“Ow!” Julien yelped, jerking his hand back with a hiss.

  Emmett didn’t look surprised. He sat across the table, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching the boy suck on his thumb. With a sigh, Emmett reached forward and gently took the knife back, sliding it into the worn leather sheath at his hip. The same dagger Father Brenard had handed him days before.

  “Dammit, kid,” Emmett muttered. “It’s a blade, not a spoon.”

  Julien grumbled, the pride stung harder than the flesh. A thin trail of blood was already winding its way down the side of his thumb, dark red against pale skin.

  “What happened?” Adele’s voice called from the kitchen, carrying a cast iron pot with a folded towel beneath it.

  “He just cut himself,” Emmett said, jerking a thumb toward the boy. “Nothing deep. Might lose the hand, though.”

  Julien shot him a glare. “It’s not that bad.”

  As if to prove the point, he pulled his thumb from his mouth. Only for a steady trickle of blood to resume its slow journey across his knuckle. Adele tsked under her breath and set the pot down with a clatter on the table. She grabbed something from the kitchen, returning with a scrap of clean cloth and handing it to her brother with a raised brow.

  Emmett leaned back slightly in his chair, an amused look in his eye. “Don’t feel too bad,” he said to Julien. “You use a knife long enough, it’s bound to bite you. First Christmas I got a pen knife, I cut myself before I even got the damn thing all the way open.”

  Julien looked skeptical. Emmett held up his left hand, turning the thumb toward him. The scar had faded to a soft white line over the years, but it was still there, crossing the pad.

  Adele leaned in, curious, gently taking his hand in hers to inspect it. Her touch was soft, and lingered just a little longer than necessary. Her thumb brushed lightly over the faded mark, and Emmett felt something stir in his chest he didn’t want to examine too closely.

  Her lips twitched into a small smile. “I’ve been cooking since I was seven, and I’ve never once cut myself.”

  Emmett raised an eyebrow as she let go of his hand. “Maybe you’re just more careful than most.”

  “Maybe,” she replied, her tone playful as she turned her back and reached for the plates.

  Emmett scratched absently at the scruff on his jaw and exhaled slowly through his nose.

  She spoke up as she returned to the table, balancing bowls in both hands. “So... you’re staying in Beaulieu-sur-Argonne for a whole month, then?”

  “Sounds like it,” Emmett said, shifting a little in his chair as his side gave a dull throb. He rested a hand over the bandaged wound, like it might shut the ache up. “Father Brenard says he’s got odds and ends at the church need doing. I’ll help where I can.”

  “That’s good,” she said, setting the bowls down one by one. “Father Brenard always has something that needs fixing. And maybe, if you’re feeling up to it we could borrow you here for a bit.”

  Emmett looked up at her. “Borrow me?”

  She nodded toward the ceiling as she moved to grab the ladle. “The roof. It leaks when it rains. Not badly... just enough to remind you it’s there. You and Julien can patch it up together.”

  Julien groaned softly, and Emmett smirked. “I think I can fix it.”

  Adele poured the stew into each bowl and placed one in front of Emmett, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. The smell made his stomach growl. Potato, and maybe some rabbit if his nose was right.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” she said, then gave him a teasing smile. “And no falling off my roof.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Emmett said. “No promises.”

  She sat across from him, folding her arms and watching him for a moment before speaking. “Well, monsieur... enjoy.”

  Emmett picked up his spoon and offered a nod of thanks. He took the first bite and leaned back with a quiet sound of approval. It was hearty, rich, and just the right kind of simple.

  Emmett ate his portion slower than he usually ate his meals. When he finished, he felt its weight settle comfortably in his gut, warm and steady. He started to rise, gripping the sides of his bowl with a grunt, intending to take it over to the washbasin in the corner of the cottage.

  But before he got more than a half-step, Adele swept in and took the bowl from his hands like a hawk snatching prey. She balanced it expertly in one hand, grabbing her own empty bowl with the other.

  “You’re a guest,” she said, tone playfully firm. “You brought the dinner, remember?”

