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don’t mind me saying.”
    “I don’t mind at all.” Cal reached down and ruffled Adam’s hair as the boy tugged his trouser leg. “Well, it’s still good of you to go out of your way to help.”
    “Oh, it’s a pleasure. As long as my husband’s dinner is ready when he comes home from the office he’s happy. Gerald’s a doctor in Tivoli, and he’s an easy man, thank the heavens. I love the children, and mine are gone now. Theresa, she’s off in Albany with her husband, starting a family of her own. I told her I’d never forgive her for having my grandchildren so far away, but they never listen, you know.” She winked, and then her smile faded. “And Stephen didn’t make it back from Europe.”
    Cal would have thought he’d be used to it by now, but he still found himself clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
    “He and Jim grew up together. Stephen was in the Airborne—jumping out of airplanes. Made it through D-Day, but not long after that. He was a hero, they said.” Her gaze was lost on the horizon. “I’m sure they say that about all the boys who didn’t make it home.”
    “They were heroes, ma’am.” He had no doubt. Even if Stephen O’Brien had died in an instant, another senseless death amid the millions, he was a hero. More of a hero than Cal could ever be.
    “Yes, well.” She shook her head and clapped her hands together, addressing Adam. “Now what will we do today while your daddy and Uncle Cal are hard at work? Shall you help me peel the potatoes? I think you’ll be very good at it.”
    Cal nodded goodbye as she ushered Adam toward the house. Picking up his machete, he squared his shoulders. Since the war’s end, he hadn’t done much but push paper and glad-hand bigwigs in New York and across the pond. Inhaling in the crisp morning air, he went to work.

    As Cal tip-toed from the bathroom down the darkened hall, he stretched his aching shoulders. Pruning was damn hard work, but it had felt good to fall into bed exhausted and go out like a light. He was certainly looking forward to more shuteye before morning.
    A muffled cry stopped him in his tracks. Cal looked back over his shoulder toward Jim’s bedroom at the end of the hall, listening intently. Another cry—louder this time—echoed in the night, and Cal’s gut twisted at the distress in Jim’s voice.
    Barely restraining himself from throwing open Jim’s bedroom door, Cal twisted the handle and peeked in. Lying on his stomach in his pajamas, the sheets twisted about his legs, Jim whimpered and writhed, his eyes screwed shut. Cal closed the door behind him and hurried to the bed, shaking Jim’s shoulder before leaning back out of reach.
    Sure enough, Jim lashed out, limbs twitching as he woke gasping. Sweat soaked his hair and dampened his pajama top. Chest heaving, he gazed up at Cal, unfocused.
    Cal kept his voice low. “It’s okay. It was just a dream. Everything’s okay.”
    Blinking, Jim peered around the room with jerky movements before coming back to Cal. With a shuddering exhale, he swallowed thickly. “I…” He ran a hand through his hair. He rasped, “I’m sorry.”
    Perching on the side of the bed, Cal smiled softly. “It’s all right. Sounds like it was a doozy.”
    Jim nodded.
    “The same as before?”
    Nodding again, Jim pushed himself up against the headboard, clasping his knees to his chest. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
    Cal hated that Jim was still haunted by the war. By that night. “Nothing” was the last word Cal would use. Jim still trembled, and Cal yearned to pull him close. Instead he went to Jim’s dresser and pulled open a few drawers of neatly folded clothing before finding a fresh pair of pajamas. “Here. You’ll feel better.”
    Jim went to work on his buttons with shaking hands. He managed to undo one before Cal sat beside him and reached over. “It’s okay. I got it.” He made quick work of the buttons and peeled the damp shirt from