He’s honoring a fallen friend...

but never expected to fall in love.

When he first arrives in Conard County, Sergeant Gil York is licking the wounds of combat—and mourning a beloved friend. But when he meets his fallen buddy’s cousin, Miriam Baker, the troubled hero feels alive in a way he hasn’t in years. Gil’s walls are high...but Miri might just be the one to scale them, right into his heart.

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Also available by Rachel Lee

Undercover in Conard County

Conard County Marine

A Conard County Spy

A Secret in Conard County

Conard County Witness

Playing with Fire

Undercover Hunter

Snowstorm Confessions

Visit millsandboon.co.uk for more information

A Soldier in Conard County

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07729-3

A SOLDIER IN CONARD COUNTY

© 2018 Susan Civil Brown

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To all the men and women who have made sacrifices the rest of us can’t begin to comprehend.

May you find comfort.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Extract

Prologue

Followed by a smaller car, the hearse backed up behind Watkins Funeral Home on Poplar Street in Conard City, Wyoming. The old Victorian-style mansion looked fresh in every detail, although buildings around it appeared a little shabby.

As the hearse stopped, the driver climbed out of the following car. Wearing the ASU blue army uniform—dark blue coat and lighter blue slacks with a gold stripe running up the side of them—he stood staring at the nondescript white double doors bearing the discreetly lettered sign Arrivals. His many ribbons gleamed on his chest, and his uniform sported the insignia of the special forces and paratrooper. His upper arm patch ranked him as a sergeant first class; five golden hash marks on the lower sleeve recorded at least fifteen years of service. A brass nameplate identified him as “York.” He stood tall and straight, every line of him like a fresh crease.

Then he settled his green beret on his head, squaring it exactly from long experience. The driver exited the hearse and went to knock on the door. Sgt. York had brought home the body of his best buddy, Al Baker, and he intended to ensure that everything was done right.

The funeral director was waiting. Gil York watched as the flag-draped coffin was rolled indoors on a table, then followed when it was moved to a viewing room and placed on a blue-skirted catafalque. There would be no open coffin. If anyone in the family wanted to see, Gil would prevent it. Some things should not be seen.

“I’ll notify the family he’s here,” the funeral director said in a quiet voice.

Sgt. Gil York nodded. “You arranged the honor guard?”

“We have a group of vets in the area who do the honors,” the director said.

“The bugler?”

“Sgt. Baker’s cousin wants to play ‘Taps,’” the director said. “She teaches music at the high school.”

From gray eyes that resembled the hard Western mountains, Gil looked at him. “It’ll be difficult. It’s tough even when it’s not your own family.”

The director nodded. “I warned her. She insists.”

* * *

An hour later, the viewing room began to slowly fill with quiet, sad life. Sgt. York, now wearing white gloves, stood at the foot of the coffin, still at attention, his beret tucked under his arm, surrounded by the flowers the funeral director had arranged. Quiet voices murmured, as if afraid of disturbing the dead.

Gil stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing the room or the people. Instead he was seeing the years he had known Al Baker, filled with dangerous, tense, funny and good memories. His brother-in-arms. His friend through it all.

The flowers reached through his memories, sickeningly sweet. Al wouldn’t have liked them. He’d have understood the need for people to send them, but he still wouldn’t have liked them.

What he would have liked was the battlefield cross: the empty boots, the nose-down M-16, his green beret resting on the butt. His buddies had planted one for him in the Middle East at their base camp, and Gil had constructed one here, with a variation: he’d covered the rifle butt not with a helmet but with Al’s green beret, a symbol they had worked so hard to win and of which they had both been very proud.

One more day, Al, he thought. Just one more day and you’ll be at rest. No more traveling, no more being shunted all over the world. Peace at last, the peace they had both believed they’d been fighting for all along. Not the right kind of peace, but peace anyway. Gil wasn’t sure if there was a heaven. He’d seen too much of hell in his life, but if there was a heaven, he was certain Al was standing post already, free of fear and threats.