  Emmett huffed, only half-playing along. “You cooked it.”

  she turned to the kitchen, flashing a smile over her shoulder. “Please Monsieur Granger, let me do the rest. You can sit and entertain us instead.”

  She caught Julien’s bowl mid-motion as the boy was finishing his last bite, earning a slight protest, but she was already halfway back to the kitchen. Emmett eyed the table for a second, then gave a slight shrug and sank back into the chair, arms folding across his chest.

  “What exactly do you expect me to do, then?” he asked dryly. “Sing again? Didn’t go so well last time.”

  Adele laughed as she set the bowls in the sink with a gentle clatter. “True. Your impression of… Jimmie Rodgers left much to be desired.”

  “I warned you,” Emmett muttered, smirking faintly.

  Julien, who had resumed inspecting the bandage on his thumb, piped up with a grin. “Then tell us a story! From the Resistance.”

  Emmett shifted in his seat. His smirk faltered for a moment. Not a lot of the stories he had, would be appropriate to share over dinner. If any.

  Adele, ever perceptive, cut in. “What about a story from Montana instead?”

  Emmett gave her a long look, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything. He forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  She added gently, “Tell us about herding cattle, perhaps?”

  He blew out a breath and rested his hand on his knee, fingers tapping lightly against the fabric. “Alright… alright. Sure.”

  There was a pause, like he was digging the memory out of some long-locked drawer.

  “This would’ve been back in ’34,” he began slowly. “I was maybe nineteen. We were moving a herd across our land, up to the north pasture. Cattle’ll eat the grass down to the dirt if you don’t move ‘em around. So you rotate pastures, give it time to grow back.”

  Julien leaned in, already invested.

  “I was riding along a ridgeline,” Emmett continued. “Real quiet morning. Little breeze, sun was just startin’ to heat the rocks. Horse took a step over a rock and damn near jumped out of its skin.”

  “What happened?” Julien asked, eyes wide.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Rattlesnake,” Emmett said. “Coiled up on a sun-baked stone, just sittin’ there mindin’ its business. But horses don’t like snakes, and this one? It got my mare spooked. She threw me.”

  He gestured with his hand. “Next thing I know, I’m face-down in the dirt with a twisted ankle… and lookin’ eye to eye with this pissed-off reptile.”

  Julien wrinkled his nose. “What’s a rattlesnake?”

  Emmett mimicked a shaking motion with his hand. “It’s a snake, ‘bout yea long,” he said, motioning with his hands. “Tail makes this sound, warning you off. Fangs loaded with venom. Real nasty. That one didn’t want trouble… but it was close. Closer than I liked.”

  Adele had stopped washing dishes, her arms crossed now as she listened. “So what did you do?”

  Emmett smirked faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Froze up. Honest to God, might’ve pissed myself.”

  Julien burst out laughing, and Adele covered her mouth with a smile.

  Emmett shook his head. “My older brother Roy saw the commotion, moved his horse over and dismounted. Then I hear a crack. Gunshot. That snake’s head popped like a gourd. My brother, Took it out with his rifle.”

  He went quiet for a moment, and the smile tugged at his lips softened into something more complicated.

  “Me and Ray… didn’t get along much. But that day, he saved my ass.”

  Adele’s smile faded as she picked up on the change in tone. She stepped away from the basin, wiping her hands on a cloth. “What happened after that?”

  Emmett laughed again, the sound rough and dry. “Ray just said, ‘Get back to work,’ and rode off. Didn’t even check if I could walk. Left me limpin’ after my damn horse.”

  Julien chuckled again.

  “And my Pa wasn’t about to stop the whole drive for one idiot who got thrown off his horse,” Emmett added with a shrug. “We had our hands full that morning. Lotta steers pushin’ against the fence line. Couple of ‘em kept tryin’ to double back.”

  Adele sat back down at the table, resting her hands in her lap. “That kind of snake… it sounds almost made up.”

