Command was more like it. Liam thought he was finished with commands when he left the service. Rocking forward to flex his foot in his boot, he exhaled as his tight muscles protested the stretch. Where the fuck was he supposed to go? He had absolutely no interest in sitting on a beach somewhere. The very last thing in the world he wanted to do was spend time alone with his thoughts.
He liked fishing, or at least he had a hundred years or so ago. Back when he had time. He’d gotten kind of a cryptic call from one of the guys he’d served with on his last tour. Liam knew exactly how hard re-entry could be and it sounded like his friend was struggling. Maybe he could grab a couple of fishing rods, swing by for a visit, and kill two birds with one stone.
––––––––
ANDY STUART SAT back on her heels, ignoring the way the damp worked its way through her faded jeans. It had been spring the day before, but kneeling in the chilly mid-morning air made her glad for her fleece hoodie. She glanced down the row of freshly planted seedlings and let out a contented sigh. There was nothing better than seeing the tangible evidence of her work. It had taken her most of the morning, but she could already picture the heads of red lettuce with their distinct oakleaf shape filling the row in a few weeks.
She slipped the last seedling with its two determined leaves from the tray and poked a hole for it into the soft dirt with her fingers. The earth was warmer than the outside air and the contrast made her smile. There were only a handful of days each season where that held true, and she loved them for both the rarity and the implied promise of warmer days ahead. She tucked the seedling in, making a Pete Seeger “Garden Song” kind of promise to take care of it before brushing her hands off on her jeans and standing.
It would be a couple of hours before the guys came in from the back fields for lunch but she wanted to put a pot of chili on so it would be ready for them. Of course, in all likelihood, Millie had taken care of it already. The older woman had a knack for seeing what needed to be done and doing it before being asked. Andy was grateful every day for her.
It wasn’t hers or anyone else’s job to wait on the veterans who made their home on the farm. Independence was a huge part of what Sourwood Farm offered them, but she worked hard to strike a balance between letting the recovering soldiers take care of themselves and making sure they knew someone cared about them. Food was one of the easiest and least complicated ways to accomplish that.
Nobody ended up on her doorstep who wasn’t broken mentally, physically, or both. Adjusting to civilian life was hard under the best of circumstances. The people who lived on the farm weren’t dealing with the best of circumstances. Not even close. But working the land, doing something tangible, something physical where they didn’t have to explain themselves to anyone, seemed to make things easier. Plants didn’t ask questions or demand reassurances, and the earth was a warm, familiar companion to people who had a hard time relating to any other kind.
Even that wasn’t a guarantee. By some measures, the suicide rate for veterans returning home was twice that of civilians. A few older studies had the number as high as twenty-two soldiers a day. She used to get off on arguing about data and statistics, but in this case she didn’t care about the numbers. One was too high.
She hadn’t lost anyone who’d come to the farm. Not yet anyway, but it felt like a tenuous dance.For some more than others, she thought, her mind wandering to the back pasture where Jake, the newest arrival, was turning under the winter rye. The young marine had come to Sourwood by way of Landstuhl, the medical center in Germany. His body was mending—although it would likely never be the same again. The sniper round that landed him in the hospital pretty much wrecked that chance, but at least he still had use of all his limbs, which was more than some of the inhabitants of the farm.
It was his mind that worried her. Since his arrival, the twenty-five-year-old hadn’t said more than a handful of words at a time to anyone. There was no way in hell he’d open up about what he’d been through. Most of the time, it didn’t seem like there was anyone looking out through his eyes. The only thing that seemed to bring him any kind of feeling—happiness was much too strong a word—was driving the tractor. She knew from his file he’d grown up on a corn farm in Iowa, and he clearly knew his way around farm machinery.Thank God.She could drive the ancient John Deere and had for hours on end when she first bought the farm, but she hated it.
She was more than content to turn all the tractor duties over to Jake. And since he wouldn’t talk to anyone on the farm, she’d encouraged him every chance she got to reach out to one of his buddies. Preferably someone who’d already made the transition to civilian life and could help him find his way. Although who knew if he actually did it. Hopefully he’d find his way through the maze and back to something worth living for. The best she could offer him was a safe place with a simple purpose while he wrestled his demons and hope it was enough. She tucked her planting trays in the shed and zipped her sweatshirt up against the wind picking up and started toward the house.
