LITMIR.BIZ

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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, she passed him a full glass of delicious water. He drained it unceremoniously, and she refilled it for him immediately. He sucked half of it down, then placed the glass on the table. “Thanks. Mind if I stretch a bit by walking around the house?”

      “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

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