  “They’re real enough,” Emmett said. “Ugly little bastards, but they’ll leave you be if you give them space.”

  He leaned back with a sigh. “That day was just bad luck. And a dumb horse.”

  He cleared his throat and looked up at Adele, then over at Julien, who was busy poking at the corner of his bandage. “Well… I should probably get out of your hair.”

  Adele looked over her shoulder from the basin, brow raised in mock offense. “You think we’re sick of you already?”

  He gave a crooked grin. “I figure if you have to look at me much longer, you might.”

  Adele turned from the washbasin, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “You’re not such terrible company, Monsieur.”

  Julien nodded in agreement, still focused on his thumb. “You tell good stories.”

  Emmett gave a soft, tired chuckle. “That right?” He started to push himself up with a grunt, reaching for the crutch he’d propped nearby. “All the same… could use a bit of sleep. It’d do me some good.”

  He got to his feet slowly, back popping as he straightened up. The muscles in his side ached, the shot-up flesh near his ribs burning under the pressure. But he masked it well enough, just another part of the routine.

  He looked at them both. Adele still drying her hands on her apron, Julien perched at the edge of his seat and offered a rare, genuine smile.

  “Thanks,” he said simply. “For this. For the food. For… all of it.”

  Adele stepped forward, wiping the last of the dampness from her palms. “Of course, Monsieur,” she said softly. “You’re always welcome… Just so long as you keep bringing dinner.”

  That drew another laugh from Emmett.

  “Deal,” he said.

  He extended a hand to Julien, who hopped up and shook it enthusiastically. Emmett’s grip was firm, and he gave the boy a slight nod before tipping his cap to Adele.

  “Goodnight,” he said, his voice rough but sincere.

  “Goodnight, Emmett,” she replied, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary.

  The village had settled into a hushed stillness by the time Emmett made it to the church. No cart wheels creaked. No dogs barked. Even the wind seemed to whisper. His boots thudded softly against the stone as he stepped into the sanctuary, the door closing behind him with a faint groan.

  His room. If it could be called that was more a forgotten corner than any sort of quarters. An old storage space built as an afterthought against the rear of the church, barely wide enough to stretch his legs. But it had four walls, a roof that didn’t leak, and a cot with enough spring left in it to keep him off the floor.

  It would do.

  He sat down heavily, the cot creaking beneath his weight. His side flared with pain, sharp and hot, but he bit it back like always. Slowly, methodically, he unbuckled the holster from his waist and laid the pistol on the crate beside him. Next came the dagger. He turned it over once in his hand before laying it beside the gun.

  He pulled off his boots one at a time, jaw tightening with each bend of his torso. When he was done, he leaned back and let his legs dangle off the side of the cot for a while, just breathing in the dusty quiet of the little room. The candlelight flickered in the gloom, casting long shadows on the walls.

  Eventually, he slid beneath the wool blanket and reached for the candle stub, pinching it out with a soft hiss of smoke.

  Darkness settled in.

  The quiet… was unsettling. And it felt… undeserved.

  That thought pressed down hard on him. It wasn’t guilt exactly. It was something older, something deeper. Like a man who’d walked too long in the cold and didn’t quite know what to do with warmth.

  He exhaled through his nose, letting his mind drift. Reluctantly, to Adele. Her braid draped over her shoulder, the way her smile tugged sideways, never rushed. She had a presence to her that reminded him of home in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Steady. Rooted.

  And that’s where his thoughts went next.

  Montana.

  He saw the hills again. The weather-beaten fence posts. The wide blue sky that stretched on forever.

  Maybe, when this was all said and done...

  He stopped himself. Pressed his lips into a hard line. He’d been down that road before. Those thoughts didn’t lead anywhere good. He didn’t get to dream of Montana. Not after how he left it. Not after how goddamn angry he’d been.

  Truth was, he was amazed they hadn’t run him off the property.

  He thought about his ma. His pa. About Ray, somewhere in the Navy. And Margherite.

  That hit the hardest.

  He swallowed, then turned his face toward the wall.

