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“Very well,” he said after a few stretched-out seconds. “If you change your mind, just let me know.” Then he turned to the riflemen, who told him they’d already picked out the location for them and for Miri.
Sgt. York approved, saluted and started to pivot away. Suddenly he turned back. “Commander Hardin?”
Seth Hardin, decked out in dark navy blue, smiled faintly. “It’s been a while, Sergeant.”
“Yes, it has.” He nodded, then pivoted and marched away.
There was steel in the man’s spine, Miriam thought. She wondered if he ever walked normally, or if he was forever marching, executing tight corners and sharp about-faces.
Not today. Certainly not today.
She and the riflemen backed up to the small knoll Seth Hardin had chosen for them. Thirty to fifty yards from the gravesite for them and the bugler. Apparently, everything was measured out with these formalities.
She only wished she had a real bugle, but the trumpet was acceptable. At least she was sure she could play it.
Events began to blur. The hearse arrived. Family and friends crowded into the chairs that had been set up at the gravesite. The grave itself was covered by the machinery that would lower Al into his resting place later. For now, everything was hidden beneath a blanket of artificial turf, shockingly green against the duller, dry countryside.
Then she heard commands being barked. The moment had come. Six men in uniforms of various services eased the coffin from the back of the hearse and carried her cousin with measured steps to the grave.
Miri’s throat tightened until she felt as if a wire garrote wrapped it. She drew slow breaths, calming herself. Weeping could come later. She had a service to perform for Al.
The minister spoke a few words, led them in a prayer. Then Sgt. York turned toward the distant riflemen and saluted. Even though she stood ten yards from them, Miri could hear the snap as they brought their rifles up and aimed them to the sky.
A command was spoken and three rifle volleys rang out, one after the other. Then, with a snap, the rifles returned to a position that crossed the men’s chests.
She glanced toward York and saw him waiting at attention. Her turn. She lifted the trumpet and began playing the sorrowful notes for Al. A hush seemed to come over the entire world. She didn’t notice that tears ran down her cheeks. Had no way to tell that no eyes were dry as the lonesome call carried over the countryside.
She made it all the way through. Tears nearly blinded her as the pallbearers stepped forward, folding the flag with perfect precision before handing it to Sgt. York. He pivoted sharply and walked to stand directly before Al’s parents. With the flag at waist height he bent forward and spoke, his determined voice carrying on the stirring breeze.
“On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Mrs. Baker took the flag and held it to her chest, her sobs becoming audible.
Then the entire honor guard withdrew, leaving the family to its private time of grief.
Something made Miri run, her trumpet case banging against her leg. She didn’t run away, but rather straight to Sgt. York, who was about to climb into his car.
“Sergeant!” she called. Her voice sounded disturbingly loud, but she didn’t care. He’d been Al’s friend. These moments were for him, too.
He paused, then pivoted to face her. Still the stern-faced soldier. “Yes, ma’am?” he asked quietly when she reached him.
“You can’t just go. Please at least let us know how to contact you. Al’s stories...well, we feel like you’re part of the family, too.”
He hesitated a moment. “Do you have a pad and pen? There’s very little I can fit into a dress uniform without looking sloppy.”
“I imagine.” She was in a luckier position. Her trumpet case contained the paper and pen. He scribbled down an email address. Nothing more. It was enough. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“No need. Al deserved a whole lot more.” Then he opened the car door and removed a paper-wrapped parcel, the size of a large book. “Give this to Al’s mother and father, please. I had a bunch of photos I thought they’d like. I was going to mail it but... You did well, Ms. Baker.”
Then he climbed in the car and, like the rest of the honor guard, disappeared from sight.
Miri stood holding the wrapped package, sorrow and loss emptying her heart. She missed Al like the devil. But she suspected Gil York missed him even more.
Chapter One (#u7dfcbf94-1bf1-592c-bd8b-b7272c3bb54a)
Miri Baker waited nervously. Gil York was arriving sometime this evening. Yes, they’d kept up a casual email correspondence since Al’s funeral last year, but then he’d dropped out of sight for over two months.
When he resurfaced he’d told her he’d been wounded and that, after rehab, he’d be going home to his family in Michigan.
She wondered what had happened there, because out of the blue, just a week ago, he’d asked if the family would mind a visit from him. After clearing it with Al’s parents, she assured him they’d love it, and his response had been brief. “See you Friday evening.”
In the few messages they’d traded since he told her he’d been wounded, there had been a lot of blanks, missing lines, little information. She had no idea what to expect, or why he’d leave his family and come here.
She had a casserole ready to go, since his arrival time was up in the air. She had some lesson planning to do, but it could wait. She paced her small house and hoped that everything would be all right.
She had no idea how badly wounded Gil had been. What was he going to say when he learned that Al’s family was throwing a big barbecue for him tomorrow? A barbecue in January because of a brief thaw. He wouldn’t be expecting that. What if he didn’t want to go?
