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,
