by Rachel Lee
As she watched, she could see fatigue pulling him down. His eyelids were growing heavy and caffeine wasn’t doing a bit to help. “Why don’t you take a nap,” she suggested. “I’ll wake you for dinner, but you looked wiped.”
He didn’t argue, merely gave her a wan smile and let her show him the bedroom in back. His limp, she noticed, had grown even more pronounced than when he came into the house. Tired and hurting. She hoped he’d sleep.
* * *
Gil didn’t sleep. He pulled off his boots, then stretched out carefully on the colorful quilt that covered the twin bed on one side of the room. As Miri had advised him, her home office occupied one corner. An older computer occupied most of the desk, but there was a side table stacked high with papers, and leaning against it was a backpack that looked to be full. Several instrument cases lined the wall on the far side.
He still wasn’t sure exactly what had drawn him here, unless it was memories of Al. He had needed to get away from his family, all of whom were pushing him to take medical retirement. He didn’t feel right about that. He might be confined to a desk after this—hell, probably would—but he still had buddies in the unit, and even from a desk he could look out for them. He owed them something, just as he owed something to all the friends he’d lost over the years.
His family had trouble understanding that. Even his dad, who was a Vietnam vet. Of course, he had taken only one tour in that war before his enlistment finished, so maybe he couldn’t understand, either. A deep bond grew between men in special forces, no matter the branch they served in. They were used more often on dangerous and covert missions, often so far removed from command that they might as well have been totally alone. They depended on each other for everything.
And they wound up owing each other everything. Didn’t mean they all liked each other, but they were brothers, the bond deeper than most families.
How could he possibly explain that?
So...he’d finally gotten tired of the pressure. His mind was made up. He’d made his choice the day he entered training for special ops, and a wounding, even his second one, couldn’t change that commitment.
But the real problem was that he and his family were no longer on the same page. They couldn’t be. His folks had no real understanding of where he’d been and what he’d done, and he wasn’t going to try to illuminate them. They had no need to know, and the telling wasn’t the same as the doing, anyway. He was part of a different world, and sometimes he felt as if they were speaking different languages.
It was a kind of isolation that only being with others who’d been in special ops could break. They had become his family, his only real family now. How the hell could he explain that to his parents?
He couldn’t. So he’d put up with their fussing and pressure as long as he could. They wanted to take care of him, they worried about him and they couldn’t just accept who he was. Not their fault, but in the end he didn’t feel the comfort they wanted him to feel.
Al had been a good reason to move on. Gil told his folks he wanted to come see Al’s family, to see how they were doing, to share stories about Al they’d probably like to hear. That was one decision that hadn’t received an argument. Maybe because his parents were as tired of trying to break down his walls as he was at having them battered.
He wasn’t accustomed to the kind of weariness that had become part of his life since he got caught in a bomb blast in the mountains of Afghanistan. Yeah, he’d gotten tired from lack of sleep in the past, but this was different. Fatigue had become a constant companion, so he let his eyes close.
And behind his eyelids all he could see was Miriam Baker and her honeyed hair in its cute braid. If she meant to look businesslike, she wasn’t succeeding.
A thought slipped past his guard: sexy woman. Al probably wouldn’t want him to notice. Then Gil could no longer hold sleep at bay.
* * *
Miri used the time while Gil napped to call her aunt and uncle. Betsy answered.
“He’s here,” Miriam said. “He looks awful, Betsy. Worn-out, pale, and he’s got a bad limp. I don’t know if he’s up to the barbecue tomorrow. He hasn’t said.”
“If he comes,” Betsy said firmly, “all he needs to do is sit in one of the Adirondack chairs and hold court. Looks like it’ll be warm enough to be outdoors, but we’re opening the barn so folks can get out of the wind if they need to. He’ll be cozy in there.”
“And if he doesn’t want to come?”
“Then we’ll come visit him when he feels more like it.”
Miri paused, thinking, and for the first time it struck her that Betsy had used news of Gil’s arrival to create a huge distraction for herself. Throwing together a large barbecue on a week’s notice was no easy task, and it probably didn’t leave much time for anything else...such as grieving. This barbecue wasn’t for Gil.
She felt a little better then. She wouldn’t have to try to pressure Gil in some way if he didn’t want to go, and considering how worn he looked, he probably wouldn’t. But Betsy would have achieved what she needed, a week when she was busy from dawn to dusk planning something happy.
Life on a ranch in the winter could often be isolated. Too cold to go out; the roads sometimes too bad to even go grocery shopping. This January thaw was delivering more than warm temperatures. Miri almost smiled into the phone.
“I asked him to stay in my spare room,” she told her aunt. “He hasn’t answered. He might prefer to go to the motel.”
“Well, he’s probably slept in a lot of worse places.”
“By far,” Miri agreed, chuckling. Both of them remembered some of Al’s stories about sitting in the mouth of a cave, no fire, no warm food, colder than something unmentionable, until he was off watch and could lie down on cold rock. Yeah, Gil had slept in far worse places than the La-Z-Rest Motel, which was at least clean and heated.
