June 1977(5)

"Motley crew," she said.

"Motleyest in a while," I said.

"I don't think that's a word."

"Maybe not. Woulda been had Webster ever visited Montana."

"Bikers and miners and drunks, oh my!" she said.

"And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the navy and probably will be for life," I sang.

She spritzed carbonated water from the soda gun into a glass and raised it. "May we be who our dogs think we are." Mac, her black-and-white mutt behind the bar, grunted.

I racked my brain for a decent toast that wouldn't offend her, but nothing I'd picked up in prep school or the Marines quali-fied. Not that she was paying attention. She, along with a couple of the bar creeps, had turned toward the door. So I looked too.

A young blond woman wearing the kind of gray tailored suit you'd see on the streets of Manhattan-not in rural Montana—had just entered. I must have been drunker than I thought, because she looked exactly like my sister. But she couldn't be my sister. My sister had no idea where I was. My sister was in DC, and I was hiding here, where she'd never find me. I squinted, and the woman locked eyes with me and gave me my sister's goofy grin.

"Holy fucking shit," I said.

"Ike!" She ran across the room, flung herself into my arms, and squeezed the breath out of me. I hugged her too, pretending I was happy she was here. I was, in a way.

She leaned back to get a better look at me and tugged at the beard I'd grown. "Not Marine Corps regulation."

"How the fuck did you find me?"

Her nose wrinkled at the curse, then she smiled. "I'm a reporter, stupid."