Redwood Bend

of the forest—a variety of birds, rustling, the occasional caw or quack—lulled her and she let her eyes close. No growling, she observed.
Burlington had been so much quieter than Sacramento, but this—this was almost the wilderness. Having been raised in a city, Katie had no idea why the pristine and barely populated parts of the country held such appeal for her. She really hoped to take the boys to visit all those national wonders when they got a little older—Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Big Sur. Katie and Conner’s parents had taken them to Yosemite when they were young and she never wanted to leave. Conner had looked up the face of El Capitan at the climbers and nearly passed out. He could barely stand on a ladder, heights made him so woozy, but Katie wouldn’t mind learning rock climbing. The idea of scaling El Capitan had thrilled her. She had looked up that sheer rock at the climbers who spent the night in sleeping bags suspended from stakes pounded into the flat face of the rock and had envied them.
Even though she was a small girl, she was the athlete in the family and had planned a life of running a girls’ gym in a school, that’s what she’d studied. She had a degree in Phys Ed. Nothing could make her happier than going to work every day in a pair of shorts and sneakers with a whistle around her neck.
But she hadn’t done any of these things. Instead she’d buried both parents, finished college, helped run the store, married a Green Beret and had twin boys—kind of a full plate.
By four o’clock, not only was her little cabin in the woods in perfect order, her boys were in good moods because they’d had some downtime. She’d had some quiet herself and was giving serious thought to never buying a TV. Freshly showered and ready for dinner, she loaded the boys into the SUV and headed for her brother’s. Leslie wasn’t home from work yet, so Conner jumped in Katie’s car and they drove the two blocks to Jack’s. When she pulled up beside a neat little row of motorcycles she said, “Well, look at that, Conner. You’re going to meet our motorcycle gang.”

Three

I t was a whole new scene at the bar now that Preacher knew Walt and his gang were in town. Walt planned on having every evening meal with Preacher and Preacher was clearly showing off. The cook was in the bar as opposed to the kitchen, which was not typical. “Tonight my best of show—stuffed trout. Trout’s fresh—at least what you’re getting is fresh. Me and Jack stood in the river this morning, reeling it in. Rice and cornbread stuffing, squash, onion and pepper side from Jilly Farms… You probably don’t know about Jilly Farms—she grows organic heirloom fruits and vegetables and her sister, a chef, cans a lot and makes up special sauces and bisques, which I’m willing to take off her hands—the flavor of these vegetables is beyond good.”
“Bring it on!” Walt said, causing his pals to laugh. “Can’t wait to hear about tomorrow night. What are the chances you’ll have some of that seafood bouillabaisse again while I’m in town?”
“Aw, sorry man—not unless lobster tail and scallops go on special at Costco. Otherwise it’s just too high dollar for this camp.”
“I’ll get it,” Walt said, with a fist on the bar. “How much do you need?”
Preacher looked startled. “If you’re serious, it takes a lot to make it right. A case of each, fresh not frozen. And ask how long it’s been on ice. Sniff it—I want you to smell the meat, not bottom of a boat or shipping crates. Can you do that?”
“I can do that,” Walt said. “This is an exceptional nose. I’ll make these old boys a map for their ride and head to Costco. If they don’t have what I need…”
“If they don’t have it fresh, go to the fish markets in Eureka—the closer to the marina the better.”
“Done!” Walt said. “You boys won’t mind too much, will you? You’ll get payback when you eat.”
“We’re good,” Dylan said with a laugh.
“How was today?” Jack asked. “You had sun.”
“Awesome. There are some back roads along the cliffs right on the ocean. Good ride. There are a million logging trucks out there. They take up the whole road and then blast their horn at us.”
“That’s just a friendly hello. Don’t you boys have loggers in Montana?”
“Our friends are mostly ranchers or loggers,” Lang said. “Cutting back on the logging a little these days, and we were growing dude ranches like