“So,” she asked her aunt, “are you ready for tomorrow? Do I need to bring anything beyond a ton of potato salad and two dozen burger buns?”
Betsy’s tone grew humorous. “Considering that everyone is insisting on bringing something, we’ll probably have more food than anyone can eat. It’s been a struggle to ensure we don’t just get forty pies.”
Miri laughed. “That’s about right. So you marshaled everyone into shape?”
“Better believe it. Plus extra gas grills and the manly chefs to cook on them.”
Another giggle escaped Miri. “Manly chefs?”
“You don’t suppose any woman in this county has let her husband know that she could grill a burger or dog as well as he can? It’s a guy thing.”
Miri pressed her lips together, stifling more laughter. She needed to take care not to wake Gil. But her aunt was funny.
“I’ve decided,” Betsy said, “that manning charcoal and gas grills has become the substitute for hunting the food for the tribe.”
“Oh, that’s not fair,” Miri insisted. “Most of the men around here go hunting.”
“Sure. And most aren’t all that successful. Once the masses of armed men hit the woods and mountains, wise animals pick up stakes and move away.”
Miri was delighted to hear her aunt’s sense of humor surfacing again. Not since word of Al’s death had Betsy achieved more than a glimmer of humor. Now she was bubbling over with it. Miri could have blessed Gil for deciding to visit. And she began to suspect it wasn’t just arranging this barbecue that had lifted Betsy’s spirits.
Maybe, Miri thought after they said goodbye, it had helped in some way to know that Al’s best friend hadn’t forgotten him. A reassurance of some kind? Or a connection that hadn’t been lost?
Miri guessed she’d never figure out exactly what was going on with Betsy, but somehow she’d needed this visit from Gil.
And maybe Gil had needed it just as much. He certainly needn’t have come all the way out here to people he’d never
met until a funeral, people he’d barely met before he left.
All she knew was that she herself hadn’t wanted to lose touch with Al’s friend, even though they were strangers.
Connections, she thought. Connections for them all through a mutual loved one. In that context everything made sense.
* * *
Gil didn’t sleep long. Years on dangerous missions had taught him to sleep like a cat, and his wounding had only made it more obvious. Fatigued though he was, pain broke through even the deepest sleep.
The fatigue wasn’t sleepiness, anyway. The docs had warned him it was going to last awhile, because of how much healing he needed to do. His body was going to sap his energy in order to put him back together. Mostly. Some parts of him would never be the same.
Even back here, through a closed bedroom door, he could smell the aroma of whatever casserole Miri was cooking. Courtesy required him to get up and not keep her waiting for her own dinner.
But the first minutes upon awakening tested him, even though physical discomfort was no stranger. What was it some road cyclist had said? You need to love pain to do this. That applied to the kind of work Gil did, as well, although loving pain had little to do with it. You didn’t have to be masochistic, you just had to not care.
But somehow he cared during the first couple minutes upon awakening. Maybe because the pain served no real purpose except to make it difficult to move.
Difficult or not, he forced himself to sit up and put his stockinged feet on the floor. He sucked air through his teeth and closed his eyes as angry waves washed through him, as stiffness and discomfort hampered him. He’d been wounded once before. It was part of the job. But this useless response afterward annoyed him. Hampering his movements did no good, not for his body, not for anything.
Because he needed to move. How many times had he been reminded not to let scar tissue tighten up? Hell.
He shoved himself to his feet and grabbed the cane he’d hooked over the back of the office chair. Time to march forth. Time to ease stiffness into a beast he could control, rather than the other way around.
His first few steps were uncertain as he tested his legs’ response to walking. Okay. Slow but okay. They screamed at him, but it was a familiar scream now. The burn scars, the skin grafts, they all had an opinion about this. His shattered hip functioned, but not happily. His back didn’t think he should stand upright.
Hah. He’d show them.
He opened the door and made his way down the short hallway. The bathroom was on his right, he noticed, marking the terrain. He’d had too little to drink during his drive today. He should remedy that soon.
The kitchen would have been easy to find even if he hadn’t already visited it. Delicious aromas would have drawn him with his eyes blindfolded.
Miri sat at the big kitchen table, a stack of papers in front of her. She looked up with a smile. “I thought you’d sleep longer.”
“I never sleep long,” he answered. “Dinner smells amazing.”
“My famous chicken-and-rice casserole. Have a seat. Do you want something to drink?”
“I need to move a bit. But a huge honking glass of water would be wonderful.”
She rose at once. “Ice?”
That startled something approaching a laugh from him, and he watched her smile and raise her eyebrows. “Ice is funny?”
“Only if you ever spent months wishing your cave would warm up. Just water, please. I didn’t drink enough on the drive.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted to avoid getting out of the car for anything other than gas.”
He watched her face grow shadowed, then she went to a cupboard and pulled out a tall glass. “You’re really hurting badly?”
“It’ll pass.” His mantra. He wouldn’t admit any more than that, anyway.
As he stood there leaning on his cane, she passed him a full glass of delicious water. He drained it unceremoniously, and she refilled it for him immediately. He sucked half of it down, then placed the glass on the table. “Thanks. Mind if I stretch a bit by walking around the house?”
