Chapter Two

Springfield, 1919

When Owen arrived at home at last, his grandmother Mamé took one look at him and said, “Son, you need to go to the forest.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he hugged his mother, took off his uniform, and changed into trousers and a shirt. He’d no longer need his olive drab shirts, breeches, and leg wraps, and in truth, most of the things he’d brought home were little more than rags. He kept his trench boots, because his old civilian boots were a shade too small, as if his feet had swelled over those months he’d stood in the muck and would never truly regain their normal size. And he asked his father for permission to stay at the cabin.

“Of course. We won’t need it until February or so.”

In the eighteen months since Owen left for France, Father’s hair had turned grey. Mother’s had, too, and wisps escaped her kerchief, framing her face in silver.

Dinner was strained; breakfast less so, if only because Owen was too tired to say very much at all. As soon as was polite, Owen went to his room for his bags. His mother stopped him at the door. “You’ll come home for Sunday dinner, won’t you?”

He leaned over and kissed her brow. “Mamé is right. I need the quiet. I’ll come back when I can.”

At any other time, Mother’s frown would have made Owen sad. Right then, carrying the weight of almost eighteen months in France, he merely kissed her again and headed out the door.

The cabin was some three miles from his parents’ house, reached by a dirt road no one ever traveled. It sat in a small clearing, surrounded by sugar maples and birch trees. His family made use of it in the dead of winter, preparing for the sap to run. Two rooms heated by a wood fire, there was a bed, a table and a chair, and not much else.

A small stream, Owen’s main source of water, ran behind the cabin. He had few visitors—Mamé’s doing, most likely. After so much madness, he wanted nothing more than to bathe in the light that filtered through the forest canopy, to avoid quarrels with anyone more threatening than squirrels or chipmunks, and to savor the deep, deep stillness in hopes his soul would heal.

In February, he took charge of tapping the maples for their sap. Father drove the team out to pick up the buckets and take them home, where Mother could cook it down to syrup. Otherwise, Father stopped by once a week to drop off a box of staples: flour and sugar, venison or pork, and dried apples.

That left Owen with time. He noted when the bloodroot bloomed, and the meadow rue a few weeks later. In the heat of the summer, he fished in the stream, trading trout for his mother’s fresh-baked bread. By the time the maple leaves sported hints of red, he felt ready to see other people.

It took until the first hint of snowfall before he wanted to go into town.

The eighteenth of October, to be specific. He stopped by his parents’ house, asking if he could bring them anything. Mother wanted a pound of sugar. Father simply said to take care.

That annoyed Owen. “I’ll be fine. I managed to make it home in one piece, after all.”

Father gave him a considering look, the lines across his brow deepening. “Did you, though?”

“Looks like.” Owen left before his father could upset him any further. He’d finally made up his mind to exert himself, and he surely didn’t need anyone trampling on his efforts.

With a rucksack slung over his shoulder, he set a brisk pace. The air was chilly, the clouds overhead heavy and threatening. He guessed his parents would invite him for dinner when he dropped off the sugar. Comparing their cozy room, the harvest table’s leaf raised to seat four, with his cold and spartan cottage was no comparison at all.

Maybe his father was right to be concerned. The quiet, which had once brought him peace, had started to devour him, sapping his strength of will. Still, in his bones, he knew he wasn’t ready to rejoin his family. Mother’s sadness and Mamé’s concerned gaze might loosen the tight hold he had on himself. Alone, he could drop everything when the memories grew to be too much. Cry if he had to. The forest smelled clean rather than carrying the stench caused by crowds of people and the foul stink of death.

He’d killed at least three men, those who’d come close enough for Owen to look them in the eye before he shot. Others had caught his bullets from behind their own lines or while running across the field of battle, but those three haunted him. It didn’t help much to remember that if he hadn’t fired first, he’d be dead. No, he did his best to draw his mind away from the way their bodies had convulsed when his bullets hit.

A religious man might have prayed for their spirits. Owen just wanted them to leave him alone. Nobody would blame him if he had used that one night in Paris with Captain Abbot to distract himself.

Abbot, with his youthful smile and his weary eyes. His memory alone washed Owen with peace. Owen had had men since, rushed and secretive, grasping hands in the cold and dark. Their touch might have brought release, but no relief. No, that night floated like an island in his memory, a moment of respite in an otherwise grim interval.

It took about an hour to hike to Springfield. As a boy, he’d thought his hometown was quite the metropolis. Compared with New York, London, and Paris, however, Springfield wasn’t much more than a dot on a map. After half an hour of hiking, Owen hit a paved road. It took longer still to reach the ramshackle warehouses and cottages that marked the outskirts of town.

As if to dare himself, he headed for Main Street. He might run into an old friend from high school, though of the boys he’d graduated with, half had gone off to war, and he had no idea how many of them had returned.

He trudged along, swallowing his rising panic as the first wagons passed, followed by a few automobiles. Ordinary men, going about their everyday chores. Some waved, though Owen could not bring himself to do the same. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, counting his steps. He could manage this. He must.

Otherwise he was going to become one with the forest and never again return.

Warehouses turned into brick buildings holding offices and shops. Other people shared the sidewalk with him, men and women, strangers all, which made his heart pound. He passed the tobacco shop with a wooden India in the window and a shop with a small metal sign that stated “Chemist” hanging above the door.

His goal was the grocery, just a block or two away, but it took every ounce of resolve for him to keep going. The chilly air suited his mood, clouds overhead heavy with the promise of snow. Jaw clenched, he strode on, dimly aware that people were shying away from him.

He’d nearly reached his goal when he was forced to wait for the traffic to clear. A team of horses had been startled by an auto’s horn, and it took several men to untangle things.

And while he was waiting, he heard a laugh. A laugh he knew, and one he hadn’t heard in months.

Since…Paris.

Owen looked around wildly, and there, across the street, he saw Captain Jeremy Abbot. Not in uniform, not now. Instead, he wore a thick wool coat and a bowler hat. Owen could no more have taken a step than he could have flown to the moon. Abbot smiled at the man next to him, and Owen felt a spike of something new. Something unfamiliar.

Jealousy.

On its own, Owen’s hand rose as if to catch Abbot’s attention. Owen stifled that urge, clasping his hands together. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, he’d tied his greasy hair back with a rude string, and god only knew what he smelled like. Maybe the people avoiding him weren’t put off by his frown so much as by his rank odor.

Abbot and his friend kept walking, unaware of Owen’s presence. What is he doing here? How had this come to be? Of all the towns in New England, why Springfield?

Owen had no answers. That glimpse of Abbot’s smile, however, had awakened memories—the creases at the corners of his eyes, the thick hair on his chest growing darker as it surrounded his prick.

The man’s taste.

Bowing his head, Owen made himself a promise. This wasn’t the time or the place, but he would discover the reason for Abbot’s presence, and he would renew their acquaintance.

But only after he bathed.

That vow, however, brought something new to the fore, another reason Owen was reluctant to live in his family home. He’d never been much for keeping time with the girls from school, and his time in the Army had proven why.

He’d much rather keep time with men.

He could only imagine what would happen if his parents discovered that. Their sadness and sympathy would turn to horror, and Mamé, who knew him better than anyone, would turn away.

And that he could not bear.