place, he could park wherever he wanted.
She managed to maneuver her way out of the drivewaywithout scratching either vehicle and headed up Main Street past the green toward the back road up to Cameron Mountain.
After the bar fight in March, Bowie had slipped out the back before the police arrived at O’Rourke’s. Drew Cameron had gone out to the hollow the next morning to find him.
Hannah was already there.
Drew had tried to talk her into going back to town. She hadn’t listened. Instead she’d led him through the woods out to an old cellar hole down by the river. It was where Bowie had always gone to escape his drunken father. As she and Drew picked their way through the mud and wet snow, he had moved steadily, no sign the uneven terrain or conditions bothered him in his late seventies.
“In the old days,” he’d said, “you could have a scuffle in a bar, and if no one was seriously hurt, all was forgotten. Lessons were learned. People figured out who they could mess with and who they couldn’t. Nowadays…” He’d shrugged, not finishing his thought. “Bowie’s been in trouble before. He knows what he has to do.”
They’d found him standing in the mud at the edge of the cellar hole. The outer foundation wall and the caved-in chimney were all that remained of the tiny, original nineteenth-century house. His back to them, Bowie stared through the trees down at the river, the water high with runoff from the melting snow in the mountains and huge chunks of ice up on the banks as spring slowly came to Vermont.
“Wes Harper has a warrant for your arrest,” Drew said. “He’s on his way.”
“Sean and Elijah and A.J. weren’t involved. The three of them can finish any fight anyone starts.”
Drew nodded thoughtfully. “They can. So can you. That’s not the point, though, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“They gave statements. Hannah here did, too.”
Bowie continued to stare at the river. “I’ll go.” He’d turned to Drew. “Give me a ten-minute head start. I don’t want Hannah to see.” Then he’d turned to her. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, Bowie. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“If I hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened.”
“You don’t know that,” he’d said, and started up the mix of snow and mud toward the road.
Drew put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
She’d managed a smile. “Not in front of a Cameron.”
“Sean’s going back to California in the morning. The police have his statement.”
“Do you want me to pack him some scones?”
She immediately regretted her bite of sarcasm. Drew dropped his hand back to his side and didn’t smile. When he’d first heard about Three Sisters Café, he hadn’t understood the day-to-day appeal of things like hand-ground coffee, scones and “comfort food” that could be made at home. Nonetheless, he’d been the café’s first customer. He’d ordered a buttermilk scone and wished the three “sisters” well, leaving a ten-dollar tip and going on his way, never to return.
His eyes—the same riveting blue as the eyes of all four of his children—had stayed on Hannah that cold March morning as if he could see right through her to all her fears and secrets. She’d noticed the lines in his face, the shape of his jaw that she’d noticed more in A.J. than any of his other children.
“You’ll make a good prosecutor,” he’d said. “You’re a gentle soul who believes in getting to the truth, but that’s not why. You don’t let your emotions dictate your actions.”
“Don’t I?”
“You could have let Bowie run.”
“No, I couldn’t have. That’s what you’ve never understood about me. I’m not here to preserve my options for the future. I showed you here because Bowie’s a friend.”
Instead of being offended or irritated, Drew had seemed satisfied. “He won’t necessarily see it that way when he’s sitting
She managed to maneuver her way out of the drivewaywithout scratching either vehicle and headed up Main Street past the green toward the back road up to Cameron Mountain.
After the bar fight in March, Bowie had slipped out the back before the police arrived at O’Rourke’s. Drew Cameron had gone out to the hollow the next morning to find him.
Hannah was already there.
Drew had tried to talk her into going back to town. She hadn’t listened. Instead she’d led him through the woods out to an old cellar hole down by the river. It was where Bowie had always gone to escape his drunken father. As she and Drew picked their way through the mud and wet snow, he had moved steadily, no sign the uneven terrain or conditions bothered him in his late seventies.
“In the old days,” he’d said, “you could have a scuffle in a bar, and if no one was seriously hurt, all was forgotten. Lessons were learned. People figured out who they could mess with and who they couldn’t. Nowadays…” He’d shrugged, not finishing his thought. “Bowie’s been in trouble before. He knows what he has to do.”
They’d found him standing in the mud at the edge of the cellar hole. The outer foundation wall and the caved-in chimney were all that remained of the tiny, original nineteenth-century house. His back to them, Bowie stared through the trees down at the river, the water high with runoff from the melting snow in the mountains and huge chunks of ice up on the banks as spring slowly came to Vermont.
“Wes Harper has a warrant for your arrest,” Drew said. “He’s on his way.”
“Sean and Elijah and A.J. weren’t involved. The three of them can finish any fight anyone starts.”
Drew nodded thoughtfully. “They can. So can you. That’s not the point, though, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“They gave statements. Hannah here did, too.”
Bowie continued to stare at the river. “I’ll go.” He’d turned to Drew. “Give me a ten-minute head start. I don’t want Hannah to see.” Then he’d turned to her. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, Bowie. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“If I hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened.”
“You don’t know that,” he’d said, and started up the mix of snow and mud toward the road.
Drew put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
She’d managed a smile. “Not in front of a Cameron.”
“Sean’s going back to California in the morning. The police have his statement.”
“Do you want me to pack him some scones?”
She immediately regretted her bite of sarcasm. Drew dropped his hand back to his side and didn’t smile. When he’d first heard about Three Sisters Café, he hadn’t understood the day-to-day appeal of things like hand-ground coffee, scones and “comfort food” that could be made at home. Nonetheless, he’d been the café’s first customer. He’d ordered a buttermilk scone and wished the three “sisters” well, leaving a ten-dollar tip and going on his way, never to return.
His eyes—the same riveting blue as the eyes of all four of his children—had stayed on Hannah that cold March morning as if he could see right through her to all her fears and secrets. She’d noticed the lines in his face, the shape of his jaw that she’d noticed more in A.J. than any of his other children.
“You’ll make a good prosecutor,” he’d said. “You’re a gentle soul who believes in getting to the truth, but that’s not why. You don’t let your emotions dictate your actions.”
“Don’t I?”
“You could have let Bowie run.”
“No, I couldn’t have. That’s what you’ve never understood about me. I’m not here to preserve my options for the future. I showed you here because Bowie’s a friend.”
Instead of being offended or irritated, Drew had seemed satisfied. “He won’t necessarily see it that way when he’s sitting
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