Chapter 4
“Truck’s heater core is shot,” Jarek muttered. “Takes twenty minutes to blow lukewarm.”
“Then come stand by the stove.” Cyrus hung the heavy wool on the iron peg by the door. “Stew’s got twenty minutes left. I have an opened bottle of dry red on the counter, or cider if you prefer.”
“Cider’s fine,” Jarek said.
Before taking a single step toward the kitchen, Jarek paused. His gaze swept the farmhouse interior with slow, tactical deliberation. He checked the sturdy mortise-and-tenon joints of the doorframe, noted the deadbolt, glanced at the clear line of sight down the hallway, and then peered through the French doors that opened toward the darkened back patio.
“Where does that latch lead?” Jarek asked, pointing a calloused finger toward the rear exit.
Cyrus couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped him. “To the enclosed run. Leads straight into the three-acre pasture.”
“Mind if I check the latch?”
“Be my guest,” Cyrus said, leaning his hip against the doorframe, crossing his arms, and enjoying the view. “You want to check the smoke detectors while you’re at it? I changed the nine-volt batteries in October.”
Jarek didn't smile, but a subtle warmth softened the fierce lines around his eyes. “Good to know.”
He walked over to the patio door, sliding the bolt back with an experienced thumb. He stepped out onto the back deck into the freezing wind, Brutus heeling tight at his left knee. Through the glass, Cyrus watched the veteran walk the perimeter of the deck railing. Jarek leaned his entire body weight against the heavy-gauge cedar gate that opened to the orchard pasture, testing the hinges, inspecting the galvanized drop-rod, checking the height of the chain-link reinforcement along the lower panels.
Brutus didn't run off to explore the grass. The dog kept his shoulder glued to Jarek’s knee, lifting his black snout every few seconds to draw deep, frantic lungfuls of air against the fabric of Jarek’s thermal henley.
From the warm side of the glass, Cyrus felt a sudden, profound ache settle behind his ribs.
*He’s looking for safety,* Cyrus realized. Jarek Miller had spent a decade in scorched, hostile landscapes where safety was a temporary illusion bought with blood and vigilance. If Jarek was checking gates and inspecting locks, it wasn't just eccentric habit—it was how a broken soldier convinced himself that the house he was visiting was a place where he could finally drop his guard.
When Jarek stepped back inside, bringing a cloud of crisp night air with him, his lips were pale.
“Latch is solid,” Jarek reported, closing the door firmly behind him. “Drop-rod has an inch of play, but the timber won't warp. A Malinois won't shoulder through that.”
“I’m relieved,” Cyrus murmured softly, stepping close.
He didn't give Jarek room to retreat. Cyrus reached out, curling his fingers gently around Jarek’s forearm. Even through the waffle-knit shirt, Jarek’s arm felt too lean—the muscle hard as iron, but stripped of all excess fat.
“You’re off duty, Jarek,” Cyrus said, holding his gaze until the veteran’s gray eyes stopped darting toward the exits and locked onto his. “No incoming mortar rounds. No perimeter breaches. Just beef stew, good cider, and a warm hearth. Relax.”
Jarek stared down at him. At this distance, Cyrus could see the tiny flecks of pale hazel embedded in the dark rings of Jarek’s irises. He could smell the clean, sharp scent of pine soap and that strange, faint, sweetish undertone that seemed to cling to Jarek’s skin—something Cyrus couldn't quite identify, like autumn leaves left too long under snow.
“Old habits,” Jarek whispered. His voice caught on the second word.
He suddenly jerked his head to the side, lifting a fist to his mouth as a dry, violent cough tore through his throat. The spasm was sudden and vicious; Jarek’s entire frame bent forward, his free hand bracing against the kitchen counter with such force that his knuckles turned chalk-white.
“Jarek?” Cyrus stepped forward, alarms ringing in his veterinarian’s brain. That wasn't a smoker’s throat-clearing; it was a deep, bronchial rattle that shook Jarek’s ribs like loose shale.
Brutus was instantly airborne. The dog didn't whine; he thrust his body directly between Jarek and the kitchen cabinetry, shoving his wide skull upward into Jarek’s solar plexus, his front paws dancing in frantic, desperate agitation. The dog whimpered, a high, piercing note of panic, snapping his teeth softly near the air over Jarek’s chest.
“Down,” Jarek gasped out around the spasm, his voice completely strangled. “Brutus... *blijf*. Stay.”
Cyrus laid a firm, steady palm against the center of Jarek’s back, between his shoulder blades. Beneath the cotton shirt, Jarek’s spine felt prominent, the vertebrae sharp under Cyrus’s fingers. The man was burning with an unnatural, dry heat, yet shivering violently.
“Breathe,” Cyrus commanded quietly, his clinician’s voice taking over, calm and authoritative. “Slow, Jarek. Long inhale through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
It took twenty agonizing seconds for the fit to pass. When Jarek finally lifted his head, his face was flushed crimson, a thin sheen of sweat glistening along his temples. His breathing was shallow, hitched, the upper lobes of his lungs wheezing faintly in the warm kitchen air.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with a sharp, defensive jerk.
“Dust from the logging road,” Jarek rasped, looking anywhere but at Cyrus. “Cough has been hanging on since the first frost.”
Cyrus kept his hand flat against Jarek’s back, feeling the ragged rise and fall of the man’s ribcage. His eyes drifted to Brutus. The dog was trembling, his muzzle buried directly against Jarek’s belt buckle, licking frantically at Jarek’s limp fingers as if trying to revive a fallen comrade.
“That’s not dust, Jarek,” Cyrus said, his brow furrowing with genuine concern. “That’s a severe upper respiratory irritation. You sound like you’ve got bronchitis. Have you seen a doctor in town? Dr. Henderson at the clinic on Third?”
“Don’t like civilian doctors,” Jarek snapped. The words were harsher than intended, and Jarek immediately flinched, looking down at the floor. “Sorry. Didn't mean... The VA down in Spokane manages my records. I take vitamins. I’m fine.”
Cyrus let out a slow, measured breath. He hated the stubborn pride of military men, but he recognized it for what it was: armor. Instead of arguing, Cyrus moved his hand from Jarek’s back down to his wrist, giving the cold bones a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“Sit,” Cyrus instructed softly. “At the table. Let me pour the cider and dish up the bowls. If you cough like that again, I’m digging out my human-grade antibiotics and force-feeding you like a stubborn hound.”
A tiny, reluctant huff that was almost a laugh broke through Jarek’s exhaustion. “Yes, sir.”
***
Dinner turned out to be the quietest, sweetest hour Cyrus had experienced in years.
Brutus, having confirmed that Jarek was seated and breathing regularly, eventually curled up on the braided rug directly beneath Jarek’s chair. His heavy chin rested on Jarek’s right boot, his amber eyes blinking slowly in the golden heat thrown off by the cast-iron woodstove.
Jarek ate with the rapid, mechanical efficiency of an infantryman who had learned that hot food disappeared if you lingered, but after his second bowl of stew, he visibly slowed down. The color began to creep back into his cheekbones, chased by the warmth of the cider and the radiant heat of the hearth.
