A Soldier In Conard County

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 The mess hall was better but, since army cooks had been replaced by private contractors, not what he remembered from the past.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.

Chapter Two (#u7dfcbf94-1bf1-592c-bd8b-b7272c3bb54a)

Morning arrived, still dark, but already promising a beautiful day. Miri made pancakes and eggs for breakfast. The tall stack of cakes disappeared fast, with much appreciation from Gil.

“Do you cook?” she asked eventually, making idle conversation over coffee before she cleared the table.

“Over an open fire I’m passable. A can of paraffin even better.” He shook his head a little. “When we could, anyway. At base camp we often took turns cooking for each other, but my efforts weren’t especially appreciated.”

She smiled. “So you got out of it?”

“Often as not. Whatever the knack is, I missed it.”

She rose, took the plates to the counter and looked at the thermometer outside her window. Sunshine had begun to spill over the eastern mountains, brightening the morning.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” she remarked. “The forecast said we’re going to reach the upper sixties, and we’re already at sixty-one. A great day for a midwinter barbecue.”

She waited, wondering if he’d respond to the open invitation about the barbecue, but he said nothing. He sipped coffee, his gaze faraway, and she admitted at last that this guy wasn’t about to share much of himself. Safe little tidbits here and there, but no more. Or maybe, despite the passage of time, he was still somewhere else, perhaps the place he’d been wounded. She couldn’t imagine the difficulty he must experience transitioning between worlds. Maybe it was never easy. Perhaps it was harder under these circumstances.

She spoke, daring herself to ask. “Does your body feel like a stranger to you?”

One brow lifted. “How did you guess?”

“Well, it just crossed my mind. You’re used to being in top physical form. That’s gone now, at least for a while. You must be frustrated.”

“Not exactly the word I’d choose, but it’ll do. Let me help as much as I can with the dishes. I need to be moving.”

“Betsy said you could settle in and hold court today if you come.” Miri waited, nearly holding her breath.

“I’ll go,” he said after a minute, then pushed his chair back. “But I doubt I’ll hold court. Not my style.”

He managed to wash all the dishes and put them in the drain rack without any assistance from her. She had to admit to enjoying watching a man scrub her dishes while she sipped a second cup of coffee.

He was a good-looking man, too. Not as ramrod straight and stiff as at the funeral, which had been kind of intimidating. This version of Gil looked a whole lot more relaxed and approachable. Even if it was discomfort causing it.

When at last he dried his hands and returned to the table, she noticed the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You did too much,” she said instantly.

“I did very little, and it’ll do me no good to sit on my duff and stiffen up. Don’t worry about me. I won’t push my limits too far. This isn’t some kind of contest.”