His eyes closed for a moment, and Al seemed to stand before him in full dress uniform. Straight and squared away and...smiling.

Godspeed.

The murmuring voices suddenly fell silent. Instantly alert, he turned his head a little and saw a man and woman walking toward the coffin. The woman wore black and leaned heavily on the man’s arm.

Al’s parents. He recognized them from photos. At once he pivoted so he faced the room and the approaching couple. Al’s mother made no attempt to conceal the tears that rolled down her face. His father looked grim, and his jaw worked as he clung to self-control.

The couple approached the flag-covered coffin, and Betsy Baker reached out a hand to touch it. “I want to see him.”

Gil tensed, wondering if he would have to warn her off.

The funeral director hurried over and took her hand gently, sparing Gil the necessity. “Please, Betsy.”

“I want to see him,” she repeated brokenly.

Gil nearly stepped forward. The funeral director spoke first. “No. You don’t.”

Then Betsy startled Gil. She turned her head, and her brown eyes, so like Al’s, locked with his. “You’re Gil, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I can’t see him?”

Gil broke his rigid posture and went to the woman’s side, taking her hand from the funeral director. “Mrs. Baker, Al wouldn’t want you to see him now. He’d be very grateful if you didn’t. Trust me.”

“Sgt. York is right,” said Mr. Baker, speaking for the first time. “He’s right, Betsy.”

The woman squeezed her eyes closed and more huge tears rolled down her face. “All right,” she whispered. “All right.” Then her voice strengthened. “There’s a supper afterward, Gil. Please come. I’m sure Al would like that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then he resumed his post, rigid as steel, all the barriers back in place. Little could touch him there, and there he remained. Service tomorrow at two. Interment at three. Then back to base.

He’d done this before. He wanted never to do it again.

* * *

At graveside the next day, Miriam Baker, Al’s younger cousin, stood nervously by the riflemen who were part of the honor guard. She knew most of the guard because they lived in the county, and they’d let her know exactly what to expect and when she was to play her trumpet. They’d bucked her up, too, assuring her she’d do just fine. She wasn’t nearly as certain as she pretended to be. Al’s loss had carved a hole in her heart that kept tightening her chest at unexpected moments. If that happened while she played “Taps”...

Another car arrived, one she didn’t recognize. It stopped in an area away from the gravesite. Then, unfolding from it, was a tall man in army blue, with white gloves on his hands and a green beret that he immediately put on his head. For a moment, he stood surveying the scene: six uniformed pallbearers waiting beside the gravel road. The three riflemen near her.

Gil York. It had to be, even though he hadn’t come to the supper last night.

All of a sudden she felt seriously inadequate. The wind whipped her navy-blue concert gown around her lower legs as if trying to pick her up and sweep her away. Only the familiar weight of the trumpet in her hand pinned her to the ground.

Gil York was Al’s best friend. Everyone had known in advance that he was bringing Al home. He was also the NCOIC, according to Wade Kendrick and the other vets who had gathered around her extended family in the days since the news arrived. Noncommissioned officer in charge. He would be making sure the entire honor guard did a clean and perfect job.

And then there was her. She could feel his gaze fixate on her. He exchanged salutes with the pallbearers as he passed them, said something that caused them to relax for a moment.

Suddenly, he was standing in front of her, looking as if he’d been carved from granite and put in that dressy uniform. “Ms. Baker,” he said. “I’m Gil York.”

“I know,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m supposed to stand thirty to fifty yards away, right?” Cling to the orders for the day, try not to think too hard about her loss. Everyone’s loss.

“That’s not as much my concern, ma’am, as you are.”

“Me?” Her voice cracked. She was not ordinarily a mouse, but since word had been delivered that Al had been killed, a lot of things seemed to have turned topsy-turvy.

“‘Taps’ is very difficult to play, Ms. Baker. And I don’t mean musically. This is going to be very difficult for you emotionally. If you have any doubt about your ability, let me know. I have the authorized digital recording with me.”

