“Hi, Bull.” Petite and curvy, Audrey wore a gray T-shirt that matched her smoke-gray eyes. The writing on it made him grin—“I see you research without the librarian’s help. I, too, like to live dangerously.”

“Good morning, my boy.” Lillian tilted her head to accept a kiss on the cheek. Her smile faded to a small frown. “Your skin is brown enough that dark circles under your eyes aren’t as obvious as mine”—she patted her cream-white skin—“but I can see you haven’t gotten enough sleep.”

She was an observant woman. His dreams had been plagued with explosions from IEDs, rattled with gunfire, and streaked with blood. He’d woken, covered in sweat, and still feeling the grit of sand in his clothing and between his teeth. The nightmares had been his fault this time. He hadn’t banked the fire in the woodstove before going to bed, and the house had been too warm. Heat brought back…everything.

“Although I am a god among men”—he stroked his goatee—“even I occasionally have trouble sleeping at night.”

“What?” Audrey shook her head. “Uh-uh. I hate to tell you this, but Gabe is our local god.”

“No way.” He gave her an outraged stare. “To think you used to be my favorite.”

Her snicker stopped abruptly. “Just a minute…does losing favorite status mean you won’t make me smoked salmon chowder anymore?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited.

She huffed. “Fine, fine, you’re a god among men. Even Gabe would agree—as long as he gets that chowder.”

“Well played, my boy.” Chortling, Lillian patted his arm. “I’ll see you at poker night. Get some sleep before that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grabbing a basket, Bull headed for the produce aisle. The greenhouse at the Hermitage provided most salad makings, but he craved fresh fruit—even if it cost an arm and leg.

Near the potatoes were three Patriot Zealot women, two older and one in her twenties, all three in typical drab PZ attire.

He’d always wondered why the long hair when it was always in a bun. And the ankle-length skirts were so impractical, probably mandated simply to handicap their women.

The roadhouse’s new employee, Frankie, was chatting with the women.

Now what could a New Yorker and members of a religious militia have in common? Interested, he started picking through the apples, pretending not to listen.

“I love your clothes.” Frankie gestured to their long-sleeved blouses and skirts. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m…oh, flaunting myself…in what I wear. Do you feel safer when you wear more coverage?”

Bull blinked. Last night, she’d seemed completely comfortable in her skin. More than most women. Then again, he was male. What did he know?

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She had a fantastic body, all lush curves, and compelling brown eyes framed with long dark eyelashes.