“Be my guest. Dinner’s still fifteen minutes away. Longer if you need. Casseroles keep.”
Nice lady, he thought as he began to explore the parameters of her house and his ability to move through it. Small place. Some would call it cozy. She’d certainly dressed it up in pleasant colors. Feminine, in shades of lavender and pale blue, with silky-looking curtains and upholstered chairs and a love seat in similar colors. Her kitchen was a contrast in soft yellows. He hadn’t really noticed what she’d done with the guest room–office. He imagined she must have taken years to do all this, given a teacher’s salary.
But contrasts were striking him. Everywhere he’d gone, he’d seen how people had tried to create some kind of beauty even when they had few resources. A home like this would look like a palace to many.
Then he remembered Nepal, a country full of rocky mountains, dangerous trails, sparse vegetation and racing rivers. The countryside itself was a thing of beauty, but then you went inside a home or teahouse, and the brilliant colors could take your breath away. Wherever possible, every inch of wall had been covered with bright paintings and cloths, a buttress against the granite and glaciers outside. A statement. A psychological expression: this is home. Beauty created by some of the most welcoming people he’d ever met.
He’d found it much the same when he’d slipped across the border into Tibet to collect intelligence, although the Chinese takeover had managed to wipe out some of the brightness, mainly on the faces of the Tibetans. They still wanted their country back.
Drawing himself out of memory, assisted by fresh pain, he tried to minimize his limp as he returned to the kitchen. Limping only made everything else hurt, too. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. The saga of life.
Miri was serving up her casserole on large plates. “Hungry?” she asked. “I imagine you didn’t eat much if you weren’t stopping for water.”
“I’m starving,” he admitted. “Thanks for asking me to dinner.”
She raised a brow and lifted one corner of her mouth. “Do you think I was going to let you arrive after a trip like that and not ply you with food? Seems unneighborly.”
Again he felt his face trying to thaw. He didn’t want to let it. Showing emotion could be weakening. When he was leading men he could joke, he could get angry, but he couldn’t go much beyond showing them he’d do everything in his power to get them back alive.
He also admitted it was a form of self-protection. If you didn’t feel it, it couldn’t hurt you. Straightforward enough.
But now he was among people who had a whole different metric for dealing with life. Only look at Al’s cousin, her readiness to welcome him into her home, her offering him dinner, a place to stay.
It wasn’t unusual. He’d met that kind of courtesy the world over, unless people were terrified. There was no reason to be terrified here in Conard County, Wyoming. He felt a vain wish that he could have sprinkled that kind of safety around the whole world. Instead, all he’d ever been able to do was chip away at threats...and sometimes make them worse.
He eased into the chair and balanced his cane against the wall.
“So,” she said, “I invited you to stay here.” A heaping plate of chicken and rice appeared in front of him. “Say you will, because I’m going to feel just awful if you go to the motel.”
He looked up as she brought her own plate to the table, then set the casserole dish nearby in case either of them wanted more. “Why would you feel awful?”
“Because you’re Al’s friend. Because my office-slash-bedroom is marginally better than the motel. I can guarantee you no bedbugs, not that the motel gets them for lack of sanitation. Some of the people passing through...”
A jug of water joined the casserole dish, and at last she quit buzzing an
d sat across from him.
He arched a brow. “You think I’ve never met a bedbug?”
Her expression turned into a mixture of amusement and disgust. “I suppose you have.”
“Of course, that doesn’t mean I like sharing my bed with them. But we have to get impervious to a lot of things.”
“I’d guess so,” she said after a moment. “Are you saying I’m squeamish?”
He liked the way humor suddenly lit her blue eyes. “No. You’re a product of where you live. Most bugs probably stay outside.”
“I have a rule,” she answered as she picked up a fork. “If a critter is outside I’m happy to leave it alone. If it comes inside, I’ll kill it.”
“Seems like a sensible arrangement.”
“I love nature,” she said, almost laughing. “Outdoors, where it belongs. Please, start eating. If you don’t like it, let me know.”
“Is it hot?”
“Very.”
“Great. That’s all I ask.”
Meals in the hospital had usually been lukewarm by the time they reached him. He’d developed a strong loathing for oatmeal that would have made a great wallpaper paste. The mess hall was better but, since army cooks had been replaced by private contractors, not what he remembered from the past. As for when he was in the field...
“One of the best meals I can remember eating,” he said as memory awoke, “was in a teahouse in Nepal.”
She looked up from her plate. “Nepal? What were you doing there?”
“Passing through. I can’t tell you any more than that. But they plied us with hot soup full of fresh vegetables, and roasted yak meat and yak milk. And an amazing amount of hot tea. Those people had next to nothing, Miri, but they treated us like kings.”
“They sound very welcoming.”
He almost smiled. “I’ll never forget them. Strangers in a strange land, and we were met with smiles, generosity and genuine welcome.” He looked down and scooped up more casserole. “I’ve noticed in my travels that the most generous people are often those who have the least. By no standard measure would you think the Nepalese were wealthy. But they were wealthy in soul and spirit.”