Her back stiffened a bit. “It’s something I can do for Al. I want to do it. I’ll cry later.”

Their eyes locked, hers as blue as the summer sky, his as gray as rain-wet slate.

“Very well,” he said after a few stretched-out seconds. “If you change your mind, just let me know.” Then he turned to the riflemen, who told him they’d already picked out the location for them and for Miri.

Sgt. York approved, saluted and started to pivot away. Suddenly he turned back. “Commander Hardin?”

Seth Hardin, decked out in dark navy blue, smiled faintly. “It’s been a while, Sergeant.”

“Yes, it has.” He nodded, then pivoted and marched away.

There was steel in the man’s spine, Miriam thought. She wondered if he ever walked normally, or if he was forever marching, executing tight corners and sharp about-faces.

Not today. Certainly not today.

She and the riflemen backed up to the small knoll Seth Hardin had chosen for them. Thirty to fifty yards from the gravesite for them and the bugler. Apparently, everything was measured out with these formalities.

She only wished she had a real bugle, but the trumpet was acceptable. At least she was sure she could play it.

Events began to blur. The hearse arrived. Family and friends crowded into the chairs that had been set up at the gravesite. The grave itself was covered by the machinery that would lower Al into his resting place later. For now, everything was hidden beneath a blanket of artificial turf, shockingly green against the duller, dry countryside.

Then she heard commands being barked. The moment had come. Six men in uniforms of various services eased the coffin from the back of the hearse and carried her cousin with measured steps to the grave.

Miri’s throat tightened until she felt as if a wire garrote wrapped it. She drew slow breaths, calming herself. Weeping could come later. She had a service to perform for Al.

The minister spoke a few words, led them in a prayer. Then Sgt. York turned toward the distant riflemen and saluted. Even though she stood ten yards from them, Miri could hear the snap as they brought their rifles up and aimed them to the sky.

A command was spoken and three rifle volleys rang out, one after the other. Then, with a snap, the rifles returned to a position that crossed the men’s chests.

She glanced toward York and saw him waiting at attention. Her turn. She lifted the trumpet and began playing the sorrowful notes for Al. A hush seemed to come over the entire world. She didn’t notice that tears ran down her cheeks. Had no way to tell that no eyes were dry as the lonesome call carried over the countryside.

She made it all the way through. Tears nearly blinded her as the pallbearers stepped forward, folding the flag with perfect precision before handing it to Sgt. York. He pivoted sharply and walked to stand directly before Al’s parents. With the flag at waist height he bent forward and spoke, his determined voice carrying on the stirring breeze.

“On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

Mrs. Baker took the flag and held it to her chest, her sobs becoming audible.

Then the entire honor guard withdrew, leaving the family to its private time of grief.

Something made Miri run, her trumpet case banging against her leg. She didn’t run away, but rather straight to Sgt. York, who was about to climb into his car.

“Sergeant!” she called. Her voice sounded disturbingly loud, but she didn’t care. He’d been Al’s friend. These moments were for him, too.

He paused, then pivoted to face her. Still the stern-faced soldier. “Yes, ma’am?” he asked quietly when she reached him.

“You can’t just go. Please at least let us know how to contact you. Al’s stories...well, we feel like you’re part of the family, too.”

He hesitated a moment. “Do you have a pad and pen? There’s very little I can fit into a dress uniform without looking sloppy.”

“I imagine.” She was in a luckier position. Her trumpet case contained the paper and pen. He scribbled down an email address. Nothing more. It was enough. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“No need. Al deserved a whole lot more.” Then he opened the car door and removed a paper-wrapped parcel, the size of a large book. “Give this to Al’s mother and father, please. I had a bunch of photos I thought they’d like. I was going to mail it but... You did well, Ms. Baker.”

Then he climbed in the car and, like the rest of the honor guard, disappeared from sight.

