Chapter Three

Despite his intentions, when he returned to the cabin, the silence swallowed him up. Day turned into night and then into day again. He shot a buck, dressed, and butchered it. More than the fresh meat, he wanted better memories, to overlay horror with practicality. To prove that he could .

Keeping his mind firmly in the present was an exhausting task, but he managed.

The nights were cold enough to freeze the meat, and there was plenty to share. No sooner had he decided to bring some to his parents than he remembered Abbot. And that reminded him that he still needed a proper bath, shave, and haircut.

Filling his largest bowl with water, he set it over the fire until steam rose from the surface. It was no way near large enough to stand in, but he did his best to soap up and rinse off. Deciding his hair and beard deserved a barber’s touch, he dressed in his cleanest clothes and filled a muslin bag with meat.

Snow flurries scattered out of his way and the frosted ground crunched underfoot. He set a brisk pace to keep himself warm, his wool coat barely up to the task. Soon—too soon, perhaps—he reached his parents’ house and knocked on the door.

Mother answered. “Come in, Owen. Don’t be a stranger.”

He’d meant to leave the bag at the door and go on his way, but the warmth was seductive. Mother’s flour-covered apron hinted at her task. Standing aside so he could pass, she followed him through the tidy front room and into the kitchen.

There, the stove put out a merry heat. Mamé sat at the small table peeling potatoes. Owen lifted the bag of venison. “For you.”

Mamé held up a dusty hand and Owen took hold, squeezing her strong fingers. “That’s quite a beard you got there.”

Chuckling, he patted the straggling growth. “Headed for the barber’s today.”

“Good.”

Loaves of bread were rising on the counter, covered with a floury baking cloth. Next to them was a flat circle of pastry dough. “Getting started on the pies,” Mother said. “You will come for Thanksgiving dinner, won’t you?”

Owen cracked open the back door so he could set the bag of meat outside. “When is that?”

“This week.”

Scratching at his overgrown beard, Owen gave her a puzzled glance.

“Today is Monday.”

“Thanks,” he said, abashed. He had no schedule, no calendar, no reason for getting through each day besides the cold and his hunger. “I’ll see how things go.”

She crossed her arms and he made note of the way her knuckles were reddened. It was easier than facing her disappointment.

“I’ll set a place for you at the table.”

He forced a smile. “Thank you.”

He wished he could promise her more than that, but if Thursday was a bad day, the quiet would trap him in the cabin. Rather than say anything to upset her further, he described the cuts of meat he’d brought—a shoulder, the back straps, and one haunch cut up into steaks.

“Thank you, Owen. If I grind some to make sausages, would you like some?”

“Sure.” He stood awkwardly for a moment. “Can I pick up anything for you in town?”

Her smile was as warm as the room, though disappointment weighed down her gaze. “Father’s gone to market this morning to pick up the turkey.”

For Thanksgiving. He forced a smile. “I’ll do my best, Mother.”

“It’ll just be the three of us, plus your Uncle Richard and his family.”

“Leave him be, Doris,” Mamé said. “He already told you he’ll come if he can.”

Grateful for his grandmother’s show of support, Owen did his best to keep his smile from fading. He hadn’t thought about his Uncle Richard in years, and who knew how many children the man had now. “I’ll do my best,” he repeated.

Before they could waylay him further, Owen made his escape, moving more quickly without the twenty or so pounds of venison he’d been carrying. It had stopped snowing, though the clouds hung low, heavy and threatening. As he walked, he tracked hiding places. He didn’t want to run into his father, who likely would issue another invitation to Thanksgiving.

An invitation Owen might very well decline.

Fortunately, he didn’t see his father, or anyone else for that matter. He made good time and was soon turning onto Main Street. At the heart of the town, the roads and sidewalks were busy. Owen made a deliberate effort to avoid other people. He especially didn’t want to see Abbot.

Not until he’d cleaned up some more.

Abbot, the one bright spot in all his months in Europe. Likely Owen had elevated the memory of their one night together to a place real life could not equal, simply because of how different it had been from all those other nights. Many, many times he’d relied upon that night to remind him that there was still some good in the world. Just as many times, he remembered that Abbot had made him feel special.

Owen would risk spoiling the memory if it meant he could get to know the real man.

