What the hell. He sat at the near-empty bar and ordered a beer. Then another. He was feeling sorry for himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw a woman, probably in her sixties, standing behind him. She had long, silvery hair, large brown eyes, and her tanned skin was barely wrinkled.
She introduced herself as an artist who had moved to Montana from New York. She had a bright smile and infectious laugh and a keen sense of humor, which she displayed in describing the cultural differences between the two places. Schroeder was so taken with her that he forgot to introduce himself.
“I detect a slight accent,” she said.
Schroeder was about to go into his usual reply, that he was a Swede named Arne Svensen, but he stopped himself. There would have to come a time when he began to trust other human beings, and it might as well be now. “You have a good ear. I am Austrian. My name is Karl Schroeder.”
“Nice to meet you, Karl,” she said with a demure smile. “I'd like to go trout fishing, but I don't know where. Could you recommend a reliable guide?”
Schroeder gave her a big-toothed grin.
“Yes,” he said. “I know just the man for you.”
Clive Cussler, Polar Shift
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends