let you stay there rent free if you can help me clean it up and make it fully livable again. I’ll pay for the materials to fix it up, the propane, and I’ll get a quiet generator out there so you have electricity. I’ll pay for the gasoline to run it, too. I believe you when you say you’ll take care of it. Black-ops people aren’t prone to lying and they understand a woman or man’s word has their personal honor and truth backing it up.”
Hot tears stung her lids and Jesse swallowed hard to fight them back. “Thanks for giving me a chance, Travis. I won’t let you down.”