Home to Stay (The Long Road Home #2) - Maryann Jordan Page 0,18

could get rowdy on a Friday night but remembered Gramps had told him that the crotchety owner was a Desert Storm veteran and ran the bar that his father, the original Moose, had started when he’d come back from the Vietnam War.

Pulling into the parking lot, he was surprised at the number of cars. “Has this place gotten more popular?”

Gramps climbed out of the truck and slammed the door. “Bunch of young locals convinced Moose that he should occasionally have musicians come in and play. Who the hell needs to listen to anything but a jukebox playing in the background of a bar?”

They walked to the front, and he held the door open as his grandfather stepped inside. Looking around, John was glad to see that the small band had set up in the back corner, most of the listeners there as well. Other than the musicians, the interior hadn’t changed since the last time he was there. The wooden floor was still scuffed and the wooden bar, while clean, had a few more dents.

Before he had a chance to ask about Gramps’ friend, his grandfather’s face broke into a wide smile and he tossed his hand into the air. Glancing to the side, John spied an older, barrel-chested man, his gunmetal gray hair cut high and tight. He couldn’t help but grin as Gramps hustled over to the table. Following along, he was thankful that the other man had snagged a regular table and not a high top, probably in deference to his grandfather. The two older men shook hands and Gramps settled himself into the chair, inclining his head toward the one next to him for John to take. He would have preferred his left side be next to the wall but took the chair offered, knowing he would have to glance to the side more often to make sure he could see everything around.

“Horace, I’d like you to meet my grandson, John. John, this is a good friend of mine, Horace Tiddle.”

He reached across the table, taking the man’s hand, receiving a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Horace laughed and shook his head. “Call me Horace. Sir was for the officers in the military, not me, and now, as a civilian, it just makes me feel old.”

“What service?”

“Navy. SEAL.”

A chin lift was his acknowledgment of the man’s accomplishments, knowing it would be understood.

After ordering their beer, Horace turned his attention to John. “I understand you're recently out of the Army? Special Forces?”

“Yes, sir— Horace.” He reached up and touched the scar by his eye, for the first time not feeling self-conscious. “Took some shrapnel, and while surgery saved my sight, I have no peripheral vision on that side. It’s kind of like having a black spot always there.”

Horace nodded slowly. “I know that’s gotta be hard, John. I had injuries but nothing that warranted a medical discharge. Although, I admit at the time I got out my body was feeling every ache and pain.”

“I was in sixteen years, so I understand.”

A smiling server brought their beer over, and while the band began to play in the background, the three men continued to chat. He discovered that Gramps and Horace had met at the local American Legion Chapter and from their conversation divined that it was not a dying membership.

“It’s not a super-active chapter,” Horace admitted, “but there are plenty of young men and women who moved into the area or came back home that participate.”

John leaned back in his chair, sipping his beer and listening to the music, surprised to discover the band played decent covers and a few originals.

“So, John, what are your plans? Rupert told me you’ve been working on his place, which I know he’s grateful for. But do you have any specific job plans now that you’re out of the Army?”

Once again, he found that with Horace he didn’t feel the same sense of frustration that he usually did. “I wish I could give you a definitive answer but I don’t have one. I’d planned on finishing my years in, and if my body held out, do a few more. I never wanted a desk job, but I’d thought I might go into training others.”

Gramps piped up, “I told him that security clearance ought to be worth something. All he learned, all the missions he went on, he can plan, think fast on his feet, smart as a whip.”

It was nice to hear the pride in Gramps’ voice, and John shook his