The Blood of Patriots by William W. Johnstone

soft. She obviously didn’t want Megan to hear. “That’s why we’re no longer together, remember?”
    â€œYou won’t let me forget.”
    â€œOh, right. This is my fault.”
    â€œIt’s nobody’s ‘fault.’ It’s just the way things are. But Megan doesn’t have to suffer because of what went on between us—”
    â€œNo,” Joanne agreed. “And she’s not going to suffer for what you do now, promising to take her somewhere, then running off.”
    â€œThis is her community—”
    â€œAnd you were trying to fix it, I know. God, I’m so sick of that. Would anything have turned out differently up there if you’d skipped the testosterone rush and taken your daughter out when you said you would?”
    There was no point trying to explain to Joanne what had transpired, how it had made him feel. And even if he could communicate that, she wasn’t wrong; he had done this at Megan’s expense.
    â€œIs she coming?”
    â€œShe’s doing her homework,” Joanne said.
    Ward pressed his lips together and glared at Joanne and stood there waiting for her to come up with something less ridiculous. She yielded somewhat.
    â€œAre you staying over long enough to have breakfast with her?” she asked.
    â€œYeah,” Ward said. “What time does school start?”
    â€œEight.”
    â€œI’ll be here at seven,” he said. “Little picnic, then I’ll get her to school.”
    â€œFine.”
    Joanne started to close the door. Ward stopped it with the heel of his hand.
    â€œYou make me feel like a bad man,” he said. “I’m not.”
    â€œNo, you’re not,” she agreed. “But that’s not the same as being a good father . Or husband.”
    Joanne leaned into the door and Ward removed his hand. It shut with a gentle click. Ward stood on the small wooden patio, surrounded by loneliness, the soft vanilla scent of wisteria hanging from the pergola, and the feeling that despite all that supposed testosterone, he was somehow half a man. He was pissed that his former wife still had the power to make him feel that way.
    That’s why athletes and movie stars get trophy wives , he thought as he stalked back to the car. After you agree to an allowance there’s nothing left to debate .
    Ward drove back to the Basalt Regency Inn and ate at the small coffee shop in the back. He considered going to Papa Vito’s but decided he was too tired to listen to tales of the town. Besides, he didn’t know if he wanted to be that close to the Al Huda Center. Not just now. Most important, he wanted to think. Since the confrontation in Battery Park he hadn’t stopped moving—from Muslim accusers, from cops who were for-or-against him, from reporters. He had walked, flown, driven almost nonstop with no real idea where he was going, only what he was leaving.
    Now he was still. And in those first moments of calm, waiting for his dinner in the nearly deserted café, he realized several things. For the second time in his life, a chapter had closed. The first was his divorce; now, for the first time in his adult life, he had no job, no career. He was one of the vast unemployed of the ailing nation. He wasn’t simply a visitor in Basalt, someone just passing through a quaint Midwestern community. They were, all of them, hurting, floundering Americans—
    Don’t do this , he thought suddenly. Don’t wallow . Despair was counterproductive. Just get some sleep, see your daughter, and think about what you’ll do when you get back. Either fight the charges or put the NYPD in your rear view mirror and get a job in security somewhere. Or do what you joked about not doing, blogging or becoming the voice of sanity on FM radio somewhere.
    His cheeseburger and french fries arrived. The meat was plentiful and the trans-fat ban obviously hadn’t reached Basalt. Half of what