Miri stood holding the wrapped package, sorrow and loss emptying her heart. She missed Al like the devil. But she suspected Gil York missed him even more.

Chapter One

Miri Baker waited nervously. Gil York was arriving sometime this evening. Yes, they’d kept up a casual email correspondence since Al’s funeral last year, but then he’d dropped out of sight for over two months.

When he resurfaced he’d told her he’d been wounded and that, after rehab, he’d be going home to his family in Michigan.

She wondered what had happened there, because out of the blue, just a week ago, he’d asked if the family would mind a visit from him. After clearing it with Al’s parents, she assured him they’d love it, and his response had been brief. “See you Friday evening.”

In the few messages they’d traded since he told her he’d been wounded, there had been a lot of blanks, missing lines, little information. She had no idea what to expect, or why he’d leave his family and come here.

She had a casserole ready to go, since his arrival time was up in the air. She had some lesson planning to do, but it could wait. She paced her small house and hoped that everything would be all right.

She had no idea how badly wounded Gil had been. What was he going to say when he learned that Al’s family was throwing a big barbecue for him tomorrow? A barbecue in January because of a brief thaw. He wouldn’t be expecting that. What if he didn’t want to go?

“Simple enough,” Betsy, Al’s mother, had said as she gave her phone a workout. “We’ll have the barbecue anyway. Everyone will have a good time.” Especially since no one thought of holding barbecues at this time of year, thaw or no thaw. In a pinch, the barn would do for shelter.

It was nearly a year since the funeral, and when Miri thought over the simple, short emails she and Gil had exchanged, she felt that now he was even more a stranger than he had been when Al had shared stories about him.

“Reserved” might be an understatement when describing Gil York. From the little she had seen of him at the funeral, she would now describe him as distant. Maybe even closed off. She had a feeling that during their brief meeting she’d had her first close encounter with what she’d heard called the “thousand-yard stare.”

She’d talked about it with Edie Hardin, a former combat search and rescue pilot who now worked for the county’s emergency medical services as a helicopter pilot. The woman had a son who had frequent play dates with Miri’s next-door neighbor’s son, and Edie and Miri had developed a friendship over time.

“I know what you mean,” Edie had answered. “I’ve seen it plenty of times.” She had missed the funeral because she was on duty that day, but her husband, Seth, a former SEAL, had been part of the honor guard.

“I see it in Seth sometimes,” Edie had continued. “What these guys do? Especially special forces like Seth and Gil...so much, for so long. It’s like a brain shock, or an emotional shock. It haunts them, Miri. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Gil seems to have a handle on it, from what you said.”

Handle on it? Truth be told she was surprised he’d continued their irregular email conversation. Little said on his side, while she tried to pass along interesting tidbits about life around here. She kept expecting him to just not answer.

Then for two months he hadn’t. It had been a shock to her to learn he’d been wounded and that he was on indefinite medical leave. An even bigger shock when he’d written that he’d like to visit, if that was all right.

Of course it was all right. He’d been Al’s best friend for years. By extension he was family. But what about his own family, where he’d been headed when he first told her he was wounded?

As the sun slipped behind the mountains and the afternoon began to darken into twilight, she decided she was getting entirely too anxious about Gil’s visit. He was probably just taking the opportunity to do a little traveling while he was on leave. He undoubtedly knew people from all over the country and was catching up. Considering that Al had been one of his best buddies, he probably wondered how the Baker family was getting along.

Losing Al still hurt. Grief, she was discovering, never really lessened; it just came less often. Like ocean waves, rolling over her occasionally, sometimes softer, sometimes hammering. Talking with his parents, she’d found they were experiencing the same thing, only much more painfully. Their only child? Indescribable.

The folded flag took pride of place beside Al’s official portrait on the Bakers’ mantel over the fireplace. Around it were all the presentation cases holding Al’s medals, and a white votive candle that was never allowed to go out. Miri had offered recently to get all the medals mounted and framed—an expensive proposition, to her surprise—but they hadn’t decided yet.