Every time she looked at the big old farmhouse, her heart squeezed tight in her chest. She loved its beautiful utilitarian lines and huge wrap-around porch. It was as if she’d been given the best present in the world and one she didn’t deserve. She worked every day to try to make herself worthy of the house and the land surrounding it.
Ignoring the empty flowerpots on the landing—she’d fill them with pansies in a day or two, as soon as she was sure the weather would hold—she climbed the steps and pulled open the screen door with its scrollwork and spool detail. The aroma of sautéed peppers and sweet corn bread hit her with its spicy warmth. She followed her nose to the kitchen and the tiny stooped woman responsible for the delicious smells.
With her silver-white hair and flowered apron, Millie might be short on stature but the woman had real presence. She filled whatever room she was in and none more so than the kitchen that had been hers for all her adult life. In the beginning, Andy felt odd invading Millie’s domain, but despite having plenty of reasons to do otherwise, the older woman made her feel at home.
“What’s doing, Wonder Woman?” Andy asked, pressing a kiss to her soft, wrinkled cheek. “I came in to put the chili on and you beat me to it.”
“You’ve got enough to do. I can handle heating up a pot of chili.” She scowled, the crease in her forehead almost camouflaged by the wrinkles in her thin weathered skin, faded to olive from her years working outside in the sun. “There’s zucchini bread left over from breakfast and I just put on a fresh pot of coffee. Why don’t you get some for both of us?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Andy filled two heavy white mugs with coffee from the ancient electric percolator and topped Millie’s off with milk the way she liked. There was enough bread left for two thin slices, surprising considering how much the residents loved Millie’s zucchini bread.
They’d grated the zucchini last summer when the vegetables threatened to overrun the garden and stuck the Ziploc bags in the freezer to keep the older woman supplied all winter long. In return, she kept them supplied in sweet, spicy bread, so moist it barely held its shape.
Andy took the mugs and plates to the painted wooden farm table scarred from decades of use. Not bothering to wait for it to cool, she took a sip of the scorching-hot coffee, sucking in air to keep it from scalding her tongue.
“If you put milk in it like a sensible person, or waited a minute you wouldn’t have to do that,” said the older woman, lowering herself into one of the Windsor chairs and reaching for her own mug.
The statement didn’t require a response. She respected Millie too much to tell her milk in perfectly good coffee was an abomination. Instead, she moved on to the zucchini bread, popping a bite of spicy goodness into her mouth.
“You missed breakfast. What hauled you out of bed so early?”
It was a rare morning she was up before the older woman, but Andy hadn’t been able to sleep and by the time the gray light of dawn started to color the edges of the sky, she’d given up trying.
“I wanted to get the lettuce in.”
The other woman gave her a look that made it clear she was onto her bullshit.
“I do think I heard once that lettuce planted by moonlight tastes better,” said Millie, rolling her eyes like a teenager instead of the seventy-something she was. “You know, someday you’re going to have to stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders or you’re going to give yourself a hump.”
Andy sipped her less-than-scorching coffee and polished off her bread in silence. The last thing in the world she wanted to talk about were the nightmares that occasionally—more rarely since she opened the farm—interrupted her sleep. If that made her a bit of a hypocrite, she’d make her peace with it. Licking the tip of her finger, she used it to pick up the crumbs still left on her plate and wished for more bread.
“Hello there,” said the older woman.
She looked up, feeling like a kid caught sneaking candy, but Millie wasn’t paying any attention to Andy. Her gaze was fixed on something outside the window. Andy followed her direction, glancing out the window in time to see a wall of a man headed toward the back door. He paused when he reached her beat-up Subaru wagon, his gaze drifting toward the bumper for a second. When he looked up again, his lips curved in a cocky, know-it-all smirk and any warm feelings she might have been having evaporated. At least she wished they had. It might take a few minutes for reality to match the indignation in her head.
