Chapter Two

      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.”

      Firmly but kindly put in her place. The man didn’t want anyone worrying about him. Okay then. She could manage that. She couldn’t even feel slightly offended. This was a spark of the man she’d seen at the funeral. She was glad to know he was still in there. Living around here, it was possible to get to know veterans who had a lot of trouble returning. She supposed it was unlikely that Gil wouldn’t have any problems as a result of his wounding and time at war, but she hoped they were minimal.

      “You must still be missing Al,” he remarked.

      “Yes. You?”

      “Damn near every day. You know, even when you’re in the midst of the most dangerous situations imaginable, you don’t believe the bad stuff’s going to happen to you.”

      “How could you?” she asked. “You’d be paralyzed.”

      “Maybe. What I do know is that we don’t think about it until it’s shoved into our faces, like when Al was killed, and then we have to shove it back into a lockbox. Anyway, he had plans. I was supposed to come here with him and help with the family ranch. I guess I told you that.”

      Gil was rambling a little, she thought, but no more than most people in casual conversation. At least he was talking.

      “Al,” he said again. “Damn. Ever the optimist. He could find a reason to be happy about cold beans on a subzero night.”

      That was Al. That was definitely the Al she remembered. “I take it you’re not as much of an optimist?”

      “Maybe I was, too much, anyway. Doesn’t matter. Here we are.” He gave her a faint, almost apologetic smile.

      “Are you going back to duty?” she dared to ask.

      “Yes.”

      There was a firmness to the way he said the word that again suggested a line had been drawn in the sand. “Do you have any idea when?”

      “Not yet. Probably as soon as they feel I’m well enough to play desk jockey for an eight-or twelve-hour day.”

      “So...you won’t be going back into the field?”

      “No.” A single uncompromising word. A warning to back off.

      She could have sighed, except she knew she had no right to be asking many questions. He’d wanted to come out here for some reason...and she suspected it wasn’t just to tell the family amusing stories about Al. All she’d done was offer him a bed and a few meals. He didn’t owe her anything, certainly not answers to questions he might consider to be prying.

      Apparently, he must have caught something in her expression. Much as she schooled herself to keep a straight face when necessary, because her young students picked up on even the subtlest of clues, she must have just failed. He spoke.

      “Sorry to be so abrupt.”

      “It’s okay,” she said swiftly. “You’re not feeling well...”

      “Feeling unwell has nothing to do with it. Months of arguing with my family does. I’m not retiring, much as they may want me to, and if I can get back into shape for the field I will.”

      Now she wondered if getting away from his family had been his primary reason for traveling this way. “Families are harder to