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  “There’s shampoo and soap in there, obviously.” She points at the shower. “I’ll see if I can find you some of—some clean clothes.”

  “Thanks. I can wear these. It’s fine.”

  She pinches the denim over my thigh between her finger and thumb. “Don’t be ridiculous. Those pants are caked with dirt.” She visibly steels herself. “I’ve got a couple bins of Tom’s clothes in the attic. They should fit.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  She shakes her head, cutting me off. Her voice is hard, brusque. “They’re just clothes, Derek.”

  She’s gone then, and I wait until she’s out of the master bedroom before nudging the bathroom door closed and stepping out of my jeans.

  The shower is glorious. High enough that I don’t have to duck or do the limbo, a hard stream of hot water. The shampoo is a little girly-smelling, but whatever. I’m clean, and it’s an amazing sensation. Showers at the hospital were short, usually either tepid or scalding, and the showerhead was so low I had to basically sit down to fit under it.

  I soak for a long time, until the water goes lukewarm.

  When I get out, there’s a pile of jeans, T-shirts, socks, and boxer shorts on the bed. I put on the clothes, except the underwear. I’ll be damned if I’ll wear another man’s underwear, no matter whose they were, or how clean.

  Just no. No way.

  When I head downstairs, I see that Reagan is writing a list. She doesn’t look at me. “Ready? Let’s go. I need some groceries from town anyway, so we can go together.” She glances at Ida. “We need anything from town, Ida?”

  Ida shrugs. “Not that I can think of.”

  “We’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  Ida ruffles Tommy’s hair. “We’ll be fine here, won’t we, bub?”

  Tommy just smiles and goes back to his PB-and-J. Reagan kisses him on the top of the head, and then heads for the front door. She’s avoiding my gaze now, and suddenly seems more uncomfortable around me than before. Maybe it’s Tom’s clothes. Or it might be something else entirely, something I can’t begin to fathom.

  All I know is, I get a whiff of citrus shampoo and something vanilla as she sweeps past me on the way to the truck. The smell of her makes me dizzy in ways I don’t dare examine.

  Off limits, Derek, I tell myself. Off limits.

  * * *

  REAGAN

  He’s off limits, stupid woman, I berate myself. You can’t think about him like that.

  He’d shut the door to the bathroom before getting in the shower, but he didn’t realize that the door has a tendency to come unlatched and swing open a few inches. I only meant to put the clothes on the bed and leave again, but I was arrested by the glimpse of him I got through the partly open door. The shower curtain is clear plastic, hiding nothing, meant only to stop the water from spattering on the floor. For one brief moment, I got a look at all of him. He was facing me; eyes closed, head back, running his hands over his head to rinse off the shampoo. I couldn’t swallow past the lump lodged in my throat, couldn’t think and couldn’t look away.

  Derek West is gorgeous. I can admit that much. The weight he lost and is slowly regaining only serves to heighten the angular beauty of his features. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a man.

  Four years, I think. The last time I saw a naked man was the night before Tom shipped out for what would be his final tour. Since then, it’s been just me, Tommy, and Hank and Ida. I waited for Tom, and then waited for news, for official word. And then when I got it, I mourned. Long, and deeply. I grieved for my dead husband. Keeping the farm going, staying out of debt, keeping food on the table and my son cared for takes everything I have, takes every spare moment of my life, and then some. Other men never even crossed my mind.

  And then Derek West shows up, and shakes my whole world.

  His help is so gratefully appreciated; I’ve been running this farm by myself for a long, long time. I drive the tractor, bale the hay, plow the rows, plant, harvest, weed, spray. Fix fences and feed the horses, keep their hooves trimmed, and worm them and ride them—not as often as I’d like, but every once in a while—as well as mow the little patch of grass behind the house.

  I’m a strong, capable, independent woman. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want and appreciate the help of a man.

  I blush as I precede Derek to the pickup, trying my best and failing to erase the image of his naked body from my mind.

  Derek is a lot of man.

