A Soldier In Conard County. Rachel Lee

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