Page 19 of All Along The Watchtower

Her floppy ears perked.

“Assume the position.”

She raced into the kitchen and plopped her butt to the floor, tail swishing. I crossed over and dug out a biscuit. “Good girl.”

She nipped it out of my hand.

I realized Peyton still stood in the open door. “Come on in. Let me feed her, and I’ll sort out what we’re gonna have.” Maybe I should’ve had my kitchen staff prep something for us, but I’d been in too big a hurry to get her out.

Peyton shut the door, and I pretended not to notice her looking everywhere at once, taking in my space while I scooped kibble into a bowl. I wondered what she saw. I wasn’t exactly a decorator. My place was a hodgepodge of furniture that was more about comfort than cohesion. I spent so much of my time at the Brewhouse that I didn’t concern myself overmuch with how things looked here.

Eventually, the girl came into the kitchen while I was poking around the fridge and freezer in search of something for dinner. I didn’t have much. Owning a restaurant, I usually had most of my meals there. Other than breakfast.

“How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Peyton slid onto one of the barstools at the counter, easing the backpack to the floor by her feet. “Pancakes?”

“I can do pancakes.” It wasn’t precisely nutritious, but I wasn’t aiming for parent of the year here. I just wanted to see the kid got fed. I wondered when her last meal had been.

I began pulling out ingredients.

“Why are you helping me?”

Eggs in hand, I glanced back at her. “As I said before, I’ve been where you are. I never knew my dad, either. My mom died when I was eight, and I got put into the system until they found my grandfather, and he brought me here.” I began measuring out pancake mix, keeping my voice casual. “It’s a scary place to be.”

I doubted I’d earned enough trust to get her to talk about whether she’d had any problematic experiences in the foster system, but I wanted to open the door in case she had.

Peyton shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. They weren’t mean or anything.”

Nothing in her posture or expression suggested she was hiding anything. For her sake, I hoped like hell it was true.

I couldn’t resist satisfying at least some of my curiosity as I mixed the pancake batter. “How did you even know to come here? Did your mom tell you about Ford?”

“No. Never.” Peyton traced patterns on my counter with her finger. “But after she… after she died, I was going through her stuff, and I found some letters she wrote him. She never sent them.”

My hand stilled on the whisk. “Letters?”

“I guess maybe she felt guilty about never telling him about me, and every year she wrote him a letter talking about me. She talked about vacationing here on Hatterwick and meeting him. I took a chance that he was still here.”

My stomach turned at how differently this could have played out. What if she’d arrived after Ford had left the Navy and moved somewhere else? What if she’d run into someone who didn’t know him? The possibilities made me ill.

I forced myself to pour batter into the heated skillet, keeping my voice steady. “Smart and resourceful. That’s something else you have in common with your dad.”

“You said you were friends.” There was a question in her voice.

“Growing up, yes.” I focused on the forming bubbles in the pancake. “He’s been in the Navy for a long time now.”

“What’s he like?”

This was absolutely the last thing I wanted to talk about, but I knew the girl was hungry for any scrap of information. I understood what that was like.

I flipped the pancakes, buying time to organize my thoughts. “He’s… kind. Always has been. The sort who’d drop everything to help someone in need.” Like he was doing now. “He was a track star in high school. Got a scholarship to Georgia for it.”

The spatula trembled in my hand as memories flooded back. Ford helping Pop repair the old sign back when the Brewhouse had been the Tidewater Tavern. Ford teaching the younger kids to swim at the community pool. Ford defending kids getting picked on. It was how we’d met. When he’d intervened with a bully getting up in my face about my lack of parents. He’d handed that kid his ass and become my shield, my confidant, my everything.

I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed through the pain. When I was sure my voice would be steady, I kept going. “He’s funny too. Quick with a joke, but never mean ones.” I slid the first stack of pancakes onto a plate. “And loyal. To his family, his friends.”

Until he wasn’t.

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