  Again I shake myself, forcing those thoughts from my mind. Think of my shopping list. Eggs. Bread. Milk. Juice. Cinnamon. Vanilla extract. Bacon. Sausage. Ground beef. Fresh veggies. Pasta.

  It doesn’t help. He’s in the passenger seat, smelling clean. I steal a glance. The skin around the back of his neck is still beaded with moisture. His hair is darker when it’s wet, long enough now to curl at the edges. It sweeps across his forehead, blown by the wind coming in through the open window.

  His left hand rests on his thigh, on the dark-wash jeans. Those were Tom’s favorite pair. They’re just clothes, I tell myself. I glance at Derek’s hand, at the crooked ring finger. “What happened to your finger?” I ask, by way of conversation.

  Okay, so that’s a shitty opening gambit.

  Derek tenses, and I know I’ve asked a bad question. “It was…broken. A couple of times.”

  I twist at the leather of the steering wheel. “Shit, Derek. I’m sorry.” I can tell by his reaction that it’s something that was done to him, something he doesn’t want to talk about.

  He shrugs. “You couldn’t know.” He laughs sardonically. “Talking to me is kind of like walking though a minefield. You never know which step will cause an explosion.”

  “And I seem to have a knack for missteps, I guess.”

  “Not your fault. There are a lot of land mines, I guess.” He is silent a moment, curling and straightening that finger. “It won’t close all the way. They broke it, and then every couple days, they’d break it again. Keep me in pain, I guess. Never really knew why — they never wanted any information from me. Not that I really had any to give. They did it just to do it, I guess. They kept it broken for…I don’t know. I lost the ability to track time after a while. A couple of weeks, probably. Eventually they lost interest in the game and left the finger alone. But it was so fucked up I had to re-break it myself and try to set it. Of course, I didn’t have a splint or anything, so it didn’t set right.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. “God, Derek. That’s…that’s horrible.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t fun.”

  I trace the crooked path of his knuckles with my index finger. “Does it still bother you?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes. The usual broken-bone stuff. Aches when it rains, that kind of thing.”

  I shouldn’t have looked at his hand, shouldn’t have touched him. Now that I’m looking, I see other scars. Shiny burn scars, smooth to the touch in contrast to his strong, weathered hands. Some are round, some oblong and misshapen. Something tells me they’re not accidental burns. I glance at him, see that he’s watching me touch his various scars. I withdraw my hand; turn my attention back to the road.

  “Those weren’t accidental, were they?” I can’t help asking.

  “Nope.” He clams up after that, and I’m not about to ask any more questions. A few minutes of silence, and then: “You know, you’ve done an incredible job, keeping that massive fucking farm going on your own.”

  I attempt a half-hearted smile. “Thanks. It’s been hard — I’m not gonna lie.” It feels good to say that out loud.

  “I bet it has been. It’s a big place. Lots to do.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not many people could’ve done it, I think. Kept going, the way you have.” I’m not sure whether he’s talking about the farm anymore.

  “Not much choice. Give up, or keep going, you know? Those were my only choices. And once Tommy was born, it’s turned into a routine I can’t get out of. You just…get up,
do what you have to do. Don’t think about the next day, or the huge list of things still to be done. There’s no time off on a farm.”

  Derek hangs his arm out the window. “War is the same, in some ways. Do what you gotta do. I don’t think about it too much, and I try not to think about what I’ve done, or what the pencil-dicks up the chain are gonna ask for next. You just…do the job. Patrol. Keep your eyes peeled, watch your buddy’s back. Obey orders and keep your head down. Try to have some fun when you get a few hours of liberty.”

  He rests his head back on the seat, stares off into space, at the trees lining the road. “It’s funny, I haven’t thought about life as a Marine in a long time. I don’t feel like a soldier anymore. For…so long, it’s what I was. It was my identity: Corporal Derek West, United States Marine. Now? I don’t even know anymore…who I am, what I am.”

  “Are they going to try to make you go back? I mean, are you discharged?”

