The Good Son
Evan Reid steps off a train in Montesano, a raw timber town on the edge of America’s last frontier. He has crossed 7,000 miles to escape a decade of war, but the smell of burning villages still follows him into his sleep. His brother Eric has promised him land, a fresh start, and a quiet life. Yet Eric is mysteriously “away on business,” and the people of Chehalis County are already watching the newcomer who carries his rifle like a man who has used it.
Set against towering old-growth forests, booming mill ports, and the restless ambition of the Pacific Northwest, The Good Son is a gripping historical thriller about friendship, loyalty, and the violence a man can never quite leave behind. It asks one haunting question: how does a man look for peace and end up hunting another through the wilderness?
Part I: The Journey
The smoke lied to him.
Slipping into his dreams, whispering campfire promises of warmth and safety, it lulled him and he smiled. But suddenly the stench of burning bodies filled his nose and the roar of burning houses poured into his ears. He moaned, choked, and his eyes snapped open.
Two inches from his eyes the window showed him only peace: green on green valleys lifting to dark-forested hills wrapped with mist like the breath of elves. The door of the train car banged open and the hammer of steel on steel blared around him. Even as he flinched it slammed again, cutting off the clangor, and he sat up, staring at his shaking hands.
He swore softly. Four years and 7,000 miles and he still smelled it and heard it, still felt the glares of hatred like thrown stones. He rubbed his face and rose, swaying from more than the motion of the train. The world lurched again and he braced himself, slid the window open, and shoved his head out into the wind.
Part 2: A Fresh Start
Montesano wasn’t big, but from the station the town looked to have a good start on busy. It lifted north from the parallels of river and rail to a bench of land cluttered with the beginnings of a substantial stone building that, fully formed, would probably make a courthouse of imposing proportions. Nearer, the town reflected its heritage: even the sidewalks were wooden. Walking up from the station he noted a few motorcars but most of the traffic was still horse-drawn. Iron tires ground horse droppings and gravel into an earthy flour tingeing everything. It was a familiar smell.
As he walked, he mused on what he knew of his new home. Seattle to the north, Olympia to the east, and the mill-fired ports of Aberdeen and Hoquiam ten miles to the west were all bigger. The first was already closing in on being the biggest timber port in America and her sister was not far behind. But Eric’s letters were proud of the future of the seat of Chehalis County, praising its position astride the only rail line linking the coastal ports and the rest of the country. It was, Eric bragged, positioned perfectly to feed – and feed from - both.
Part 3: Survival
Heat licked his fingertips and he hesitated. Batting smoke from his eyes with one hand, he draped a strip of elk meat over the makeshift drying rack. Rocking back, he watched the foot-long strip dangle, then drop into the embers. He grabbed for the precious food, gathering coals with the meat and yelped in pain. Immediately every frog in the tiny wetland went silent.
Nursing his burned fingers, he glanced warily at the sky. He was pleased to see the trees were dispersing the smoke from his tiny fire. If there were any watchers he hoped they would think the rising gray was just fog. He knew there were men hunting him. He just didn’t know how many or where they were. Still, he had to have meat and he couldn’t afford either the noise or the ammunition to make a kill every time he needed food. So he dried meat from any animal he took, risking a small fire to eke out the time between kills.