The Baker family continued to move forward with life, because that was what the living had to do, but Miri couldn’t escape the feeling that part of Betsy, and maybe Jack, as well, had been frozen in time, at the moment they’d learned of Al’s death.

Jack was still running the ranch; his grief didn’t diminish realities. Yet some light in him was gone.

Maybe that was what was going on with Gil. Some light had been extinguished. Well, how would it be possible to spend sixteen or more years fighting for your country on dangerous and covert missions, without a bit of your internal light going out?

Then she realized why she was so on edge, and it had little to do with Gil personally. It had to do with the concern that his visit was going to freshen a grief they all, particularly Al’s parents, had been gradually learning to live with.

Outside, the January thaw had thinned the snow to almost nothing. Icicles were beginning to drop from the eaves, tiny spears for the most part, probably a good size for leprechauns.

The day faded rapidly toward early night. Miri hated waiting, but she couldn’t seem to do anything else just then. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a dark-colored car pulled up out front. A few minutes later she recognized the unmistakable figure of Gil York.

He looked different out of uniform, wearing a black parka, and as he came around the front of the car, she realized everything about him had changed.

The ramrod-straight posture and confident movement she associated with him were gone. He walked a bit gingerly, using a cane. He wore laced-up desert boots and camouflage pants beneath the parka, an odd assortment of pieces, and she wondered if the camo was simply comfortable, preferred over jeans or regular slacks.

He caught sight of her as she opened the door and gave a small wave. She noticed how deliberate his pace remained and the caution with which he navigated the sidewalk and the porch steps.

“It’s good to see you again, Gil,” she said when he reached the porch. She noted that sweat had beaded on his forehead, and it wasn’t an especially warm day, thaw or not. That walk must have been difficult.

“Come inside. I’ve got coffee if you want, and a casserole that’s just waiting to be popped in the oven.”

At last the rigid lines of his face cracked a bit, serving up a faint smile. “Thank you, Miri. Hard to believe that I sat through that long drive and I’m already looking for another seat.”

“You’ve been wounded,” she replied, stating the obvious. “It must take time to come back.” She opened the door wider and motioned him inside. Her house was small, the foyer about big enough for four people, with the living room on one side and the kitchen on the other. At least the kitchen was big enough to eat in. Two bedrooms and a bath at the back. Cozy. Easy to make crowded.

Gil was a large enough man that he was making her house feel even smaller. She guided him straight to the kitchen and pulled out a chair for him at the battered wooden table, which doubled as food prep space when she needed it. While he removed his parka, revealing a loden-green chamois shirt, she asked, “Coffee?”

“Please. Black.”

She placed a large mug in front of him, then slipped the casserole into the oven, which she had preheated more than an hour ago. That freed her to join him at the table.

“I was surprised when you said you wanted to visit,” she remarked. “Everyone’s glad you are, we just didn’t expect it. Was the trip rough?”

Again the faintest of smiles. “It’s a long way from Michigan by car. Some really great scenery, though. Mostly, it was peaceful.”

There was something important in the way he said that, but she felt she shouldn’t ask, not yet. He had an aura that made her feel getting personal might not be wise. That he didn’t easily allow it, if he did at all.

“How are Al’s parents?” he asked.

“One day at a time. Jack’s still running the ranch, although I think his heart has gone out of it. He planned to turn it over to Al when he left the army. Now it’s just something he needs to do. He’s muttered a couple of times that maybe he can find a Japanese buyer.”

Gil arched one dark brow. “Japanese?”

“Oh, that goes back a couple of decades at least. The Japanese were buying up cattle ranches in Montana, then having locals run them, so they could export the beef to Japan. I guess it was pricey there.”

“It’s pricey everywhere now.”

“Not that the ranchers are seeing most of that.”

He nodded. “I didn’t think so. Al used to talk about the ranch on occasion. Stories from when he was a kid, mostly, but he always had something to share when he came back from leave. And he was always pushing me to join him when we retired.”

