A Soldier In Conard County. Rachel Lee

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      “Be my guest. Dinner’s still fifteen minutes away. Longer if you need. Casseroles keep.”

      Nice lady, he thought as he began to explore the parameters of her house and his ability to move through it. Small place. Some would call it cozy. She’d certainly dressed it up in pleasant colors. Feminine, in shades of lavender and pale blue, with silky-looking curtains and upholstered chairs and a love seat in similar colors. Her kitchen was a contrast in soft yellows. He hadn’t really noticed what she’d done with the guest room–office. He imagined she must have taken years to do all this, given a teacher’s salary.

      But contrasts were striking him. Everywhere he’d gone, he’d seen how people had tried to create some kind of beauty even when they had few resources. A home like this would look like a palace to many.

      Then he remembered Nepal, a country full of rocky mountains, dangerous trails, sparse vegetation and racing rivers. The countryside itself was a thing of beauty, but then you went inside a home or teahouse, and the brilliant colors could take your breath away. Wherever possible, every inch of wall had been covered with bright paintings and cloths, a buttress against the granite and glaciers outside. A statement. A psychological expression: this is home. Beauty created by some of the most welcoming people he’d ever met.

      He’d found it much the same when he’d slipped across the border into Tibet to collect intelligence, although the Chinese takeover had managed to wipe out some of the brightness, mainly on the faces of the Tibetans. They still wanted their country back.

      Drawing himself out of memory, assisted by fresh pain, he tried to minimize his limp as he returned to the kitchen. Limping only made everything else hurt, too. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. The saga of life.

      Miri was serving up her casserole on large plates. “Hungry?” she asked. “I imagine you didn’t eat much if you weren’t stopping for water.”

      “I’m starving,” he admitted. “Thanks for asking me to dinner.”

      She raised a brow and lifted one corner of her mouth. “Do you think I was going to let you arrive after a trip like that and not ply you with food? Seems unneighborly.”

      Again he felt his face trying to thaw. He didn’t want to let it. Showing emotion could be weakening. When he was leading men he could joke, he could get angry, but he couldn’t go much beyond showing them he’d do everything in his power to get them back alive.

      He also admitted it was a form of self-protection. If you didn’t feel it, it couldn’t hurt you. Straightforward enough.

      But now he was among people who had a whole different metric for dealing with life. Only look at Al’s cousin, her readiness to welcome him into her home, her offering him dinner, a place to stay.

      It wasn’t unusual. He’d met that kind of courtesy the world over, unless people were terrified. There was no reason to be terrified here in Conard County, Wyoming. He felt a vain wish that he could have sprinkled that kind of safety around the whole world. Instead, all he’d ever been able to do was chip away at threats...and sometimes make them worse.

      He eased into the chair and balanced his cane against the wall.

      “So,” she said, “I invited you to stay here.” A heaping plate of chicken and rice appeared in front of him. “Say you will, because I’m going to feel just awful if you go to the motel.”

      He looked up as she brought her own plate to the table, then set the casserole dish nearby in case either of them wanted more. “Why would you feel awful?”

      “Because you’re Al’s friend. Because my office-slash-bedroom is marginally better than the motel. I can guarantee you no bedbugs, not that the motel gets them for lack of sanitation. Some of the people passing through...”

      A jug of water joined the casserole dish, and at last she quit buzzing and sat across from him.

      He arched a brow. “You think I’ve never met a bedbug?”

      Her expression turned into a mixture of amusement and disgust. “I suppose you have.”

      “Of course, that doesn’t mean I like sharing my bed with them. But we have to get impervious to a lot of things.”

      “I’d guess so,” she said after a moment. “Are you saying I’m squeamish?”

      He liked the way humor suddenly lit her blue eyes. “No. You’re a product of where you live. Most bugs probably stay outside.”

      “I have a rule,” she answered as she picked up a fork. “If a critter is outside I’m happy to leave it alone. If it comes inside, I’ll kill it.”

      “Seems like a sensible arrangement.”

      “I love nature,” she said, almost laughing. “Outdoors, where it belongs. Please, start eating. If you don’t like it, let me know.”

      “Is it hot?”

      “Very.”

      “Great. That’s all I ask.”

      Meals in the hospital had usually been lukewarm by the time they reached him. He’d developed a strong loathing for oatmeal that would have made a great wallpaper paste. The mess hall was better but, since army cooks had been replaced by private contractors, not what he remembered from the past. As for when he was in the field...

      “One of the best meals I can remember eating,” he said as memory awoke, “was in a teahouse in Nepal.”

      She looked up from her plate. “Nepal? What were you doing there?”

      “Passing through. I can’t tell you any more than that. But they plied us with hot soup full of fresh vegetables, and roasted yak meat and yak milk. And an amazing amount of hot tea. Those people had next to nothing, Miri, but they treated us like kings.”

      “They sound very welcoming.”

      He almost smiled. “I’ll never forget them. Strangers in a strange land, and we were met with smiles, generosity and genuine welcome.” He looked down and scooped up more casserole. “I’ve noticed in my travels that the most generous people are often those who have the least. By no standard measure would you think the Nepalese were wealthy. But they were wealthy in soul and spirit.”

      He emptied his plate in short order and Miri pushed the casserole dish toward him. “I’m not counting on leftovers. Eat, Gil.”

      He was happy to oblige. Hot meals were still a treat.

      “From what Al used to talk about, I guess you’ve seen a whole lot of the world.”

      He raised his gaze, feeling himself grow steely again. Some matters were not to be discussed with civilians. “Not from a tourist perspective,” he said, closing the subject. A subject he’d opened himself, talking about Nepal. But it needed to be closed.

      She nodded slowly, her blue eyes sweeping over his face. “Stay here tonight,” she said finally. “You can decide about the barbecue tomorrow.”

      He was content to leave it there.

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