A Soldier In Conard County. Rachel Lee

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      Gil addressed the question first. Apparently he wasn’t shy about organizational matters. “Want me to follow you or ride with you?”

      “Will you want the freedom to take off? Because once I get there, I’m going to be there for at least a couple of hours.”

      “I think that I can manage a couple of hours,” he said wryly.

      “Then hop in.”

      The ride out to the Baker ranch required nearly an hour of slogging over bumpy roads. Pavement had begun to buckle as usual when water had seeped into cracks and then froze. Gravel roads hadn’t been graded in a while. Miri concentrated on driving and left Gil with his own thoughts. She figured if he wanted conversation he knew how to start one.

      It was nice to have her window cracked open during the drive. The ground hadn’t really started to thaw, and all the growing things were still locked into their winter naps. But the air was fresh and after a few months of mostly enjoying it for only a few minutes, Miri was glad to indulge more than she’d been able to the last few days.

      The Bakers had set up a sign pointing to an elevated area of paddock for parking. Dead grasses were thick, and if the ground started melting it should drain fast enough to ensure no one got stuck in mud. A lot of cars had already arrived, and as Miri parked she got a sudden whiff of barbecue grills heating up and the unmistakable scent of smoking meat.

      Betsy had pulled out all the stops. Miri guessed nearly forty people had already arrived. Folding tables groaned under offerings, and a stack of paper plates on one of the tables was held down by a snow globe paperweight. A perfect touch.

      Gil helped her carry one container of potato salad, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. He didn’t appear steady on uneven ground yet. Miri grabbed the other, plus the bags of burger buns, and they made their way over to the only empty table left.

      Betsy didn’t let them get far. Wearing a light jacket, she swooped in, smiling. “I’m so glad you decided to come, Gil. Al always said he was going to bring you out here. I’m just sorry you couldn’t get here sooner.”

      As soon as they had deposited their offerings on the table, Betsy gave Gil a tight hug. He seemed a bit uncomfortable and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

      Miri cataloged that for future consideration. Walled off. Totally walled off.

      Betsy took Gil with her, introducing him around. Miri smiled faintly and bent her attention toward getting the potato salad ready to serve and putting her buns with others.

      Then she wandered over to join her uncle Jack, whose smoker was emitting delicious aromas. “Did you start smoking yesterday?” she asked him.

      “How else do you barbecue? You doing all right with Al’s friend?”

      “Gil’s a pleasant guy. Restrained.”

      “Shut down, most like,” Jack answered. “I could see it in Al. Do you remember? It was like every time he came home he’d left another piece of himself behind.”

      Those weren’t the memories of her cousin that Miri was trying to cherish, but she felt her stomach tighten as she acknowledged the truth of what Jack had said. War had been cutting away pieces of Al for years.

      Or causing him to lock them away. “Jack? Why do they keep on doing it?”

      “What do I look like? A shrink?” He lifted the lid on the huge smoker and began basting the ribs. “Almost done.” He said nothing for a few minutes. “I can only answer for Al. He felt a real sense of duty. A need to serve. And, to be brutally honest, maybe a little adrenaline addiction. Anyway, I think Al was always testing himself for some reason. I don’t know what his measuring stick was, but he seemed to me to be using one. But all that’s my guess, Miri, and it may not apply to Gil at all.”

      Finished basting that side, he turned the meat with tongs and basted some more. Then he closed the smoker lid. “Not much longer. That’s almost to the point of falling off the bone.” He stepped back, hanging his tongs on a rack at the end of the smoker, and looked around. “Seems like almost everyone’s here. And Gil has found himself a place.”

      Miri turned to look, too. An interesting place, she thought. The old sheriff, Nate Tate, was sitting in the group, a man who had served in the special forces in Vietnam, followed by thirty years as sheriff here. He’d been retired for nearly a decade now and didn’t look a day older. But it wasn’t just Nate Tate who made the group interesting. Gil had been found by a phalanx of vets, among them Seth Hardin and a few others who had served in special forces. Even Jess MacGregor, who’d been a combat medic, had joined them.

      Edie Hardin, who had her own experiences of combat, had gravitated with her and Seth’s child to a group of women. Billy Joe Yuma, formerly a medevac pilot in Vietnam and now director of the county’s emergency services, had not joined the group around Gil.

      Miri studied the group dynamics and wondered what was going on. The meeting of some kind of elite club, no outsiders welcome? Or something else.

      Jack spoke. “Go join ’em.”

      “I don’t belong.”

      “Exactly.” Jack gave her a little nudge. “This is a barbecue to make Betsy happy, not to create a support group.”

      He had a point. Miri took a couple steps in the direction of the knot of men, then hesitated. There might be a good reason for that huddle. She also suspected there were stories about Al that would never be repeated to Betsy, but that Gil could share with these men of similar backgrounds. Maybe that was cathartic for a man who said very little. Except that he didn’t appear to be sharing much. The others were talking, and occasionally a bark of laughter would punctuate the otherwise quiet conversation.

      There were other clusters, as well. Nearly sixty people. They’d hardly congregate into one large crowd. Miri had been to lots of large gatherings as a teacher, and crowd breakout was common. Conversation became easier.

      Jack was right, however. This barbecue, while ostensibly to welcome Gil back, was really about giving Betsy some happiness again. Not since the funeral had she joined in any social events, but now she had organized one in an amazingly brief span of time. And everyone she had called had evidently arrived to support her and Jack.

      Gil was only a small part of it, as Al’s best friend.

      Betsy had decided to rejoin life. For that alone, Miri would feel eternally grateful to Gil. He’d provided the push she needed, the excuse.

      So what did Jack expect her to do? Go break up that huddle of men? She didn’t think Betsy would want that, especially since she’d said Gil could just find a comfortable chair and hold court—or not come at all if he didn’t want to.

      Gil was the excuse. Betsy was the one smiling for the first time in ages, having a bit of a hen party around the folding tables that held enough food for an army. Three other men were working grills with hamburgers, hot dogs and bratwursts.

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