“Did you want to?”

His eyes were like flint, showing only the faintest of expressions. “What do I know about ranching?”

That finally caused her to smile. “What did you know about special ops when you started?”

“Touché.” At last a real smile from him. So his expressions could change from distant to less distant, to even pleasant. He lifted his mug at last and drank deeply of the coffee. “Great joe,” he told her.

“Thanks. Listen, I’ve got a spare bedroom in the back, if you don’t mind that it has my home office in one corner. I can guarantee, though, that it’s nicer than the motel. And tomorrow Betsy and Jack are looking forward to seeing you.” She hesitated. “They’re throwing a barbecue for you.”

“A barbecue?” He raised one brow. “It’s January.”

“And there’s a thaw. Everyone’s looking forward to an early taste of spring. Anyway, you’re not obligated to come, but if you do you’ll get to meet some of Al’s old friends.”

He didn’t answer and she really didn’t expect him to. He’d asked if it would be all right to come for a brief visit, not to be swamped.

After a few minutes, realizing that even their email exchanges hadn’t really made them more than acquaintances, she spoke again. “You can bring your stuff in whenever you’re ready. Dinner will be in about an hour. And you can think about just what you want out of this visit. In the meantime, after that drive, maybe you need a nap?”

His gaze had grown distant, but it snapped back to her as she spoke. It was a penetrating look, and she didn’t doubt that she had his full attention.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m still recovering. But the thing that wore me out most was my own family.”

She drew a breath. His own family? Oh, Lord, and she’d just suggested a big barbecue with Al’s friends and family. Gil was probably already wishing he hadn’t stopped by. “What happened?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

“For years now they’ve been demanding I get out of the military. My being wounded only strengthened it. They always feared I was going to come home in a body bag, and this time I came close. My dad’s a Vietnam vet, and he’s been pushing the hardest.”

“Oh.” She’d heard the same insistence from Betsy and Jack when Al came home. “Jack used to ask Al, ‘How many years, son? You’ve done your duty.’”

Gil nodded slightly. “Part of me understands. I’ve buried a lot of good men. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things. But this is who I am.”

It sounded like a line drawn in the sand. Being a soldier was his identity. How did you strip that away? She would find it hard to give up being a music teacher. Sometimes she wondered how jobs could become so overwhelmingly important to a sense of self. Wondering didn’t make it change.

“I’m not sure you’ll get much of that here,” she said. “But I can’t guarantee you won’t get any. Al’s parents are excited about seeing you because Al mentioned you so often they feel like you’re family. So, no promises.”

Again a faint smile. “I know how to leave. Obviously. But let’s talk about you. I know you teach music. I know you love it because you told me such great stories when you emailed. But what about the rest? Does Miri Baker have a life apart from school?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does Sergeant Gil York have a life apart from the Green Berets?” Then she laughed. “Of course I have a life. Friends. Community service projects. Sometimes I help Jack and Betsy at the ranch. There are times when they need some extra hands.”

“And your parents? Al never mentioned them. At least not that I can recall.”

She closed her eyes. Even after seven years she didn’t like to think about it. “My dad had an accident with some farm machinery. Mom found him... It was gruesome. Anyway, she died of a sudden heart attack before the EMTs arrived. I’m glad she didn’t have to hang around, but I resent it, too.” That was blunt enough, she thought.

“So you were left to deal with it alone?”

“Hardly,” she said a touch drily. “You’re forgetting the rest of the Baker clan. Aunt Betsy and Uncle Jack were there for me, as were a couple of more distant cousins. Then there are the people around here. Unless you deliberately push them away, quite a few will try to be helpful however they can.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He looked so very different from when he’d come for the funeral. Then he’d been rigid, sturdy, in control. Now he looked weary, new lines creased his strong features and his eyes weren’t quite as flinty. She wondered if he was in much pain, but didn’t ask. They were still virtual strangers, with little enough intimacy of any kind. It was like meeting someone new, their past contact irrelevant. For some reason she hadn’t expected that.