  “I don’t know, officially. I do know I won’t go back. Fuck that. Fuck the Corps. Fuck Afghanistan. Fuck war. They’ll have to drag me back in cuffs. And I wouldn’t survive the first SNAFU. I’m twitchy. Jumpy. I’m in horrible shape.” He shakes his head. “No. I’m not going back.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Another long silence. “I never wanted to be a farmer. I grew up on a horse ranch in Oklahoma. Middle of nowhere, just like here. I hated it. I wanted to move to a big city. Phoenix, or Austin. Even New York City. I wanted to be a chef.” I’m not sure where that admission came from. I’ve never told that to anyone.

  Derek glances at me, head lolling on the seat. His eyes are the green of moss on a tree, dark and cool. “Yet here you are. Why?”

  I shrug. “I loved Tom. This is where he wanted to be. He loved this land. His father farmed this land, his grandfather. His great-grandfather. That farmhouse is the second one built on that spot. The first one burned down in nineteen twenty-three. And Tom? He just…identified with the farm, with Texas, with being a farmer. He wanted to see some of the world before he settled down, though. He wanted to do something with his youth, I guess. I mean, he watched his father, who grew up on that plot of land and never left it, never left Texas, or even traveled any farther than Galveston.”

  “Well, Tom saw the world, all right. Iraq, Germany, Afghanistan, Morocco.”

  This was news to me. “Morocco? When did Tom go to Morocco?”

  He grins, remembering. “Me, Hunter, Tom, Blast, and Abraham, we took a trip together. This was when we were stationed in Baghdad, early on in the second go-around. We had four days of liberty, so we hopped a plane to Casablanca. Raised some serious hell. We all got written up for that. Barrett and I pulled latrine duty for two weeks because of that trip.” Derek’s voice breaks. “Me and Hunter, we’re—we’re the only ones left alive of our entire unit. Everyone from the original Foxtrot…they’re all dead. Most of ’em—most of them died in the ambush.”

  I can’t just not respond, but I don’t know what to say. “Have you seen Hunter? Since you’ve been back?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Him and Rania came by the hospital. Spent a few days with me. They’re having another little girl.” He pauses to think. “Should be due in a couple of weeks.”

  “They’re doing well, then?”

  “Yeah. Real good. Hunter works on a road crew, Rania is a nurse at a hospital.”

  Suddenly, we’re at the Home Depot in Brenham. It’s a strangely domestic experience, buying paint and fence rails and a few other odds and ends. Then it’s on to the Brookshire Brothers for groceries. Even more domesticity. Wandering up and down the aisle, a cart with one wobbly caster, Derek strolling beside me, casual conversation about idle things: Baker—Hank’s aged and zany Blue Heeler—chasing a rabbit through the north pasture, barking madly and tripping every third step because he’s game in his hind leg; Henry the Eighth and his endless search for loose fence rails to knock down so he can get to the greener grass on the other side; anything but Tom, anything but the war.

  I haven’t gone grocery shopping with a man since Tom’s ten-month leave between tours. It’s a strange feeling, having someone around who’s not Hank, Ida, or Tommy. I catch myself watching him, staring at the way his shoulders move when he walks, the remnants of an unconscious hunch. The long swing of his legs, the way he clenches his left hand every so often, wiggles the ring finger. Holds his hands low by his thighs and shakes them to stop the trembles. The way his eyes are always scanning, hopping from person to person, assessing, and noticing when someone comes up behind us. Derek notices everything, missing nothing.

  We’re tossing the bags into the bed of the truck. A souped-up pickup truck full of rowdy teenage boys roars into the parking lot, pounding rap music thudding from the speakers, shouts and laughter and curses. There are three or four boys in the bed of the truck, shoving each other and laughing, standing up as the truck squeals to a stop one row over. One of them has a cigarette in his mouth, and he’s leaning toward his buddy, nudging and laughing, holding a hand out, demanding something.

  The other boy hands the object over, and I hear him say, “If the fuzz show up, I’m out of here. Just sayin’.”

  “Pussy.” The kid with the cigarette dangling from his lips puts one foot up on the rim of the truck bed, pulls the cigarette from his lips, and holds it to the item cupped in his hands. “Go, go!” he shouts, hopping down, reaching up to grab his friend’s hand and jerking him down, pushing the rest into a run, tossing what I now realize are firecrackers a few feet away.

