Snowbound

She was having trouble meeting his eyes. Was she

scared of him?

Clear the air. “I hope I didn’t give you bruises.”

She let out an unconvincing laugh. “I deserve some,

after throwing myself off the porch.”

“I knocked you down hard. I’m sorry.”

To his eyes, she was so beautiful right now he ached

with it. Her cheeks were rosy, perhaps from the bath.

Her hair was caught up on top of her head, but wisps

curled around her face. She’d changed into a flannel

shirt—his—the sleeves rolled half a dozen times,

several buttons undone to expose her long, pale throat

and delicate collarbone. Her eyes were uncertain,

shying from his, the color seemingly having darkened.

“You didn’t hurt me. I was just…startled.”

“I’m glad,” he said, and meant it.

She bit her lip, nodded and took a step back, as if to

leave the kitchen. Then she stopped, and he braced

himself.

“Does it happen often? I mean, flashbacks?”

“No. Not like that. I duck when a garbage truck

clangs, but so do most vets at first.”

Her eyes, perplexed, met his at last. “Then why…?”

“There was an incident…” He cleared his throat. He

didn’t like talking about the war at all, but he owed

her an explanation. “Three soldiers. Something about

the way the boys arranged themselves today, their

voices…” He stopped, found himself hunching his

shoulders. “When Hopper turned back and then fell

just as that branch snapped… It was so familiar. I wasn’t

in Iraq. I knew there was snow on the ground, and that

it was you I was throwing down.”

“Protecting,” she said softly.

“But for a minute I saw blood. I thought two of the

boys had gone down.” Feeling incredibly awkward, he

studied the grain of wood in the plank floor. “It was

brief, but vivid.”

“You’ve had things like this happen before, haven’t

you? That’s why you moved up here.”

He lifted his head and glared at her. “You think I

walk around hallucinating? You’re wrong. This was an

isolated incident. War messes with your head. It takes

time to clear it.”

Puckers between her eyebrows showed that she was

still troubled as she studied him, but after a minute she

nodded. “My father was in Vietnam. To this day he

hates the Fourth of July.”

“Yeah, that would be even worse for Vietnam vets.

We didn’t have to deal with constant shelling.”

“What was the worst part?” she asked.

Being asked to talk about it made him feel as if his

ribs were being compressed. He shifted, told himself he

was getting enough air.

What was a short answer she’d accept? One that

didn’t say, watching kids you’ve befriended get blown

up?

“The fact that you’re not fighting soldiers. There’s

no theater of operations. There’s no behind the lines

where you can kick back and not worry about dying. It’s

like Vietnam in that sense. Every car driving up to a

checkpoint can be full of guys toting AK rifles. Or it

might have a family in it, little kids in the back. Road

blocks are a nightmare. Everyone over there drives at

breakneck speed. Is a car barreling toward you because

that’s the way this guy drives all the time, or because

he’s a suicide bomber? That house with kids playing in

front of it might be the meeting place for a bunch of insurgents. You can’t assume it’s safe because of the kids.”

He tried to figure out how to make her understand.

“Violence can happen anywhere. Anytime. So you

never relax.”

She nodded. “So after a while you look at all Iraqis

as enemies and none as a friend.”

Not him. Foolishly optimistic, he had tried to make

friends with the people, to build a bridge between the

Americans and the locals. He wasn’t going to tell her

about how that bridge was detonated, any more than he

had told a single other soul since he was shipped home

on crutches.

“The six-month deployments are smart. Knowing

you’re getting to go home…” Hands miraculously

steady, he took out a cutting board and knife. “Trouble