Standing in the slush-filled parking lot on Friday, Frankie unhappily studied the restaurant-bar in front of her. It was a massive building made of logs with a sign on the front: Bull’s Moose Roadhouse. Thankfully, there was a HELP WANTED sign in a front window.

This was her last chance to get a job.

Over the last day, she’d worked on the items on her to-do list: Gather information, secure a place to stay, and find work.

The information gathering would be an ongoing and long process. With her first attempt, the postmistress and other store owners had been easy to lead into gossiping about the Patriot Zealots, commonly called PZs. It seemed that the men from the compound showed up in Rescue often enough. The women didn’t get out much except for shopping at the grocery store—with male escorts. The women weren’t allowed to drive, and the children didn’t attend public school.

Anger burned in Frankie’s stomach at the thought of little Aric being subjected to the fanatics. Damned if she’d let that continue.

List item two was easily achieved. Dante, the grocery store owner, had several lakeside cabins he rented to fishermen, but the season hadn’t started yet. She questioned her sanity about living in a rustic log cabin, but Dante’d assured her that the Chicago woman he’d rented to last year had loved the place.

Frankie shook her head. Whenever one of the locals looked at her, she knew they were thinking city girl.

At least she’d managed to avoid a thick New York accent. Growing up with a Norwegian mother and Italian father, being around models from everywhere had helped. If anything, she sounded Italian, thanks to spending summers in Italy with her grandmother—and imitating Nonna. Having discarded her own Norwegian language like last year’s apparel, Mama didn’t approve.

Papà had laughed and taught her new swear words.

Her mother would be even more appalled about Frankie applying for a job in a bar. However, waitressing was something Frankie knew how to do. Thank you, Kit. When Kit first arrived at college and started work in a restaurant, the quiet, shy eighteen-year-old had been overwhelmed. So, Frankie’d gotten a job at the same place, thinking she’d work there long enough for Kit to relax. Even after Kit grew comfortable with the restaurant, Frankie remained—because she’d loved it. Loved everything from washing dishes, bussing tables, waitressing and hostessing, to working in the kitchen on the line. She’d even graduated to being one of the chefs, now and then. A restaurant was a totally different atmosphere than her mama’s image-happy modeling company.