He stood, walked across the room to the mini fridge, and pulled out two beers, using a bottle opener to pop the tops. He handed one to me and returned to the ugly chair.

“Sasabe,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“I’m from Sasabe, Arizona. My father founded modern militia.”

“Modern Militia?” he asked.

“As opposed to the militias formed during the US Revolution.”

I waited for him to be impressed, to ask more questions, to give me that look of confusion and awe the few who I told inevitably succumbed to, but he simply swigged his beer and nodded.

“That explains a lot,” he said.

The corners of my mouth turned up, and I looked down. “I guess so.”

“I’m from up north.”

“What does that mean? Canada?”

“Kremmling.”

I shrugged.

“Colorado. About an hour and a half south of the Wyoming line.”

“Figures.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I’ve been around my fair share of Colorado boys. You’re all outdoorsy, flannel-wearing, tree-hugging, sledding, hunting, fishing nature lovers. I’m surprised joining the forestry service in some capacity isn’t a rite of passage for all of you.”

“What did you do? Before whatever you’re doing here?”

“I’m a Marine.”

“Still?”

“Once a Marine always a Marine.”

“Is that how you met Trex?”

Be careful. Darby didn’t know about Trex’s past, and he didn’t want her to.

“Trex was my husband’s best friend.”

Zeke looked down at the band on my middle finger. “How long have you been a widow?”

I pulled at my messy bun, feeling my hands begin to slick with sweat. His question was the very reason I avoided interaction with anyone new. “A while.”

To my surprise, Zeke didn’t seem to mind my answer. He didn’t tense up or sigh. His shoulders were more relaxed than they were when I arrived. He had to have been thinking something, but he had a hell of a poker face.

“He passed away a few years ago,” I clarified.

Zeke’s cheeks filled with air, then he blew out, and his eyebrows shot up. “Damn. That fucking sucks.”

I blew out a laugh, surprised. It did. Matt dying did fucking suck, but no one had ever put it quite so truthfully. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, I’m shit at intense emotional stuff. I can give advice and empower someone all day, but the second they tell me about something sad and personal, it’s like my brain glitches.”

I waved him away. “It’s fine. There’s no protocol for dead husbands. Trust me, I’ve heard it all. I like your response anyway. Better than thoughts and prayers.”