“Simple enough,” Betsy, Al’s mother, had said as she gave her phone a workout. “We’ll have the barbecue anyway. Everyone will have a good time.” Especially since no one thought of holding barbecues at this time of year, thaw or no thaw. In a pinch, the barn would do for shelter.
It was nearly a year since the funeral, and when Miri thought over the simple, short emails she and Gil had exchanged, she felt that now he was even more a stranger than he had been when Al had shared stories about him.
“Reserved” might be an understatement when describing Gil York. From the little she had seen of him at the funeral, she would now describe him as distant. Maybe even closed off. She had a feeling that during their brief meeting she’d had her first close encounter with what she’d heard called the “thousand-yard stare.”
She’d talked about it with Edie Hardin, a former combat search and rescue pilot who now worked for the county’s emergency medical services as a helicopter pilot. The woman had a son who had frequent play dates with Miri’s next-door neighbor’s son, and Edie and Miri had developed a friendship over time.
“I know what you mean,” Edie had answered. “I’ve seen it plenty of times.” She had missed the funeral because she was on duty that day, but her husband, Seth, a former SEAL, had been part of the honor guard.
“I see it in Seth sometimes,” Edie had continued. “What these guys do? Especially special forces like Seth and Gil...so much, for so long. It’s like a brain shock, or an emotional shock. It haunts them, Miri. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Gil seems to have a handle on it, from what you said.”
Handle on it? Truth be told she was surprised he’d continued their irregular email conversation. Little said on his side, while she tried to pass along interesting tidbits about life around here. She kept expecting him to just not answer.
Then for two months he hadn’t. It had been a shock to her to learn he’d been wounded and that he was on indefinite medical leave. An even bigger shock when he’d written that he’d like to visit, if that was all right.
Of course it was all right. He’d been Al’s best friend for years. By extension he was family. But what about his own family, where he’d been headed when he first told her he was wounded?
As the sun slipped behind the mountains and the afternoon began to darken into twilight, she decided she was getting entirely too anxious about Gil’s visit. He was probably just taking the opportunity to do a little traveling while he was on leave. He undoubtedly knew people from all over the country and was catching up. Considering that Al had been one of his best buddies, he probably wondered how the Baker family was getting along.
Losing Al still hurt. Grief, she was discovering, never really lessened; it just came less often. Like ocean waves, rolling over her occasionally, sometimes softer, sometimes hammering. Talking 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 of me understands. I’ve buried a lot of good men. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things. But this is who I am.”
It sounded like a line drawn in the sand. Being a soldier was his identity. How did you strip that away? She would find it hard to give up being a music teacher. Sometimes she wondered how jobs could become so overwhelmingly important to a sense of self. Wondering didn’t make it change.
“I’m not sure you’ll get much of that here,” she said. “But I can’t guarantee you won’t get any. Al’s parents are excited about seeing you because Al mentioned you so often they feel like you’re family. So, no promises.”
Again a faint smile. “I know how to leave. Obviously. But let’s talk about you. I know you teach music. I know you love it because you told me such great stories when you emailed. But what about the rest? Does Miri Baker have a life apart from school?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does Sergeant Gil York have a life apart from the Green Berets?” Then she laughed. “Of course I have a life. Friends. Community service projects. Sometimes I help Jack and Betsy at the ranch. There are times when they need some extra hands.”
“And your parents? Al never mentioned them. At least not that I can recall.”
She closed her eyes. Even after seven years she didn’t like to think about it. “My dad had an accident with some farm machinery. Mom found him... It was gruesome. Anyway, she died of a sudden heart attack before the EMTs arrived. I’m glad she didn’t have to hang around, but I resent it, too.” That was blunt enough, she thought.
“So you were left to deal with it alone?”
“Hardly,” she said a touch drily. “You’re forgetting the rest of the Baker clan. Aunt Betsy and Uncle Jack were there for me, as were a couple of more distant cousins. Then there are the people around here. Unless you deliberately push them away, quite a few will try to be helpful however they can.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He looked so very different from when he’d come for the funeral. Then he’d been rigid, sturdy, in control. Now he looked weary, new lines creased his strong features and his eyes weren’t quite as flinty. She wondered if he was in much pain, but didn’t ask. They were still virtual strangers, with little enough intimacy of any kind. It was like meeting someone new, their past contact irrelevant. For some reason she hadn’t expected that.
He rose from the table, moving as if he was stiff and uncomfortable, and the change once again shocked her. He poured himself more coffee, then returned to his seat. He’d managed without the cane, however.
“I stiffen up when I sit too long,” he remarked. “I didn’t use to do that. Al talked about you a lot.”
The switch in topics caught her by surprise. She’d begun to hope he was going to say something about himself, but now went back to Al.
“I miss him,” she said. “Even though he was home only a few weeks a year, I still miss him.”