In short order, he found the barber. The man had an empty chair, and he was happy to take Owen’s money in return for a shave and a haircut.

Afterward, Owen felt light, as if his hair and beard had weighed as much as the venison.

The barber, a grizzled veteran of many battles with the shaving knife, gave him a friendly enough smile. “You should come by every week or so for a shave, at least. You’re much better looking without that beard.”

“Thanks.” Owen laughed, chagrined. “I will. Hey, I might have seen a friend the last time I was in town. Do you know a man named Jeremy Abbot?”

The barber leaned against the counter opposite Owen. “I do. You run across him in the Army?”

Owen’s brows drew together in confusion.

“It’s in your posture, son.” The barber laughed. “He moved to town at the end of the summer. Went to work with the Sullivans.”

“The lawyers?” That made sense to Owen, given that the man had received mail from the Army’s Judge Advocate. Although if Abbot was a lawyer, he likely wouldn’t have time for a man who hadn’t even tried to find a job since he returned.

The thought undermined Owen’s confidence, though he tried to shake it off. He pulled out his wallet and put a dollar on the counter. “Thanks. I’m a new man.”

The barber took a moment to check his watch. “You might find him over at Lotty Mae’s Café. I’ve seen him in there at lunch time more than once.”

Owen’s stomach gurgled, making both of them laugh.

“And even if he’s not there, Lotty has a deft hand with the pork chops.”

Thanking him again, Owen left. Though the very idea of mixing with other people nauseated him, he promised himself that if Abbot wasn’t at the café, he’d talk his way past the receptionist at the law firm.

And if that didn’t work, well, he’d try something else.

Lotty Mae’s was just down the block from the barber’s. White ruffled curtains shielded diners from those passing by on the street, and the scent of roasted meat made Owen’s mouth water. Even better, Abbot sat at a table in the corner, fork in one hand and an open book next to his plate.

The crowded room could have distracted Owen, but he swallowed his discomfort and threaded his way between tables to reach his quarry. Whatever he was reading held Abbot in thrall. He didn’t look up until Owen had pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

“Hullo?” Abbot glanced up from his book, eyes wide.

Owen couldn’t speak, nerves warring with happiness to tie his tongue.

“I know you,” Abbot said slowly. “We met in Paris.”

Owen cleared his throat, nodding in agreement.

“How in the devil…?”

“I saw you,” Owen managed. “Across the street.”

Abbot’s puzzled smile made it clear that Owen wasn’t making sense, so he tried again.

“When I came into town last month, I saw you walking up the street.”

Abbot tilted his head. “Why didn’t you say something then?” He said it as if he and Owen were friends, as if Owen should have just called his name and waved.

When Owen couldn’t come up with an answer, Abbot closed his book, tapping the cover with one slender finger. “Tell me your name again. I’m ashamed to say I can’t seem to remember it.”

“We didn’t…uh…exchange names.”

Abbot’s smile widened. “In that case, I remember exactly who you are.”

The heat rose in Owen’s face so quickly his ears rang. “Owen Spense,” he gasped out.

“And I am Jeremy Abbot.”

“Captain.”

Abbot laughed. “Not anymore.”

Abbot extended his hand and for a moment, Owen could only stare. He shook himself and clasped Abbot’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

His grin turning saucy, Abbot responded, “As I recall, we got on quite well for two men who hadn’t exchanged names.”

Owen took a wild look around, unable to convince himself that no one was near enough to have heard. The other diners were occupied with their food and their companions, yet their eyes weighed on Owen. Or perhaps it was just their presence.

So many people, when he’d spent so much time alone.

He half rose from his seat. “I should go.”

“Really?” Abbot’s smile faded a bit. “I do hope we can renew our acquaintance.”

As much as he wanted to jackrabbit out of there, Owen paused and dredged up an honest response. “So do I.”

Their gazes met and held, until Owen could bear it no longer. He escaped from the café and ran toward the forest. He didn’t slow until he reached the point where the paved road ended, and even then, he kept his pace brisk. His lungs worked like a bellows, trying to keep up with his racing heart.

The whole way home, he beat himself up for acting like an idiot. If he’d had any hopes of spending time with Abbot, they were now dashed.

Goddamn war . God damned war .