A Soldier In Conard County. Rachel Lee

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