  Derek noticed the kids show up and dismissed them, busied himself with tying a bungee cord through the loops of the plastic grocery bags and fastening them to the rungs on the bed liner. He misses the exchange with the firecracker. Before I think to alert him, the firecrackers go off.

  CRACK!

  At the first explosion, Derek is down, kneeling on the far side of the truck, back against the tire.

  Crackcrackcrackcrack—

  When the rest of the firecrackers go off, Derek identifies the sound and straightens to his feet. He’s shaken, pale. “Fuckin’ firecrackers? Jesus.” He grips the metal rim of the truck bed, braced and clearly struggling for composure.

  I don’t think twice about putting my hand on his back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles. “You okay?”

  He tenses at my touch, but doesn’t move away. “Embarrassed.” He barks out harsh, deprecating laughter. “Ducking for cover at some goddamn firecrackers like some green fuckin’ rookie.”

  “It’s a natural reaction—”

  “Just get me the hell out of here. Too many people.” He pushes away from the truck, rounds to the passenger side, and gets in, staring out the window.

  I point us home. After fifteen minutes of stony silence, I risk a hand on his knee. He glances at me in question. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Derek,” I say.

  “My heart is still hammering. I’m fucking sweating and shaking. Look at this.” He holds out his left hand, which is shaking violently, until he squeezes it into a fist, resting the fist on his thigh.

  I cover his hand with mine. “The last time Tom came home, he was here over the Fourth of July. We went down to Houston, and we had this great dinner, took a walk through Memorial Park. Went to the Miller Theater for the fireworks show. I didn’t even think about it—how the fireworks would affect him. He played it tough, you know how he—how he was” —I have to emphasize the past tense still sometimes— “but he was a mess through the whole thing. When they started shooting off the cannons, he couldn’t take it anymore. He took off, and I found him in a men’s bathroom, sitting in a stall, just about hyperventilating. He wouldn’t let me in, so I crawled under the door to be with him until it was over.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Both of us pretend that my hand isn’t still on his. I pretend that my heart isn’t rabbiting like a teenage girl’s, and I pretend not to notice that his hand still shakes every once in a while. He, in turn, casually unclenches his fist, relaxes hi
s hand on his leg. He pretends not to notice that my fingers somehow, on their own, slip between his own. I pretend like it’s totally natural and normal to drive the rest of the twenty-mile trip with only my left on the wheel, even through the turns.

  I pretend to myself that I’m not disappointed when the drive is over and I have to pull my hand away.

  He, like a typical man, carries almost all of the grocery bags into the kitchen in a single trip, bags draped along his forearms, three or four clutched in each finger. He slams the tailgate closed as I grab the gallon of milk. He stops, one hand on the tailgate, his eyes meeting mine finally. “Reagan?”

  I rest the milk on the bumper. “Yeah?”

  “Just…thanks. For understanding. For not making me feel like a pussy.”

  I smile at him. “You are literally the farthest thing from a pussy, Derek.”

  He ducks his head and nods, not really agreeing, more acknowledging my statement. “Well, thanks.” He smacks the side of the truck with a palm. “Guess I’ll finish the barn now.”

  I watch him go, and for the rest of the day I’m fixated on the memory of his hand under mine.

  CHAPTER 9

  DEREK

  The next month is a strange, awkward dance. Reagan and I partially avoid each other, and partially seek each other out. I can’t erase the feel of her hand on mine, the gentle way she has about her. But it’s because of that inability to forget something so simple as almost-but-not-quite holding hands after my minor freak-out that I avoid her. I avoid her after we each finish the day’s work. She’s always sweaty, dirty, and sexy. It drives me fucking nuts. Her shirt sticks to her chest and stomach, her shorts molded to her thighs and ass. Her hair hangs limp and tangled and sweat-pasted to her forehead and the back of her neck, her tanned skin flushed. I can’t not look at her, so I avoid her until she’s cleaned up. But that usually means she ends up bringing supper out to the barn, or leaving it on the kitchen table for me after I come down from the shower.