Page 3 of The Cold Ride

When they reached me, I flipped through them, reading the names.

Moira Kelly.

Rory Ryder.

Beth Ryder.

Paige Ryder.

And Nora Ryder.

Fuck me. He wanted us to deliver a letter to Rory. I would literally rather go anywhere else in the world. I’d rather go back to Afghanistan and be surrounded by the Taliban than stop by her place and give her Evan’s letter, not after everything. But it’s what Evan wanted, so I would do it.

“Did you not hear what he asked of us?” Aiden asked Ben like he was two beers shy of a six-pack.

“Yeah, to hand deliver them,” Ben replied with a shrug.

“No, fool. He wanted us to go together, as a crew, one last time,” Lucas stated and took a swig of beer.

“I’ve only got a month's leave before I start my new assignment.” Ben studied us.

Aiden glanced up from the stack of letters he’d been thumbing through. “We’ve all got the time to take. I say we do it. I’m ready.”

I didn’t want to see Rory. But if that’s what Evan had asked of us, I couldn’t say no. I shrugged and rose from the table to retrieve another beer from one of the coolers. “We can do it in chunks, if necessary, between deployments and assignments.”

Wyatt scowled fiercely. “Speak for yourself, numb nuts. My life is my own in three months’ time. But I’m up for some government-paid leave.”

“Okay, so the five of us are going to do this?” Ben asked, glancing around the table.

“Yeah. We travel light. Take the bikes. And hand deliver each one. We can leave tomorrow,” Lucas said, all fired up, his enthusiasm palpable.

A final cross-country trip with these guys before we all headed off to our new assignments wasn’t a bad idea. Hell, it could be fun, with one minor exception along the way.

Wyatt eyed us with suspicion. “Y’all sure you want to do this? I can take them once I’m retired in three months. I don’t mind.”

“No offense, but shut the fuck up. We’re all going,” Ben insisted, his resolve as clear as day, and held up his beer in a salute. “For Evan.”

Aiden, Lucas, and I lifted our beers in agreement. “For Evan.”

And we all glanced at Wyatt, who sighed in resignation and said, “Fuck it. For Evan,” and toasted us with his beer.

We were doing it. One final ride—for Evan.

2

Bangor, Maine

One of these days I’d accomplish everything on my to-do list and have time to relax.

Only it’s not today. And tomorrow didn’t look good either. There wasn’t a time in my memory when I wasn’t overworked and exhausted. Worn out didn’t begin to describe how drained I’d become. I could sit on my couch and do nothing but stare at the wall for a month solid. Then at the end of that month, my brain would say something along the lines of,Oh man, was it good for you too?

Owning a small inn near the waterfront came with its challenges, some more difficult than others. But the hundred-year-old Victorian had seen better days. The Roseberry Garden Inn was currently closed due to repairs.

Three weeks ago, a snowstorm roared into the area with ferocious winds and multiple feet of snow. It was par for the course here in Maine. But the inn lost power and the generator shorted out. With below-zero temperatures, the ancient pipes had burst and flooded the basement and parts of the first floor.

While the destruction hadn’t been catastrophic to the point the inn had to be demolished, the basement and main floor had sustained significant damage. At least the foundation hadn’t been harmed, which was some of the only good news I received during the insurance inspection.

This place would continue to be closed to guests until the remodel was complete. But with no money coming in without paying guests, I was waffling on whether I could continue holding onto the property or if I should sell it.

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