He rose from the table, moving as if he was stiff and uncomfortable, and the change once again shocked her. He poured himself more coffee, then returned to his seat. He’d managed without the cane, however.

“I stiffen up when I sit too long,” he remarked. “I didn’t use to do that. Al talked about you a lot.”

The switch in topics caught her by surprise. She’d begun to hope he was going to say something about himself, but now went back to Al.

“I miss him,” she said. “Even though he was home only a few weeks a year, I still miss him.”

“I think he missed you, too. We were sitting behind some rocks one cold night keeping watch, and he told me about how you used to build roads together in the dirt at the ranch. And how you always wanted mountains, so you’d find some rocks, but you were very critical about them. Some were too rounded. Others didn’t look like the mountains you can see from here.”

She smiled at the memory. “I drove him crazy with my mountains. He had a toy grader and was making roads fast, to run the little cars and trucks on, but I was wandering around trying to make mountains. Then my folks got me a couple of plastic horses and they were too big. I hate to tell you how many times they turned into monsters that messed with the tiny cars.”

Gil’s face relaxed into a smile. “I can imagine it.”

Her thoughts drifted backward in time, and she found herself remembering the happiness almost wistfully. “We tried to build a tree fort but we really didn’t have the skills, so we’d climb up into the trees and pretend to be hiding from unspecified bad guys. One time we happened to find a stray steer. Well, that ended our imaginary game. We had to take it home. For which we got a piece of cake, so after that instead of hiding from imaginary bad guys, we became trackers hunting for rustled cattle.”

His smile widened. “He didn’t tell me you two had hunted rustlers.”

“Only in our minds. Kids have wonderful imaginations. So what did you do?”

“I lived in town, so most of our games were pretty tame. Except when we got into trouble, of course. And being kids, we did from time to time. Mrs. Green was pretty angry when we trampled her rhubarb bed.”

“I can imagine.”

“Oh, it came back. We weren’t trying to do any damage, though. Just carelessness. I haven’t been home a lot during my career, but it seems like kids don’t run around the neighborhood as much as they used to. Yards have become more private.”

“And with two parents working, a lot of kids are probably in after-school programs and day care.”

“True.” He sipped some more coffee.

“When did you start thinking about joining the army?” she asked. “Or did you imagine a series of different possibilities?”

“I don’t remember if I thought about anything else seriously. I probably toyed with a lot of ideas, the way kids do. Then September 11 happened. That was it.”

“Pretty much the same thing happened with Al. That set his course.”

“Yup.” Gil nodded slowly. “It set a lot of courses. I trained with a whole bunch of people who’d made the same decision for the same reason. The changing of a nation.”

She turned that around in her mind. “Watershed?” she asked tentatively.

“In a lot of ways.” But he clearly intended to say no more about it. “And you? Music teacher?”

“Always. Put any musical instrument in my hand and I wanted to play it. I was lucky, because Mom and Dad encouraged me even though it was expensive. Rented instruments and band fees. Then I got a scholarship to the music program at university.”

“You must be very talented.”

“Talented enough to teach. Nothing wrong with that. I never did dream of orchestras or bands.” She smiled. “Small dreams.”

“Big dreams,” he corrected. “Teaching is a big dream.”

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 and 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.”

He emptied his plate in short order and Miri pushed the casserole dish toward him. “I’m not counting on leftovers. Eat, Gil.”

He was happy to oblige. Hot meals were still a treat.

“From what Al used to talk about, I guess you’ve seen a whole lot of the world.”

He raised his gaze, feeling himself grow steely again. Some matters were not to be discussed with civilians. “Not from a tourist perspective,” he said, closing the subject. A subject he’d opened himself, talking about Nepal. But it needed to be closed.

She nodded slowly, her blue eyes sweeping over his face. “Stay here tonight,” she said finally. “You can decide about the barbecue tomorrow.”

He was content to leave it there.

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