  The silence felt heavier now. Not oppressive, but solemn.

  In a voice low and rough, barely more than a whisper, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t for anyone in particular. But maybe it reached where it needed to.

  And then, with the weight of memory and pain curling into his bones, Emmett let sleep pull him under.

  November, 1944 – Somewhere Near the Vosges

  Pain dragged Emmett back into the world like a boot to the ribs.

  His throat clenched around a groan as a searing, razor-hot sensation tore through the left side of his face. His back arched involuntarily against the rough canvas of the cot beneath him.

  “Bloody hell… shit! I’m sorry! I thought he was under!”

  The voice had a thick cockney bite, fast and panicked, laced with guilt. Emmett blinked rapidly, the air thick with the stink of sweat, antiseptic, and cordite. The shadows around him were blurry. Faces hovering, hands moving fast.

  He writhed again, instinctively bringing a hand to his face. Only for another set of fingers to grab his wrist mid-air, firm but not rough.

  “Whoa…hey, hey, easy, mate,” came a steadier voice beside him. An older man, calm but tense. “Don’t touch it. You’ll make it worse. We’ve got you, alright? You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

  “Goddammit,” the first man muttered, “I told you we needed more morphine. Must’ve not used enough. Hang on, big fella. We’ll get you fixed up right proper.”

  Emmett grunted, barely understanding their words over the throbbing, molten agony coursing through his face. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer slamming into his skull.

  “Christ,” the calmer voice whispered near his ear, teeth clenched as he tried to keep Emmett still. “Man got chewed up real good.”

  “Don’t say that shit,” the doctor snapped. “Shut your damn mouth and hold him still.”

  Emmett tried to speak, to ask where he was, who they were. But all that came out was a strangled growl.

  A hand clutched his forearm again, this time holding a syringe.

  “Alright. You don’t need to be awake for this,” said the man leaning over him. His face swam into view. A lean figure with a trim mustache, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, eyes focused but tired. “This’ll take the edge off, big fella. Just let it take you.”

  Emmett flinched as the needle slid into his arm. Cold fluid flowed into his veins, bringing a strange, creeping numbness. The pain didn’t vanish, but it dampened. Muted into dull waves that rolled beneath the surface.

  His remaining eye cleared enough to see the two men properly. The doctor, focused and efficient, and the other man, younger, holding his arm down with a kind of haunted sympathy.

  Then Emmett saw it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, past the field bandages and crusted gauze, a small mirror leaned against a stack of medical supplies.

  He blinked hard. Just once.

  The image in the glass came into focus. And stopped his breath.

  The left side of his face was wrecked. Shredded flesh clung in ragged strands along his brow and cheekbone. The remains of his eyelid, half-cut, half-torn, hung loose like a wilted petal. Beneath it…

  An empty hollow. Dark and obscene. A black socket where his eye used to be.

  He stared at it, frozen. It didn’t seem real. Couldn’t be real.

  Then the nausea hit him like a body blow.

  He turned his head, not from the pain, but from the sight. And shut his remaining eye hard. Trying to shut it all out.

  His heart raced. His breath grew shallow.

  Adele… I want to go back to Adele...

  The thought came sudden and desperate. He wanted the warmth of her hand, the smell of stew, the sound of her voice teasing him for his broken French. He wanted Julien’s smartass grin. The creak of the chair at the kitchen table. The way she touched his hand when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

  He wanted to go back to before.

  The morphine dragged at his limbs, pulling him under. The pain retreated into shadow. The voices became distant, echoing like they were bouncing off cavern walls.

  “Fella’s gonna want to wear a mask after this,” someone muttered, not unkindly, but with a kind of grim resignation.

  Emmett didn’t hear the reply. His world was already fading.

  And in the dark that followed, he didn’t see fire, or gunmetal, or blood.

  He saw Adele. Smiling. Hair pulled back in a loose braid. A bowl of stew in her hands.

  He let the memory carry him back into peace.

  Into warmth.

  Into something he’d never hold again.